Many years ago, you sailed on a ship to Westeros. You left your home in hopes to live out your time in a place alone.

Your life was grim, not because of circumstances— but because of the dark gift that you had been given. You’d had a youthful appearance for decades now, despite your mind changing.

You had outlived anyone who ever mattered to you and lived in a place that you no longer recognized, it was a haunting realization.

You laid in your coffin during the voyage and slept, your mind plagued with memories of things from the past. You didn’t feed much either, allowing yourself to get close to the brink of death before you’d cave.

Maybe it was punishment or maybe it was you trying to see if you’d actually allow yourself to die.

At your age, you did not seek out anything from anyone— you only wanted peace.

When you finally made it to Westeros, you made your way to the home that you had acquired on the outskirts of King’s Landing. The home was big, too big for only you— but that was even better. It meant you had room to acquire large furniture and more space for unnecessary things. The home hadn’t been occupied in a very long time, but it was secluded and that was all that mattered.

Your first night there, you decided to walk around fleabottom— hoping to find someone to feed on. The only downside to denying yourself the blood was that you were ravenous, feeding on two or three people within a night.

You left your home, your eyes scanning the streets as you passed people.

Drunks, whores, thieves. Those were the only people that were out during this hour.

With ease, you read people’s minds as they walked by. It was a gift that you had, but a nasty habit of yours. You didn’t like to use it unless necessary. You didn’t need people’s weird thoughts clouding your mind and they deserved their own privacy as well.

The only reason that you were doing it this time was because you only wanted to kill people that deserved it, although most truly didn’t.

You could hear the loud thrum of people’s heartbeat as they walked past you, the smell of ale lingering on them.

Your first victim of the night was a man— a man who had been secretly trailing you for a bit. Every turn you made, he made. Every step you made, he was one behind.

His mind was filled with very unpleasant thoughts— if you’d fight him off of you, what your moans sounded like, if you were a maiden.

You stopped in your tracks, turning your feet slowly towards him.

“Sir, could you help me? I fear that I’ve gotten lost on my way home.” You asked, batting your eyelashes with a feigned ignorance.

His heart skipped beats at your question, a smile on his face.

“Of course, my lady. You shouldn’t be out here by yourself.”

You guided the man towards an alley, pretending as if your house was near that area. The alley was dark, puddles of rain still lingering on the stone.

He followed beside you, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce— only you pounced first.

You pushed him into the wall, your strength overtaking him as you tore into his throat.

The blood flowed from him like a river, his gasps muffled by the sounds of you satiating the hunger that brewed in you. His blood reeked of ale, making it taste unpleasant.

A moan left your mouth as you drank him dry. It didn’t take long for the color to fade from his skin.

You dropped his lifeless body onto the ground and wiped your face with a handkerchief.

You needed at least one more before sunrise, one more to get your body feeling back to normal. Needing to feed on more than one person was a prime example of why starving yourself was a bad habit.

You walked from the alley towards the sound of the music, a whore house nearby.

People lingered outside, men walking out and tucking themselves back into their pants.

Cheaters who deserved nothing more than a quick death.

Before you could pick from the men in front of you, you heard her thoughts— a whore from outside the building. She was sad, mourning the loss of her child. She wanted to die and didn’t have the courage to do it on her own, instead she suffered daily— hoping one of these men would do it.

Come to me, sweet girl. I can fix things for you.

You called out to her, your words repeating over and over in her mind until she found you— like a moth to a flame.

When she saw you, she cried. It was like she knew that you were the stranger, the person meant to claim her soul and give her the opportunity to see her daughter again.

You held your hand out for her, allowing her to hold it as you guided her to an alley.

Are you sure? You asked, your question filling her mind.

She nodded, her breaths coming out shaky.

You stared at her, looking at a woman in front of you who was broken and tired. You stepped close to her and sank your teeth into her neck, a gasp leaving her mouth.

She didn’t fight you off or even have thoughts of regret, you could see her picturing her daughter.

She was happy, excited even. She wanted things to be over and she had wanted it for a long time.

Within a minute or two, she fell limp in your arms as you fed— the color leaving her body along with the warmth.

What you did was humane, this act wasn’t monstrous— it was considerate and more than you could say for your other kills.

You retracted your fangs and claws once you finished, laying her body gently against the ground. You hoped that she found the peace that she was denied in this life.

After your two kills, you walked back to your home and got into your coffin as the sun would soon rise.

When you were first given the dark gift, you were mortified— you were angry and scared.

What of your soul? What of the gods that you believed in?

Your maker laughed when you asked him about your soul, told you that souls were for the mortals to worry about. Those were the things that they could cling to when they did horrible things.

Immortals were just that and they didn’t need to worry about such things.

Even now, decades later— you still prayed and hoped that you weren’t damned because of someone else’s selfishness.

Your maker never mentioned how lonely being an immortal would be, how everything around you would change— except you. You stayed the same like a statue on a street.

Your mind would age, but your body would not. You couldn’t properly love someone, you couldn’t eat normal food, sleep normal hours.

When your maker died, you were truly alone. There was no one else that understood how you felt, what kind of life that you had been chained to. Even then, you never sought out a companion. You just stayed to yourself.

You were a monster after all and monsters don’t deserve love.

While everyone around the city woke up and prepared to break their fast, you slept peacefully in your coffin.

༯

Baelor was a man that was bound by duty, always too busy for anything outside of it. Years ago the love of his life died after giving him his son, Valarr.

Jena’s death broke him, broke him in a way where he never thought he’d be whole again— but he could not fall apart. As much as he wanted to lock himself in his chambers never to be seen again, the realm and his son depended on him.

He thought of her occasionally, but not as much as he first did. Valarr often makes him stop in his tracks, because he’s grown to look so much like her.

Valarr had grown up to be a lovely young man, his eagerness to learn always kept Baelor on his feet. Valarr took his duties of being in line to the throne very seriously, just as serious as his father.

Valarr was the best gift that Jena could’ve given him and nothing would ever top that.

When Baelor was not busy in meetings or talking to Valarr, he was in his solar reading or writing something. He never could sit still and do nothing, there always had to be something for him to do.

After supper as things were winding down and people were preparing for bed— he decided to walk the gardens.

He wanted to clear his mind and feel the cool night air against his skin.

There was some faint chatter near the garden, a few knights talking amongst themselves but quickly dispersing once they saw the prince.

There you were, standing among the beautiful flowers— but none as beautiful as you.

In that moment, his eyes couldn’t leave you. It was like he was paralyzed.

You leaned down sniffing one of the flowers, the white gloves on your fingers making the flower seem brighter than it was.

Baelor approached you, his hands behind his back.

“I’m not sure a woman such as yourself should be out walking the gardens at this hour.” He spoke.

You took a deep inhale of the scent of the flower, your eyes still focused on the garden.

“I am fine, my prince. The terrors of the night do not frighten me and there is far worse to be afraid of.”

You took your time bringing your eyes to his face as you already knew who you were talking to— the prince, the heir to the iron throne, the firstborn son. You had heard the whispers and read thoughts about him.

When you looked at him, his brows furrowed slightly at the sight of you. The color of your eyes was something that only one could dream of, red with a tinge of brown to mellow it out. It would scare most, but Baelor thought it was beautiful.

He noticed how you stared at him as well, how your eyes scanned his face—how you seemed different from him, different in a way that he could not pin-point.

“I do not speak of terrors, but ill mannered men.” He finally responded.

You clasped your fingers in front of you, the fabric of the gloves twisting around them.

“A man is only that, nothing to fear.”

Your response stumped him, he couldn’t tell whether you were an idiot or just someone who was more than what met the eye.

“What noble family are you from? I do not recognize you or your colors.” He asked, changing the subject.

You laughed, part of your fang becoming slightly visible.

“I am from Essos.”

He nodded, bringing his hands to the front of his body.

“What brings you from Essos to Westeros?”

You slowly began to walk away from him and continue your walk around the garden.

“I see that you are full of questions, my prince.”

He walked a step behind you.

“I am a prince, which means that it is my job to ask questions and get to know the people of King’s Landing.”

You bring your hand towards the flowers, your glove rubbing them as you walk by.

“I decided to settle here, build something similar to a normal life.”

“Well, you should be safe when doing so. Roaming the streets at night is not a great start.”

You stopped in your tracks, picking a rose from the flower bed.

“You are right, I suppose. I should make my way home, but I’d like to thank you for your kindness tonight, my prince.”

He walked closer towards you in the direction that you were facing. He held his hand out for you to shake.

You glanced down at his hand, gently removing your glove and shaking his hand.

Your hand was freezing cold, the kind of cold that sent a shock down his body and made his eyes widen.

The handshake didn’t last long, but before he could ask any more questions— you had started walking away.

You bewitched him that night. From that moment on, you were on his mind all the time. He looked for you in crowds, dreamt of you, he wanted to get to know— he had to.

After you met the prince, you were curious about him as well. You kept yourself from reading his mind as you wanted to know him on his own terms, his own words, his own actions.

You wanted to try something that you hadn’t thought about since you were turned.

In the time after you met the prince, you kept your distance. After all, you had no choice but to do so. Maybe, some part of you was a fool to think that it would be a smart idea thinking of him or wanting him in any capacity.

You were an immoral, a monster, an abomination and what would a prince want with someone like you?

You hadn’t experienced feelings for anyone in a long time.. a long one and you swore that you’d never allow yourself to do that again.

Baelor had been driven crazy by the fact that he hadn’t seen you anywhere and because he didn’t know where you lived, if he did then he would’ve come to see you immediately.

He was out this night walking the gardens again, his eyes glancing over the flowers as he prepared to go back to the keep— realizing that he might not ever see you again.

A few nights prior he checked the whorehouses figuring that you had lied about your identity, about why you were in Kings Landing. He found nothing, nothing to answer his questions. You had vanished in the wind like a whisper.

You watched him from afar when you could. You learned his habits, who he talked to, the times that he’d walk the garden, and just who he was as a person.

You were far too interested in him, a dangerous game for the both of you.

Just as Baelor made his way almost out of the gardens, he saw you walking towards the bench. Seeing you almost made a thankful prayer slip from his lips, you were real and he had another chance.

“Coming out again for another walk?” He asked, walking towards you in slow strides.

You smiled as you sat down, not even bothering to face him.

“I couldn’t sleep.” You lied.

He sat beside you on the bench, a space between the two of you.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

You glanced over at him, your eyes lingering on his face as you were admittedly moved by his honesty.

“It almost sounds as if you were looking for me, my prince.”

“Baelor.” He replied softly.

Your brows raised, “hmm?”

He gave a small smile, “call me Baelor.”

You nodded, turning your head and staring back at the sky.

“Are you married?” He pried.

“I am not, are you?”

He twisted his rings and you could hear his heartbeat change.

“I was once, she passed after she gave birth to our son.”

You stared at him, not too hard— just enough to show that you understood the pain of that kind of loss.

“I am very sorry to hear that.”

He waved you off, trying to keep from upsetting himself.

“How long ago was—“ you began to ask.

“Valarr is a young man, so a long time ago now.” He interrupted you.

The sound of crickets chirping filled the silence that lingered between the two of you. Neither one of you were able to figure out what was appropriate to say next or do.

You were so bad at this, bad at starting over after so long. You didn’t know what it meant to allow someone close to you, because in all honesty what did that look like? How would it make sense?

“I should get going.” You muttered, realizing how naive you were being.

He placed his hand over yours as began to move.

“Stay—“

“Please.”

“Why?” You asked.

His hand moved, fingers rubbing against yours.

“I want to know you, if you’ll allow me to.”

You wanted to walk away, you should’ve— but you didn’t. Instead the two of you sat on the bench together and talked, him occasionally making you smile.

The prince made you smile, made your cold heart feel warm and you felt childish.

“When will I see you again, my lady?” Baelor asked.

You stood up from the bench, wiping your gown— giving a quick curtsy.

“Time will tell, my prince.”

Nights passed with no sign of you, which troubled Baelor— but not you. You did not avoid him due to cruelty, but to understand your own feelings.

Your fate required you to be alone, because condemning someone else to the same was cruel— it is wrong.

You are not cruel nor selfish, even when you wanted to be.

One of those nights after a quick feed, you visited one of the whorehouses— listening to all those that walked in and out of the building.

It reeked of desperation, sin, ale, and sweat. A place that was not normally where you’d find yourself, but that night you did.

You managed to end up at a table amongst other noblemen, playing cards.

Your eyes glistened in the candlelight as you looked at your cards once more.

They laughed and drank, putting more coins on the table— not once considering your chance at winning.

“So, my lady— If you’re not interested in what’s offered here, why are you here?” Lord Stokeworth pried.

You glanced at the card that he placed on the table and back at him.

“What better place is there to find drunken men and take them for all they have?”

There was silence at the table, only the chatter from the outside coming into the room. Then, they laughed.

Their laughter filled the room and you smiled like the innocent woman that they took you for.

What they didn’t understand was how badly you wanted to kill them, not for any reason—but because you wanted to. They were arrogant, ignorant, and liars. They sat amongst each other spewing nonsense and all agreeing to treat their wives like broodmares. Their wives had to hold them up, all while they come to fuck whores during the night.

“What was your opinion on Daemon Blackfyre again?” Lord Rosby asked, taking a sip from his goblet.

You smiled, biting your lip as you placed down your next card.

“It is not what I think, my lord, it is what I know—“

“You can climb the ladder as far as you’d like, just remember that the fall will always be just as big and always deadly.”

Leo Tyrell sat next to you, his eyes traveling down your chest.

“She’s a smart one, isn’t she?” He teased.

They laughed, mumbling things.

“I’m going to put all the rest of my coin in the pool.” Lord Massey mentioned.

Your brow raised and so did everyone else’s at the table.

“Well, that’s a rather bold move.”

Leo Tyrell rubbed your thigh under the table and you fought the urge to bend his fingers back until they snapped.

“I’d have to agree with the lady.” Leo chuckled.

“The wine must’ve gotten to his head.” Lord Stokeworth joked..

He poured the rest of his coin from his pouch onto the table with the rest.

“Oh, piss off. I know what I’m doing.” Lord Massey reminded everyone.

You pushed Leo’s hand off of you, your fangs extending.

One of the whore’s pulled back the curtain, walking in with more wine and filling everyone’s cups.

You placed your hand overtop your goblet, giving a small smile.

As she walked out, the curtains closed behind her.

You could smell him before he walked into the room, before he even pulled the curtain back.

“My prince.” Lord Stokeworth spoke, stumbling to his feet.

Baelor waved him off.

“No need to stand—“

“I came to join you, I needed something to clear my mind.”

Baelor sat down, his seat across from yours.

“I am shocked to see you here, my lady—“

“Amongst these men.. in a whorehouse.”

You placed your cards facing down onto the table, shifting in your seat.

“Can’t a lady have some fun?”

“She’s certainly a distraction.” Lord Massey mumbled.

Baelor joined the game, his mismatched eyes never leaving you. They scanned your face and body as if it were a puzzle to memorize.

You placed down another card, the buzz of conversation amongst the men fading into the background.

“Why are you here?” You asked him, your voice overtaking any thought that he had.

He glanced at you, his brows slightly furrowed.

You feigned a laugh at something that Lord Rosby suggested, but your eyes never left Baelor’s

“Are you saddened to see me?” He thought.

You placed down the last three cards that you had, exasperated sighs and scoffs leaving the men’s mouth.

“She just fucked us.” Lord Rosby scoffed.

With a quick snap of your fingers, Baelor watched as the room froze. Every man at the table was stuck at their prior movements, their eyes clouded.

“I am not saddened to see you, my prince. I want to know what you are doing here?”

He didn’t ask how you had done what you did, because it was not physically possible. It was not possible to freeze people around you, it was not possible to speak into his mind.

None of it was, but instead of scaring him— it just made him more interested.

He placed his cards on the table, sitting back in his seat.

“Two of the crown spies saw you entire this.. establishment."

You shrugged your shoulders, “and?”

He smirked, twisting the rings on his fingers.

“And, being in this sort of establishment is unbecoming for a lady.”

“I care not what you or any of the men that walk into these establishments think of me.” You mentioned, bringing all of the coins to the edge of the table— watching while they fall into your pouch.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He speculated.

You closed the pouch, tying a knot in the strings.

“My prince, I—“

“Baelor.” He interrupted you with a gentle correction.

You scoffed with a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Baelor, I haven’t been avoiding you. If I were avoiding you, then you wouldn’t have found me here. I am only found when I want to be.”

You could barely focus, between keeping the room frozen and the sound of Baelor’s heart in his chest— you were losing your grip.

“I want to know you, if you’ll just let me.” He reiterated.

Your brow raised. “I assume that you’re so used to getting what you want or women losing themselves at the thought of being with you, that you’re at a loss.”

He stared at you, his lips pursed— his eyes watching your every move.

“Hmm.” He hummed.

“I shall bid you goodnight, Baelor.” You spoke, standing from your seat.

He stood up at the same time as you, “stay.”

“Stay with me a little longer.”

You licked your lips, playfully rolling your eyes.

“I am quite famished, so I unfortunately must return home.”

You left your seat, circling the table like a vulture preying on its next meal. Looking at the men who sat there stuck in time, their minds clouded in a haze.

You stopped near the seat of Lord Massey, the smell of his blood completely captivating. Baelor watched as you took your sharp nails against the skin on Lord Massey’s face, marking a small x under his eye— a slow trickle of blood dripping down his skin.

“I can have food served to you.”

You giggled, “That is not what I have an appetite for.”

Amidst the frozen room, your eyes found his again.

“Are you not going to ask me any questions? I know you’re curious.” You asked him.

“No, it is not my place. I’m sure when you are comfortable with me, you will talk about anything you’d wish for me to know.”

You nodded and walked to the curtains, pushing them slightly out of the way as you exited.

“Goodnight, Prince Baelor.”

“Goodnight, my lady.” He replied with a small smile.

With a snap of your fingers, the men returned to themselves— confused and a bit groggy. They blinked hard and rubbed their heads from the intense pain that was caused due to your trick.

“Where’d she go?” Lord Stokeworth groaned.

Lord Massey rubbed his face, smearing the blood onto his cheek— completely confused as to why he’d be bleeding.

“She made off with our coin!” Lord Rosby complained.

Baelor stood there silently, his mind filled with thoughts of you instead of the conversation in front of him.

“I let her have it—“

“I will pay all of you back.” Baelor mumbled.

The game of cat and mouse with Baelor was a bit of fun, but a decision had to be made.

Were you going to give him a chance? or were you just going to merely stay hidden from him? It wasn’t like he could find you, if you didn’t want to be found. Allowing yourself to be with him would mean allowing yourself to understand that you’d lose him, that you’d have to watch him grow old.

You’d sent him an invitation to join you for dinner, an invitation that you assumed would go unanswered.

The night had settled in like it always did, your house prepared with supper and wine for the prince— if he decided to show up.

Your house was quiet, the dim candlelight lining the hallways and the fireplace roaring in your chambers. You had three servants who helped around your home, despite it being just you that lived there. One of them took care of cleaning, one took care of making sure your clothes were clean and handled properly, and the other just simply kept watch for anything that happened around your home.

Thankfully, with your home being a bit farther out— you didn’t deal with the nuisance of smallfolk. You were left alone, just like you wanted— but after your encounters with Baelor, you were no longer sure that was what you wanted.

The time had passed on and you’d begun to have to have the servants discard the food, give it to the smallfolk— because you didn’t want to be wasteful.

The knocker banged against the door three times, the thuds echoing through the air.

The door was answered by a servant, Baelor glanced around the room as you walked in.

“I apologize for being late, my lady.”

You smiled, “no need to apologize.”

Baelor followed you to the dining hall, his eyes scanning everything in your home— noticing how old everything seemed and how dark you kept it.

At the table, there was a placement with food being plated for Baelor— but only a goblet for you. He took his seat and you sat in the chair right beside him.

“This looks delicious.” He spoke.

“I had them make the best dish that they were able to, I only hope that it tastes as good as it looks.” You replied.

Baelor sliced the meat, his fork and knife softly scraping against the plate.

You watched him as he chewed, but even then your focus was clouded by the sound of his heart pumping.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

“How is it?” You asked, feigning a smile and taking a sip from your goblet.

“It is quite delicious, they have outdone themselves.” He responded.

“I am pleased to hear it.”

There was an awkward silence as Baelor continued to eat and your mind swarmed with cruel thoughts.

“I was surprised to receive your invitation, albeit I was glad to have gotten it.”

Your finger circled the rim of your goblet.

“I figured that we should have a proper meeting, a proper meeting where we could talk and get to know one another.”

His brow raised, “At this hour? We could have also had lunch in the gardens.”

“I’m afraid that I would’ve been unable to attend.” You responded politely.

“Why?” He questioned, taking a sip of wine.

“There were matters that I had to attend to.”

“Such as?” He pried.

“You are full of questions tonight it seems.” You muttered.

Baelor wiped his mouth with the cloth as he finished chewing.

“I am full of questions dearest, because I only see you at night. You are the most beautiful woman that I’ve seen and I only see you at night, like a rare creature.”

In that moment, you could’ve sworn that heat radiated your body— that you felt warmth which you hadn’t felt in ages.

“Baelor, I can be a bit busy during the day.”

“And your eyes, they are like the most extraordinary rubies that I’ve ever seen. They are like nothing that I have seen before.”

You averted your gaze, staring down at your hands in your lap.

“There are certain wonders of this world, my prince— certain things that you’ll never understand.”

He nodded, twisting his rings.

“I can only understand what you tell me and what you explain.”

You sighed softly, bringing the goblet back to your lips.

“Did you bring your family with you from Essos?”

You tried to hide the pained expression that flickered across your face at his question.

“Family?—“

“Oh, no. I do not have any family.”

His expression softened, “I am sorry to hear that.”

You waved him off, “such is life.”

He stared at you, his violet-blue eyes taking in every feature on your face.

“My brother and his children will be visiting soon, along with my son Valarr. I would like you to meet them, join us at the tourney that will be held.”

“Oh, that is a lovely offer— I will just be—“

“Unable to attend?” He interrupted, a frown on his face.

“It is not that I do not wish to, I will just be busy.”

He scoffed, adjusting in his seat— preparing to stand.

“I thank you for this meal, it was very delicious. I also thank you for inviting me into your home.”

You watched as he started to stand up from the table and stood up yourself.

“Are you leaving so soon?”

“I am.” He responded plainly.

Your brows furrowed slightly, following behind him as he walked to exit the dining hall.

“Why?”

His head snapped your direction, his feet stopping in their tracks.

“Because I cannot bear it!—“

“I cannot bear this supper with you, meeting at night in the garden, seeing you around the city at night. I cannot bear any of it, knowing that you won’t allow me to know you.”

“I have allowed you to know me, have I not?” You asked.

“The real you! Not this perfect polished version—“

“ You give me hope and make me ache for something more, but not like this.” He stammered.

“I want to tell you.. I want to tell you all of it, but in due time.”

Baelor closed his eyes in defeat, a wave of disappointment washing over him.

“Once again, thank you for inviting me and I shall bid you goodnight.”

Baelor left your home, his two knights following behind him as they mounted their horses and rode back to the keep.

You went to your coffin earlier than you normally did and all you could do was cry, the bloodied tears running down your cheeks.

This was unfair.

The next night, you got up and made your way to the sept. The entire situation with Baelor had plagued you, taken over your mind.

You needed to pray those thoughts about him away, pray that the gods would answer your prayer and hadn’t truly forsaken you.

The air was cool, colder than it had been— colder than you expected it to be in the city.

You walked to the sept, the outside of it empty besides a few drunkards lingering about.

Inside the sept— every breath echoed, the candles burned low with wax dripping down the altar, the room was empty.

Being inside the sept made you feel uneasy, like you didn’t belong there— like the gods have given an unspoken warning.

You walked to the altar, the warmth of all the lit candles lingering against your skin.

With slow movements, you used the flame from a candle to light the small wooden stick— placing the stick against the wick of another candle.

You blew out the flame on the stick and lowered yourself onto your knees in front of the altar.

You pressed your palms together, tears welling in your eyes as you closed them. It was like an immense amount of guilt had overwhelmed you in that moment, a feeling that you couldn’t truly explain.

“I have prayed for many things and asked for little. I ask humbly, let these feelings fade. Let them pass from me as quietly as they came—“

“I’ve tried to put him from my mind… I’ve kept my distance. I’ve occupied my hands and my thoughts, yet he’s still there. If this is a test, I have failed it enough times. Please, take it from me. Let me be done with it.” You stammered, a tear falling down your cheek. 

A hand touched your shoulder.

“My lady, it is late.” The septon spoke.

You stood up slowly, turning to face the septon— your bloodied tears visible in the light.

“Are you okay? Do you need a Maester?” He questioned, a frightened look on his face.

“How is this fair?—“

“My lady, I don’t.. understand.” He stuttered, taking a step back.

“How is this fair, being cursed to live a life that I didn’t ask for? That I would’ve never agreed to?”

“I will go fetch a Maester for you.” He mumbled.

“I don’t need a bloody Maester!—“ you yelled.

“You’re afraid of me, I haven’t even done anything and your heart is ready to beat out of your chest.”

You walked closer, your gaze stopping him in his tracks— stopping the world around him.

“You think me a monster?”

The septon shivered, closing his eyes and refusing to look at you.

You allowed him to walk away, but he wasn’t fast enough. In the blink of an eye you were on top of him, tackling him to the ground.

Your fangs tore into his sweaty flesh, tearing his throat apart as he wriggled underneath you and the blood squirted into your mouth.

The thick, warm, and fear riddled blood glided down your throat— a warm tingling sensation taking over your body.

The two kingsguard stood outside the sept as Baelor made his way in. Baelor had decided to come to the sept himself, to pray on his feelings for you, to pray for his recent treatment of you.

It bothered him and he didn’t know how to handle it.

Baelor’s eyes raked over the empty sept, his eyes stopping at the sight of someone hovering on top of someone else near the altar.

He heard it, the animalistic noises and groans that left you while you fed.

The septon that you were feeding on was delicious, a terrible thing to admit.

You stopped at the sound of another heartbeat in the room, the small click of a boot along with it.

You stood up— already accepting that you’d have to kill another, you turned and you were faced with Baelor.

“Baelor?” You questioned.

Baelor stared at you, his lips slightly parted and brows furrowed. You were unrecognizable. 

The  way that the blood coated your mouth and face, dripping down the front of your gown— you looked horrifying.

His mismatched eyes slowly flickered over to the dead septon that was on the floor, a shiver going down his spine.

“Are you going to run?” You asked, your voice coming out small.

“Don’t run, please don’t. I don’t want to hurt you”

“You killed him?” He asked bluntly.

“Yes.”

You stepped closer to him and he didn’t move.

“This was why you didn’t eat anything.. because you have no taste for food?”

“Yes.” 

You took another step.

“You should have told me the truth about.. your nature.”

You wiped your mouth, “why? So, that you could get scared and avoid me or try to kill me?”

“Do you think it is any less frightening to walk into the sept and see you mauling the septon?” He shot back.

“I’m sorry..” 

“Can you control it?” He pried.

You nodded, somewhat confused by his question.

“I have complete control of myself. I choose who I hurt, when I feed, if I feed, and how I feed.”

“Very well.” He acknowledged.

You walked closer to him, leaving just barely a gap between the two of you.

“Promise me—“

“Promise that you won’t mention this to anyone or mention me. I can be gone by the morning.” 

Baelor grabbed your hand like it was a reflex.

“Don’t go.”

“I must, I have put not only myself at risk— but you.” 

“You said that you can control it, so I have nothing to worry about. I will protect you.”

You laughed, mixed with a scoff.

“Protect me? I am not a child, Baelor. You’ve already seen too much and if they find out—“

He pulled you closer to him, “if who finds out, my love?”

Despite everything and what he’d seen, you still looked beautiful as ever to him. All he wanted was to be with you and have you by his side.

“Don’t make me take away your control, please listen to me, Baelor.”

“Make me like you.” He boldly requested.

You pulled back, a frown on your face.

“Have you taken leave of your senses? You have no idea what you’re even asking.”

He looked at you and was completely serious, his heart steadily beating in his chest.

“So, then tell me. Tell me so that I can know.” He pleaded.

“I am an abomination, a very challenge against the gods— that would make you one as well. You do not want this or anything close to this, all it does is bring pain and suffering.”

“I know that I do not want to lose you, the feeling that you have given me. I figured I’d die alone after Jena, but there’s a very good chance that I might live instead and I want to do it with you.”

Your eyes watered.

“You would never feel the sun on your skin again.” You mentioned.

His hand cupped your cheek.

“If I have your heart then I’d never lose the sun.”

“What of your son, Baelor? You’ll have to watch him get old, get sick, you’ll have to watch him die—“

“The dark gift takes away my ability to give you children. Your entire life and everything that you do will change.” 

He rubbed your cheek, wiping some of the blood from it.

“Valarr will understand and maybe in time he will join us.”

“Don’t make me live without you, make me lose you in a world where I was fortunate to know you.” He thought.

You felt so conflicted, because giving him the dark gift and damning him too would be wrong— but you want him as much as he wants you.

Baelor pressed his lips against yours, the kiss slow and fueling the burn that the two of you had felt since you met each other.

The kiss deepened, his tongue pressing into your mouth and gliding against yours— blood smearing on both of your faces.

Gods help me. 

You pulled your lips from his, your fangs extending as your lips brushed against his beard.

“Are you sure?” You asked one final time.

He nodded, breathlessly. “Completely sure, my love.”

Your lips brushed against his neck, the sound of blood flowing through him driving you mad.

You sunk your fangs into his neck, a groan escaping him— his hand gripping your arm as his blood pooled into your mouth.

 His blood tasted like a cherry jam— thick, sweet, but hints of tartness. It was so good, so good that you’d have to be mindful of not killing him fully.

The color drained from his skin, his body beginning to go limp. 

You could see his memories as you drained him— when Jena gave birth to Valarr, when she died, when him and his brother fought in the Blackfyre rebellion.

In the very sept that you came to for prayer, you killed a septon and damned the heir to the iron throne.

You pulled from Baelor, panting— licking the blood from your lips and watching while he laid there dazed. The color slowly creeped back into his skin, one of his eyes violet and the other red like yours.

The life that he knew once was now gone and you had opened Pandora’s box, a change that would come back to bite you.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

you pitch a whine from the back of your throat as his cock spreads the wet clutch of your pussy apart, dragging deep towards the plug of your cervix as he ruts into you, hips smacking against the flesh of your arse. but that’s when you feel it—the solid mass of his chest and abdomen as he leans over you, crowds you, then the thick, scarred column of his arm as it wraps around your throat.

you yelp when he hauls you up until you’re kneeling with him, your sweat-slick back flush with his chest. the corded muscles in his arm contract as he pins your neck into the crook of his elbow, his head coming to rest directly beside your ear.

you suck in a gasp at the new angle and the way the head of his cock pushes up deep inside you. the pressure makes you keen, moaning his name as he traps you against his chest. your hands find his arm, nails dimpling the sun-kissed skin, as he noses at the shell of your ear, his hips rucking upwards.

“you’re restless today,” maekar mutters, tip of his cock nailing that perfect spot inside you. you mewl, clutching his arm as your pussy flutters around him. he pants against the pulse point below your ear. “you just couldn’t kneel there and take it, could you? were you waiting for this, sweet girl?”

his cock hits deep, the velvet ridges along the length rubbing against the slick walls of your cunt. you take him so well, squeezing tight each time he thrusts in and out, slick dribbling from you as he takes what he needs.

you whine in response. “no, maekar, i’m—”

“s’alright, s’alright…” maekar coos, his other hand curling around your waist to press flat to the mound of your lower belly. “i’ve got you, sweet girl. can’t go anywhere now, can you?”

the strong mass of his arm presses tighter to your throat, and you suck in a sharp breath. you hold his arm too, anchoring yourself as he fucks you, your entire body shifting with each of his movements. he’s grunting in your ear, and a couple of damp, white strands of hair fall across his forehead and rub near your temple.

“that’s a good girl, that’s it,” he whispers, feeling your pussy flutter around him. he’s holding you firm against him, the space between you nonexistent and boiling hot. the hand on your belly presses in, the added pressure making you cry out his name. he kisses your cheek softly. “s’alright, don’t fuss, sweet girl. just take it—just fucking take it.”

you can’t do much but take it, really. you’re pinned to his body, heat radiating from him. the bed creaks softly as his hips slam up against you, and he groans right in your ear. you moan his name in response, the vowels stretched around a whine, and he kisses the heated skin of your cheek again.

“my sweet girl, my best girl,” your husband rambles, breathing harshly as his cock ruts in and out of you, the wet heat of your cunt sucking him in. he groans, “i think you’ll take my seed just as well as you take my cock, won’t you?”

you whimper, gasping through the sound as the head of his cock grinds up against that spot inside you that has stars exploding behind your eyelids. the heat in your belly and the pressure in your spine threatens to shatter within you, and you clutch maekar’s arm in support as he fucks you. he groans, revelling in the tight squeeze of your pussy and the way slick dribbles from you, wet across the seam of his balls as he moves.

“she’s begging me for it,” maekar utters, holding you tightly as you flutter around him. “she wants me to fill her, doesn’t she? she wants me to fill her, sweet girl, i can feel it.”

you moan. “maekar, please, please, please—”

“i know, i know, i’ve got you,” your husband mutters, kissing your cheek as the heat and pressure inside finally overwhelm you. he feels your body seize up, your cunt clenching vice-like around the thick of his cock, and he knows you’re on the edge. his hand on your lower belly presses down even firmer. “let me feel you.”

you splinter from the inside out, orgasm racking through you as heat bursts like stars in your veins, and the pressure in your belly dissolves into the marrow of your bones. you come with his name on your lips, moans filling your chambers as your body trembles against his, nails digging into the scarred skin of his forearm. he fucks you through it, trapping you against him as you tremble and whine, pleasure flushing through your veins.

“good girl, there we go,” he mutters, practically bouncing your spent body back onto his. your head rolls back onto his shoulder and he plants a wet kiss to the junction of your jaw. his hips snap, then snap up again, and he growls where he kisses you, his balls drawing tight. “gods above, you’re so fucking tight. she’s begging for a babe, isn’t she? cunt’s pitching a right fit—doesn’t want to let me go.”

you mewl softly, eyes closing as maekar barrels towards his own release. there’s a sharp pressure in the base of his spine, and you can feel the desperation of his movements as he chases that pressure towards its breaking point.

maekar groans, thick and rumbling. “i’ll spill inside you, alright, sweet girl? fill you with my babe—fuck, you always look so fucking good when you’re with child, when you’re round with my babe. yeah, fuck—fuck, my sweet girl, my perfect girl—”

he’s rambling now, and that’s when you know. maekar groans your name right against the shell of your ear as his hips stutter, the arm around your throat pinning you back as he spills inside you. the pressure in his spine snaps and spreads, and he moans deep from his chest as the heat of his orgasm crashes over him. his cock nudges deep inside, right at the base of your cervix, and paints you in thick, hot ropes.

being filled has you leaning back into his hold, whimpering across a sigh as he ruts a few more times, emptying himself completely as your pussy pulls tight, milking him. he kisses along your jaw, cradling you as his cock jerks, then softens where he’s buried, slick and seed drooling slowly from where you connect.

“there we go…” maekar whispers, large hand rubbing across your belly as if that’ll help the taking process. he kneads the soft fat there with calloused fingers. “nice and full, sweet girl.”

you whine, pliant in his arms, blinking the setting sunlight from your eyes.

The solar smelled like ink and dried flowers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were still registering it when he moved.

There was a blade.

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

You did not scream.

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

He stepped toward you.

You stepped sideways.

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

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

"Help—"

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

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

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

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

You held yourself together through the wait.

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

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

Baelor arrived in eleven minutes.

You knew because you counted those too.

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

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

He was silent.

He took in the room in one sweep — the guards, the man bound on the floor, the blade, the ink spreading its dark stain across the stone — and the silence was not composure. Not quite. It was something that wore composure's shape, the way a fire wore a grate.

Then his eyes found you.

He crossed the room. His hands came up to frame your face before he had finished closing the distance, that particular gesture, hovering just short of touch.

"Are you hurt," he said. Not a question. The space before one.

"No," you said.

He looked at you anyway. His mismatched eyes moved over your face with the focused attention of a man checking for damage he could not allow himself to find — your face, your throat, your hands, the ink stains, the grey fur on your sleeve, back to your face.

"Certain," he said.

"Baelor," you managed a smile, just for him, "I promise I am not hurt."

He exhaled. His hands settled, finally, barely — fingertips at your jaw, your temple, lighter than they had any right to be for hands that size. You felt the careful in them. The tremendous, effortful careful.

"You fought back?" he said.

It was not quite a question, even if posed as one.

"I threw the ink pot," you said. "It wasn't—"

"Thank you," he answered, and you didn't really know why. Something moving through his expression that you did not have a full name for. Something that looked, underneath the relief, like it was being filed away somewhere permanent and important.

Then he turned, and you watched it happen.

He stepped back from you — one step, deliberate, a boundary drawn between what you were to each other and what he was about to do — and he looked at the man on the floor, and the fracture happened.

Not loudly. Not visibly, to anyone who did not know his face. But you knew his face. You had spent months learning it, the careful version and the rare unguarded version and every gradation between, and you saw the single clean line that ran through his composure now, and through it — brief, absolute, unmistakable — something that was not Baelor the Hand, not Baelor the principled, not Baelor the deliberate and restrained.

Something older than all of that.

He crouched down beside the man on the floor. And then — unhurried, without heat, with the particular calm of something that had never needed heat to be dangerous — he took a fistful of the man's hair and turned his face up.

The man made a sound.

Baelor looked at him the way you might look at a problem you had already solved. Patient. Absolute. Completely without the performance of menace, which was so much worse than menace, because performance implied there was something to prove and there was nothing here that needed proving.

"You came into my house," Baelor said, quietly.

The man said nothing.

"You came into my house," Baelor repeated, in the same tone, "and you dared to raise a blade to her."

A pause. Long enough to be deliberate.

"I want you to understand something," he said, softly, still holding the man's face up, still meeting his eyes with that fractured calm. "Not as a warning. Warnings are for situations where the outcome is still uncertain. I want you to understand it simply as a fact." His head tilted, slightly. "There is no version of what happens next that does not take everything from you. There is no mercy available here. There is no appeal." A breath. "What you chose to do in this room today — you will spend the rest of your life regretting it. However long that is."

He released him.

Stood.

The composure sealed itself back over the fracture like water closing over a stone. So complete you might have imagined it.

He turned back to you, and he was Baelor again — careful, deliberate, the mismatched eyes quiet — and he said, to the guards: "Get him out of my sight," and to the empty room, to the ink-stained floor, to the ruined afternoon: nothing at all.

You held yourself together through all of it.

Through the maester who confirmed you were unharmed. Through the questions, which Baelor deflected before they could overwhelm you, placing himself between you and everyone who entered with unhurried, immovable certainty. Through the hour of necessary proceedings — the Hand of the King resuming, fractionally, the work of being the Hand of the King, because it did not stop, it never stopped, and you watched him manage it from the window with the part of your mind that was still observing from a slight remove.

You held yourself together until the room emptied.

Until it was only you and him, and the light had gone gold and thin, and the solar was quiet again — except it was not the same quiet, it would never quite be the same quiet — and your sister's letter was ruined under the ink, and there was grey fur still on your sleeve from a kitchen cat you had met that morning when the day still felt like a gift.

Your legs stopped participating.

You sat down on the floor.

Not gracefully. Not deliberately. The stone was cold and real, and you pressed your palms flat against it, and the first breath shook, and the second one broke entirely, and by the third you were crying in a way you had not cried since you were small — the kind that had been waiting in your chest since the moment you saw the blade and threw an ink pot because it was all you had.

Baelor was beside you before you had completed another full breath.

He sat — this careful, composed man, in his court clothes, on the floor — and he put his arm around you, and you turned into it with complete gracelessness and no embarrassment whatsoever.

He held you through all of it.

His hand moved in slow deliberate strokes down your hair. His chin rested against the top of your head. He said nothing because you did not need words yet. You needed the solid fact of him. The reality of his heartbeat under your ear, steady and present and real.

You cried until you could not anymore. Until you were wrung out and still, and the light through the windows had shifted, and his arm had not moved.

"I should have—" he began, and stopped himself.

You felt the breath he took. The way he made himself start again more honestly.

"I knew there was still risk," he said. "I told myself the precautions were sufficient."

"It wasn't your fault," you said, into his chest.

"No," he agreed, quietly. "It was theirs." A pause. "I intend for that to be made very clear."

The mildness of it. The absolute, bottomless mildness.

You lifted your head and looked at him.

"I saw it," you said, trying to fight against your runny nose. "When you turned to him. I saw how you looked at him."

He looked at you steadily.

"I'm not frightened," you told him. "I want you to know that. I'm not frightened of you."

Something moved through his expression — that nameless thing, between relief and grief, the shape of a man who had spent a very long time being careful about what he was. What he was truly capable of being.

His forehead dropped to yours.

"You threw an ink pot at him," he said, very quietly, after a beat.

"It was within reach," you simply said with a slight shrug.

A breath. Warm against your face.

"Within reach," he repeated. And there was something in his voice that was not quite a laugh and not quite undone and was entirely, helplessly fond. "Of course it was."

His arms tightened around you. Not carefully. Not with his usual deliberate lightness.

Fully. Like something that had stopped pretending it needed to hold back.

"You can rest now," he murmured, into your hair.

So you did.

You stayed on the floor of his solar until the light failed completely, and he stayed with you, and his heartbeat was steady under your ear, and outside the pigeons were still on the windowsill, and somewhere down the corridor there was a stray cat waiting by a kitchen door, and you were here, and you were safe, and the man who held you would have — you understood this now, completely and without question if it came to it — burned everything down to keep it that way.

The thing about you, Maekar had decided sometime in the second month, was that you did not know you were doing it.

That was the part he could not account for. He understood deliberate charm — had grown up watching it deployed at court, had learned early to recognise the difference between warmth offered as currency and warmth offered as itself. He had become, by necessity, very good at spotting the seam. The moment where the performance showed its stitching.

With you there was no seam.

You had smiled at his squire on your third day at court — not the careful measured smile of a girl learning which relationships would be useful to her, but the full unguarded thing, because the boy had said something that struck you as funny and you had simply laughed, and the squire had stood there looking like he'd been lit from the inside. You had learned the name of every guard on your rotation within a fortnight. Not strategically. You had just asked, and then remembered, and then asked after their families, and Maekar had watched his own men become devoted to you with a speed that should have alarmed him.

It did not alarm him.

This was, precisely, the problem.

He had spent his entire life under no illusions about what he was. The fourth son. A sword. An anvil. Useful in the specific way that instruments of force were useful, which was to say when something needed breaking, and set aside after. He had made his peace with it — or something he had mistaken for peace, which held its shape well enough if you didn't press on it. He did not reach for things. He had learned not to. Reaching was for men who had been told the world held something for them, and no one had told Maekar that, and he had decided, quietly and finally, sometime in his adolescence, that it was simpler not to want.

And then you had sat down in his armoury.

Not in a calculated way. In the exact opposite of a calculated way — you had wandered in by accident with a book under your arm and a slightly lost expression, and when he'd looked up from the whetstone you had said, very politely, oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise you were here, and then simply stayed. Sat on a crate in the corner and opened your book and said nothing else, and the silence had been — he had not known what to do with it. He had waited for the agenda to reveal itself. For the reason behind the staying.

There was no reason. You had just stayed.

He had let you, and told himself it meant nothing, and the next afternoon you had come back.

That had been three months ago.

He did not know what to do with you.

This was the blunt truth of it, the thing he turned over in his mind in the early mornings when the yard was empty and the work of the day hadn't yet crowded everything else out. He did not know how to hold the fact of you — this girl from the Reach with her unguarded laugh and her genuine questions and the way she looked at him, straight on, like she was not afraid of what she found there. Like the scars beneath his beard were simply part of the landscape. Like the sharpness he aimed at everyone was something to be waited out rather than fled from.

Nobody waited him out. In his experience, people did not do that.

You did. Patiently, warmly, with apparent total serenity, the way sunlight waited out a cloud — without effort, without agenda, simply continuing to be what it was until the obstruction passed.

He was not accustomed to being the cloud in this metaphor.

The betrothal was not his doing — nothing in his life was entirely his doing, his life had been arranged by other hands since birth — but he had looked at you across the table after your arrival at dinner and you had looked back with those clear eyes, not calculating, not performing, just looking, and he had thought that this is either the best thing that has ever happened to me or it will ruin me entirely.

He had not, at the time, understood that these were the same thing.

He was in the yard when the messenger came.

Drilling. The repetitive honest work of it, the thing that had been the fixed point of his life since he was old enough to hold a practice sword — this, at least, was simple. His body knew what to do. There was no ambiguity in a blade, no subtext, no bewildering warmth that required him to exist in ways he had not been prepared for.

He was mid-form when the man crossed the yard at a run, and that was the first alarm he noticed.

Maekar was trained to read approaches — speed, posture, the quality of urgency in a man's movement — and this one read as wrong before the messenger had covered half the distance. Something in Maekar went very still before a single word was spoken. The way it went still before a battle. Not calm — the opposite of calm, every sense sharpening to a single point.

The man said your name.

He said solar and blade and unharmed, my lord, she is unharmed and Maekar was already moving before the sentence finished.

He did not remember crossing the yard.

He did not remember the corridors, the stairs, the guards stepping aside. He remembered only the thing that had replaced thought, which was not quite rage and was not quite fear and was something underneath both of those, older than both of those, the part of him that had been the sword of this family since before he chose it, turned now toward a single point with a focus that was total and absolute and not entirely human in its quality.

She is unharmed had been said. He heard it. It did not change anything.

Because she could have been. Between the sending of the messenger and the saying of those words there was a distance, and in that distance someone had decided to put a blade near you, had decided that you — you, with your face full of joy and your laughing at his squire and your patient unhurried presence in his armoury — were a target. Had decided that what was beginning, quietly and terrifyingly, to be the only good thing in his life was a variable to be eliminated.

That was what boiled in him as he ran.

Not injured pride. Not political calculation. Not the cold strategic fury of a Targaryen prince responding to an act of aggression against his house.

Something much simpler, much less governable.

He filled the doorframe and took in the room the way he always took in rooms — all of it, instantly, the threat assessment automatic and immediate — and found: guard, man on floor, blade, overturned ink, scattered books, a slightly crooked candlestick, and you.

Standing.

Ink on your arm. A careful stillness to the way you held your left side that told him immediately, with the eye of a man who had catalogued a thousand injuries, that something had caught your ribs. Your expression — and this was the thing, this was the thing that did something he could not account for — was not the expression of a girl who had been helpless and then rescued.

"Step away from him," he said to the guards that were pining that man, that wretched man, to the ground

"My prince—"

"Step away."

He crossed the space in an unhurried pace. Did not crouch. Did not negotiate with the geometry of it. He reached down and took the man by the collar and lifted, one hand, and felt nothing about the effort because there was no effort, because every piece of him that was not focused on you had narrowed to this, to the man in his grip and what was going to happen now.

He held him up and looked at him.

And the thing that lived in the Targaryen blood — the thing that had not died with the dragons, that had no outlet left except this, the cold and total and absolutely merciless thing that was not cruelty because cruelty required emotion and this was beyond emotion, this was simply the oldest part of him stating a fact about the world — looked back.

The man in his grip understood. Maekar saw the moment he understood.

"Who sent you," he said.

The man refused to tell Maekar anything, just decided to stare at him with a smug grin painted on his lips. You noticed, from where you stood, that it was a deliberate thing, that taunting. Even if the man — you could see it in the way both his hands tried to relieve the pressure from Maekar's hand on his neck — was trembling as a leaf.

You couldn't hear what Maekar said to him then, because his voice sounded as if he were underwater. You made out something about rotting and cells. Maekar called the guards back in and gave his instructions and they moved fast, the way men moved when they had felt what was in the room and wanted very much to be on the right side of it.

Then he turned to you, and all of it — every cold ancient terrible thing — had only one place left to go.

He looked at you for a long moment. You looked back, steady, chin still up, ink drying on your arm.

The shaking started in his hands first.

He had not expected that. He was not a man who shook — had not, in thirty-odd years of soldiering and sparring and riding into things that ought to have killed him, experienced his hands as anything other than reliable. They did what he needed. They did not develop opinions.

They were shaking now.

He crossed the room and his hands came to your face before he had decided to do it, both palms, tilted up to look at him, and he felt the tremor in them and knew you felt it too and could not find it in himself to care.

"You are not hurt," he said. Rough. The wrong way round — statement when it should have been question, because he needed to say it, needed to hear it in the room, needed to make it real with sound.

"A bruise," you said. "The desk caught my ribs. The blade did not—"

"Show me."

The words came out before he'd dressed them in anything acceptable. Raw need, that was all, no armour on it, and the back of his neck went hot and he knew his ears were red and he looked somewhere past your shoulder for a moment because he could not currently manage your expression on top of everything else.

"Maekar." Your voice, gentle. "It is only a bruise. I promise."

He made himself look back at you.

Your eyes were clear and steady and you were not afraid of him, had never been afraid of him — not of the scars, not of the sharpness, not of whatever had just been in this room with you — and the thing that did to him, the specific unbearable thing—

"I know," he said, roughly. "I know. I just—"

He didn't finish.

He stepped back. Turned away, one hand at the back of his neck, and stood there looking at nothing, breathing, doing the slow effortful work of becoming something other than what he'd been for the last several minutes.

"You could have been killed," he said. To the wall.

"I was not."

"You could have been." He turned back. His jaw was very tight. "Someone decided that you were expendable. That you were—" His voice did something he did not sanction. He pushed past it. "You are not."

He said it the way he said things that were simply true. Flat, final, not up for interpretation.

You looked at him, and something in your expression softened, and you said, quietly: "I know."

"I am not certain you do," he said.

You held his gaze. "Then perhaps you should keep telling me."

The silence that followed was very loud.

Maekar looked at you — this girl, this unbearably warm impossible girl, who had sat in his armoury and asked for nothing and come back the next day and remembered the names of his guards and laughed with her whole face and made him feel something shift in him. Permanently. The way foundations shifted.

He had spent his life not reaching.

He crossed the room and his arms went around you and he held on.

Not gently. Not with the careful tentativeness of a man who was uncertain of his welcome. He held on the way he did everything once he'd decided, which was completely, which was without reservation, which was with the full weight of a man who had been keeping himself at arm's length from good things for thirty years and had just run out of reasons.

Your arms came around him, and he breathed, and the solar was quiet.

The rest of it came out sideways. In the wrong order. The way things always did with him.

He did not say: I have not known how to want things and then you sat on a crate in my armoury and I have been undone since.

He said it in the arms that did not loosen. In the chin tucked against your head. In the six guards he would assign in the morning — six, and then when he thought about it longer, more, and he did not care if it was excessive, he did not care at all.

He did not say: the thought of losing you turned me into something I do not entirely recognise.

He said it when he pulled back enough to look at your face, and looked at it, and said nothing, and looked anyway.

You had hit a Blackfyre loyalist with a candlestick, he came to know.

You had stood with your chin up and told him that what sat on your ribs was a bruise, only a bruise, with the same serenity with which you did everything, as though the world could throw you whatever it liked and you would simply remain warm through it.

"You did well," he said, finally. Into the quiet. Roughly, like the words had cost him something.

Your smile, when it came, was small and real and did what your smiles always did to him.

"Thank you," you said.

He looked away. His ears were red again.

"Six guards," he said, to the middle distance. "Starting tomorrow."

"All right," you said.

"Possibly more."

"All right."

He nodded. Looked back at you, and there was something in his face — not open exactly, Maekar was never quite open, but the layers so reduced that what was left was simply him, the unarmoured version, the one he almost never let into the light.

"You will tell me," he said. "If anything—"

"I will tell you," you said. "I promise."

And that was, for now, enough.

The sun went long and amber through the window, and somewhere down the corridor something settled into quiet, and Maekar Targaryen — the anvil, the one who had learned not to reach — stood in your solar with the candlestick still crooked in its place and understood that reaching had happened anyway.

That it had been happening for three months.

That it was, now, irrevocable.

And found, to his own considerable surprise, that he did not want it any other way.

Taglist: @qardasngan @nerdyinfluencertastemaker

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

You pulled your horse to a gallop as you reached Summerhall once more. The brown mare breathed out in protest but followed your lead as you trotted back to the palace you called home. The guards and servants of the house were all mingling about, half forgetting of your existence as your stable boy took Chestnut away. 

The Redgrass Field was filled with the mangled corpses of the rebels and the Targaryens had won.

In the months following the master of the house’s leave, you could finally breathe the scent of freedom you longed for. The servants and maesters could finally rest easy knowing they will not be under the scrutiny of their lord, but under your careful guidance and grace for you were a Dayne, of the mighty Starfall. Many words and deeds were attributed to your house, many greater than the last, you were a people who believed in the righteousness of the soul, in the spirit of valor and the quiet power of words. You, as a Lady of the House, enjoyed the very same freedoms your brothers received, being trained by your father’s knights and taught the words of the common tongue as well as any poet or counselor.

The smell of vinegar hit your nose like a blow as you walked inside the main hall of the house, the servants had started preparing for tonight’s arrival, scrubbing every inch of happiness off the marble floor and from the walls. Your heart felt heavy. Gone will be the days you could bestow upon each of them the power of peace.

Even if today should be a celebration, you felt as defeated as Daemon Blackfyre. 

Nymella, a Dornish woman, who was born not far from your own home was your personal apothecary. Her black eyes and copper skin reminded you of summer, and truth be told, you regarded her as more friend than employee. She smiled as you walked into her room. Your light lavender riding shirt and white leather pants half covered in the dust dancing from the air at the border of the Dornish mountains heavy on your clothes. 

“Hello, Star.” She was pressing some sort of yellow herbs together. The air smelled of amber and sweet vanilla as you took a seat in one of the chairs she had in the middle of the room. You laid your head back on the pillow behind your head. Wondering. Thinking. What shall you say to him? Would he be changed?

“You look weary, is it because of the ride or the husband?” She took a seat next to your own, mortar and pestle on her lap covered in her dornish wear. 

You sighed. Truly you wished this all would’ve been easier for you. Your sister Dyanna, should’ve been in your place, she was made of tougher steel. She could’ve handled this much better than you. She could’ve handled him much better than you. She always knew what to do. You shook your head.

Nymella could read you like an open book, for she had known far more people than you. You looked into her eyes and searched for words.

“Is it cruel and terrible of me to wish he wouldn’t have returned so soon?” 

“Perhaps. But there isn’t anything we can do about it.” 

You nodded and Nymella laughed. 

“Gods above, Star, you look like you’re heading to war yourself, not in the arms of your Prince.” She giggled all the way through her speech.

“I am heading to war, Nymella. That's all he knows. Every time. He acts as if I am some sort of soldier he must command, not his wife. He treats these beautiful grounds like his own battlement he must order around.” 

“Still, your husband is returning and he brings with him a fire in his belly, doesn’t that sound pleasant to your ears? It should.” Her eyes were mischievous, probably imagining herself in your situation, albeit with a more pleasant knight. 

“No. I… I would rather not think of that.” Your ears felt ablaze with the usual shyness a girl of your experience showed. Memories of the night you became a woman flashed in your mind, your husband's body over your own and the pain between your legs. He left shortly after, the call of war greater than your marriage bed. 

“You shouldn’t let him dominate you like he does some piss poor farmer on the road here. You are his wife.” Nymella rose once more, bringing forward a vial of crimson liquid that smelled like the sweetest flowers in your garden. “Maekar is a man, as all men are men. No blood of his will change that.”

You took the vial from her and held it in your hand as she took her seat again next to you. “That’s easy for you to say, you’ve known a lot more men than me.” 

“Yes I have, so you must listen to the words I say. ” She didn’t understand you. Surely she didn’t see the way your husband filled any room he walked into, how he spread his legs like a Lyseni whore when he sat down, leaving all the etiquette of a Targaryen Prince out the door. How he spit on the ground like he was owed an apology. How he took you that night, and the following nights after, before he had to leave. His much larger hands moving you how he wanted, having you as much as he wanted, before turning his back and snoring like dying Balerion until the morrow. He would stare at you, and you would think to shrink as small as an ant before his gaze, your ancestors are probably turning over ten times in the crypt.

“I can see this brings a lot of thought in your mind,” She reached over, holding your hand in her own. She squeezed, once, for you to listen and twice, for good measure. "I’ve seen enough men and believe me, nothing unmans one faster than a wife who stops trembling and starts reaching. I’ve watched great generals shake like squires and heard of lords tripping over their own shadows just for a taste.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper “And that husband of yours? He’s just a man with a bigger name and a heavier hammer. He’ll melt, girl. I’ll wager my life on it."

“And what do you suppose I do?” Your voice adopted the same tone as her own. 

“I want you to go to him. Don’t let him take you, have him first and then you can tell me if he frightens you so.” 

You already imagined yourself on your knees before him as he sulked in front of the fireplace of your great chamber. His body a mountain before your own. The night in Summerhall allowed a cool breeze to drift through, and your husband preferred the breeze for his mighty blood ran hotter than the fires on Dragonstone. You quickly pushed that image out of your mind, for you had no idea where to even put your hands.

Would he even let you touch him where his attention would be physical without him making the first move? 

“Besides,” Nymella started once more, seeing your sour disposition and wanting to see your eyes brighten up again “one look at that silver hair of his and you understand why some claim his kind are closer to Gods than to men. You should feel your belly as restless as his is, it’s not everyday a woman gets to ride a dragon.” 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

The day passed uneventfully afterwards.

You bathed then changed into the milk white dress your servants prepared, the soft silk easy on your clean skin. They braided your hair in the custom of your house and then you were left waiting.

Any sound outside would have the staff snap their heads to the grand oak doors and your heart beat a restless drum in your chest. The sun was leaving the sky to his sister as he painted the world outside in shades of bright orange which reflected off the terracotta hued marble from inside the house and created soft paintings over the walls of your home. You waited. They offered you dinner, but you could barely swallow your own emotions, let alone the roasted lamb your husband preferred.

Outside, in the private gardens, your mourning doves had begun their low, rhythmic lament. Usually, the sound brought you peace, but this evening their crying felt like an omen. Still, you waited. 

Nymella offered you some tea, a steaming cup of liquid gold, smelling of sun drenched fields and the deep, floral bite of saffron for “warming your womb” and calm your restlessness. You toyed with your silver bracelet. Truly, you wished he would just arrive already.

Leave it to him to make you wait and be miserable for hours. Mayhaps, something happened on the road. Bandits, or worse, mercenaries. But who would kill a fourth son? Your husband was so far from the line of succession, the only thing the crown needed him for was to break heads and hands. For he dearly enjoyed doing so.

When you looked up at the sky near one of the sandstone columns outside, you decided you had enough.

He won’t arrive tonight. 

You walked to the grand library you had in your ancient home. Happy you could get to reading a book as you sprawled once more in your colossal bed without a man to ruin your peace. You picked a tome of green and gold, it was the story of a knight who was righteous and understanding, who fell in love with a Lady and wanted to marry her, despite what her destiny might claim. You held the book to your chest as you returned. 

A servant passed you, running.

Then another one, a young boy, carrying a heavy towel. 

Your heart pounded in your chest as the commotion from inside the house reached your ears. 

So he did arrive home after all. 

He had no want for royal protocol, nor for stupid announcers of his presence. You thought for a second you might slip away into the night, get on Chestnut and ride hard and fast past the Red Mountain and the eternal Torrentine to go home. 

You rounded the corner and passed the heavy mahogany doors to see the servants, some having burned hands and fingers, pouring down buckets of boiling water in your copper bathtub to the edge of the room. He smelled of iron and burned leather. Simply overpowering any other scent you sprayed into your grand chambers, perfectly made to allow as much breeze into the room as possible. 

Maekar had his back to you.

Dressed in the black leather and red fur of his house. He knew your light steps better than you. 

“Our chamber smells like a Tyrosh brothel.” His voice traveled right to your ears in a clear, powerful tone. The same voice made for commanding armies, not for whispering sweet nothings into a woman’s ears.

He finally turned and you could finally see the face of your Prince once more. His hair, white as a bone, was swept back and he had a beard now. But it was still, unmistakably, Maekar. “The Anvil” they call him. And you could see no reason why they might call him anything else, for he definitely tried to shape you like iron on him during the last night you had together. His face, scarred from when he was ill with the pox, made his scowl even more terrifying. 

Not that many would be brave, or stupid enough to look him in the eyes.

“Welcome home, my Lord.” You bowed your head in the custom you were taught a Lady should perform as she greets her husband. He moved to the great basin, and started removing his clothes. First he untangled the silk cord holding his tunic in place, dropping it to the floor so the servants would be reminded of their place. The two young boys you saw running  approached him, reaching to help with his heavy boots, but he snarled at them and it was as if they were attending to a pointed sword.

"Fuck off.” he snapped "All of you. Out." They nearly tripped over themselves to flee and you had half the mind to turn around yourself and run to a dark corner he wouldn’t find you in.

Then he removed his tunic, then his undershirt and you, unfortunately so, looked away, even if it was for only a moment when you felt as if a stone was thrown towards your belly. The water was hot enough to blister human skin, yet he didn't even hesitate in swinging a strong leg over the tub.

“The road was long, I imagine.” Your voice sounded small against the splash of water as he lowered his body down with a groan, the sound traveled to your ears, then down between your legs but you didn’t wish to think of that.

“Was the weather kind to you, my Lord?” 

“It rained for three days near Blackwater,” his voice was akin to grinding stones, “The mud was up to the horses' hocks and smelled like a dead man's shit.”

You winced at the crudeness, but tried to maintain the grace your mother had taught you as you tried to not cower before him. "Regardless, I am glad you are home. We have missed your presence at Summerhall."

He looked at you like you said the dumbest jest he had ever heard: “No you haven’t.”

No you didn’t, therefore you didn’t argue.

The chamber was thick with the scent of scalded copper and the sweet perfume that Maekar clearly loathed. His head was tilted back against the rim, his throat exposed with a thick, powerful cord of muscle that looked as though it could weather the strike of a longsword. His eyes remained closed, his face a mask of exhaustion. You thought to say something, anything-

“Well? You’ve had a tongue for the servants and yet with me you are as quiet as a fucking squire.” Of course he knew of your gentle behaviour towards the smallfolk tending to you in the months he was gone, this was, after all, his house. “What has been happening in this nest of silk and song while I was cutting necks for the crown?”

You swallowed hard, the humidity making your white dress cling to your back. All careful words seemed to evade you, any lesson your family had ever taught you useless: “It has been… quiet, my lord. We followed the instructions you left. The harvest was brought in, and the accounts for the winter stores are nearly complete.” Your voice was more mumble than words.

“Speak up!” He snapped, and you, caught completely unaware and used to the grace of the staff, flinched as if he hit you. “I’ve spent almost a year with nothing but the roar of the catapults and the screams of dying men in my ears. I can’t hear your soft, palace whispers.”

“I said the accounts for winter are finished!” you said, forcing your voice to go louder, though it felt brittle and strange in your own ears. 

“Good,” he grunted, his jaw tightening as if he were biting back a curse. A long silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the drip of water from his beard to the bath. Then, without moving a single muscle, he asked another question “And who did you have in my bed while I was gone?”

You didn't answer immediately. You couldn’t. The sheer crudeness of the accusation felt like a physical blow and you were left to stare at him as he fixed you with his scrutinous gaze. 

Maekar’s eyes moved over your features like a commander inspecting a breached wall. He looked for a blush of guilt, a downward cast of the eyes, anything he could crush.

“No,” you stammered, the word catching in your throat. “Never. I would… I would never think to do such a thing. My lord, I have been here, waiting. Only waiting.”

His expression was unreadable and grim. He let out a long, ragged breath and closed his eyes again, sinking deeper into the boiling water.

“Good.” he muttered. 

He didn't move for a long time, looking almost like a statue of some ancient, vengeful king. Just as you thought he might have fallen into a trance, his lips moved one last time, the words falling like the blade of an axe.

“I’ll have you dead if I find anything of the sort. I don't give a shit for the songs they sing about your house. If you stain my name, I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”

You were once again left speechless. Mayhaps he had been hardened by the rebellion in ways, his mind already looking for traitors at every moment. But you were, under all and every aspect, a good woman, you hadn’t lain with any man, besides the one now washing himself in front of you.

You didn’t hate him, but you surely didn’t love him either. 

You moved to your vanity and placed your book there, promising yourself that you will finish it one of these days. You turned around as you heard the water splash once more and was greeted with the sight of your naked husband, your eyes traveled immediately between his thighs like an arrow and you averted your gaze to your massive ebony bed in the middle of the room, decorated with dragons and made out of the strongest wood in the Seven Kingdoms. He moved to dry his skin and commanded “Take your dress off and get on the bed, on your back.” like you were one of his soldiers.

You thought for a second about what Nymella said, your arms shaking as you untied your dress, about having him on his back and you on him, holding him there and reminding him that in these bedchambers, in this room and on this bed, you- not him, would be in charge.

You forgot about all of that and more as he grabbed you by your arm, placed you on the bed, raised your dress to your waist and your knees by your chest as he pressed himself between your thighs. You closed your eyes, cheeks aflame and heart in your ears as you grabbed the hand he had on your left outer tight. You much preferred when he took you in the night, where you could barely see him and his colossal shadow was the only thing to remind you that your husband was there. 

The fire from behind him allowed for too much light and too many details. You gasped as he pressed himself in you, the feeling unfamiliar in the long months he was away. Maekar gasped too, albeit quieter as he positioned himself better, his breath quickened and his hands shook, pushing down your gown by your chest until he could see your breasts and grab at them like some boy with the apples in his mother’s garden while he dragged his manhood inside your body. You would remain quiet, not sure if he would like the noises you wanted to make. You didn’t know if that fact annoyed him, but he would drag himself out and push as much as he could inside until you would grab at his shoulders and push him away, moaning from the pain and the pleasure you would feel in your belly. He had you like that for what felt like an eternity and you were sure his guards outside could very much hear. 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

The fire in the hearth had burned down to a dull, glowing orange and the room was quiet now, save for the rhythmic, heavy sound of Maekar’s breathing. He had fallen into a deep, unshakable sleep almost the moment he was finished, his back turned to you like a wall of stone. Your body felt heavy and distant, still humming with the ghost of his weight and the rough way he had you.

The scent of the "Tyrosh brothel" was gone, replaced by the smell of salt, lye, and the faint, metallic tang of the "Anvil" himself. You stared out at the moon hanging over the Dornish mountains, feeling the ache between your legs. 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

The days after you tried to make sense of your husband’s presence in the palace. His will was iron and it seemed like even the air bent to it here. He had you every night, and once in his study, when he received a letter from Kings Landing that sent his anger sweeping through the house and finally finding you in the form of a young squire that trembled as he told you your Lord husband is expecting you. 

Nymella remained the same. With the same advice. 

Yet every night, when he bedded you, you could hardly bring yourself to make any action towards him, any sort of conscious thought left you while holding your eyes closed through the whole ordeal. 

One blistering day, a messenger arrived from House Caron, the Lord and Lady wanted to join the Prince and Princess of the Iron Throne for dinner and you, a dear friend of Lady Jeyne Caron, accepted. The Carons were marcher lords from Nightsong and were famous for their singing and their history as the first line of defense against Dorne.

The lamb was well roasted, the vegetables freshly plucked from the garden and the bread was warm as they arrived. Hand in hand, bowing low before you and your stoic husband as the lord steward announced their presence. You hugged Jeyne before you sat and Lord Allun Caron began regalling you with stories. Maekar was drinking the dark crimsoned wine of Dorne. You thought you were above such indulgences, but as you saw the way the two interacted, joking and looking at each other like the other might disappear, you started drinking as well. The wine burned all the way down, but in that moment, you wished for something stronger. 

Maekar was chewing his lamb and swirling the wine in his chalice with a bored look on his face as you maintained the discussion with the Lady and Lord of House Caron. 

Allun interrupted Maekar’s thoughts as he tried to make conversation with the man of many years and experience above his own: “I heard the mud in the Redgrass field was so thick with blood the horses couldn't find their footing. My cousin said the stench of the dead was enough to make a man pray for a head wound just to lose his sense of smell. Must’ve been a hell of a thing to watch the Blackfyre’s line break under that mace of yours, no, Prince? I bet the sound of that iron hitting plate was sweeter than any harp.”

Maekar didn’t look away from the wall with the fireplace casting warm shadows on his face “It sounded like bone breaking,” he says flatly. “There’s nothing sweet to it.”

You watch Lady Jeyne’s hand tighten on Lord Allun’s arm, not in fear, but in support, as if she’s helping him weather the Prince’s attitude. You wonder if you’ll ever have the courage to even touch Maekar’s sleeve when he’s like this, you moved your eyes away from the awkward exchange and stared ahead as Lady Jeyne’s voice cut through the silence and you made eye contact with her.

“The songs don’t do your bride justice, my Lord. They say the Daynes have the stars in their blood and justice in their eyes and your beautiful wife is the clear embodiment of that. Why, you must be the luckiest man in all the Kingdoms.” Jeyne smiled and for whatever reason you felt tears prick at your eyes. You thanked her as Maekar fixed you with a long glance and nodded to Lady Jeyne. You tried to mask your emotion by eating some food while the pair tried to make conversation with the brooding Prince you called husband.

Was it the wine? Mayhaps. But in that moment you felt like reaching over and slapping him so hard he would’ve seen the stars standing mighty over your ancestral seat. How dare he? He couldn’t even agree with her, he couldn’t even say that ‘yes, she is beautiful’ or pretty or comely or whatever else he found in that thick head of his.

You brushed another tear that fell and before you knew it you chin wobbled. 

You really shouldn’t have drank.

The chair scraped over the marble floor as you stood, excusing yourself as your voice broke. You must send a raven to Lady Jeyne, apologizing, tomorrow. But for now, you had to get away. Your feet echoed into the vastness of the great hall, as you rounded the corner and sobs rocked you into two. You cried like you’ve never cried before and you were sure in that moment that you hated him. 

You hated him and his silences and his crass way. You hated that he was more mercenary in expensive leather than Prince of the Blood. You entered your chamber and undressed, laying in your bed and holding your pillow to your face as you felt your sobs rocking you to sleep. 

You heard the grand balcony doors, facing the Red Mountains, open. And yet, you couldn’t be bothered to look at him. 

You hated him, no, you despised him. 

He was undressing. Maekar took the grey fur from the bed you two shared and threw it on the ground as he laid next to you. The bed creaked and the sound of hooves were heard in the distance as your husband sighed. 

He laughed. 

Maekar Targaryen laughed, no, breathed out a noise that was akin to laughter through his nose and you wondered what was it that brought him to this point. You wished to turn and see what the great fuss was about-

“I know you’re awake.” 

You let a moment pass. The moon cast a white light in the room from the window and you turned, opening your eyes as if his rough voice awoke you, not your thoughts. Your eyes were bloodshot and your throat was scraped from all the crying. 

You hated him and you hated your silence and careful words of respect towards him. Maekar Targaryen didn’t deserve them. 

“Why must you be so cold?” you felt a fresh rush of tears to your eyes, and you let them fall, not caring he saw them, “You’re cold and uncaring, has anyone ever told you that?” 

His back was to the ebony headboard he was usually repeatedly slamming to the wall by this time of night. Maekar blinked once, like he was trying to make sense of your words and your boldness. 

You didn’t care what he thought of you anymore “When I was a little girl, I hoped that the Gods would bring me a man like Lord Caron, for he is sweet and caring. But they brought me you- and you are as crass as a mercenary and as unbecoming of a Prince as any soldier is.” You spit out the nearest insult you could find. Words tumbling out as fast as rain with the help of that sweet summer wine you drank. Your head was beginning to hurt, a pounding pain that settled in your skull. “You can barely see me as your wife so why, I ask you-” you hiccuped “-why have you made me so, if you would be uncaring with my soul and my body?”

Emboldened by the fire burning in your belly at finally speaking your feelings towards the stone wall you called husband you continued “Why do I, out of all the women in the Seven Kingdoms get to be with someone like you, while others can get to laugh and kiss their Lords when they please, how often they please- there are others who hold their wives, did you know? They don’t have to take them like some whore on the road.” Hot tears streamed down your face and you hiccuped all the way through your speech.

“Is that what you want me to do? To hold you? And kiss you?” His white hair and beard caught the light from outside and he looked every bit like the Valyrian lords of old he was descended from.

“Nay, my lord, you can keep your embraces to others, I clearly don’t wish for them.” You turned your back to him, still crying. He wouldn’t change for all the might of Valyria or the Iron Throne.

You could feel his presence beside you. He didn’t say anything else afterwards. Your sobs were the only thing heard in the colossal room.

You thought sleep might claim you again as you heard his voice.

“I don’t know how to act towards you so you may not be frightened of me.” Your belly hurt from all the sobs you put her through. Still, you listened. “I find it hard to find words to say to you, or to hold you- Gods know I haven’t been held in my life as you wish to be.” He scoffed at the last part and you realized you didn’t know much of his past. You took a deep breath, scared that any words might frighten him into solemn silence.

“If you wish to be kissed, you can act upon it yourself.” At that, you turned. 

You raised your bum to sit upright, back to the headboard as well. 

“You don’t wish for a husband like Lord Allun, trust me when I say so.” His voice was a whisper and you realized you never heard this hushed tone from him. “He’s had about a hundred whores and has bastarded half his servants” 

You gasped, “You lie!” your tone was a whisper as well. Memories of gossiping with your fellow Ladies came back, though this was surely different.

He shook his head, something akin to a smile forming on his face “It is truth what I speak.” 

You thought to turn and sleep, for you dearly wished to rest, but that godsdammed Dornish wine overpowered you before you could remember your manners before your Lord.

“Have you ever fathered any bastards?” 

A sound came out of him. A sound you never heard before from your man. You had half the mind to call Nymella and the Maester to find a cure. The sound was like that of…of laughter? He was laughing!

“No, I’ve not fathered any bastards. At least none that I know of.” You smiled with him, happy that you could see him happy. You half forgot what you were crying about. 

The dark covered you both in its embrace and maybe that’s why you were so brave. 

“You should sleep, before you bring me any more questions I may not know the answer to.” He laid down and sighed.

Yet, you were not done. No. What did Nymella say to you?

You rested your head once more on the warm pillow as he turned his back to you. You closed your eyes. Nay, maybe not tonight. Though, when else could it be if not tonight? Your heart thrummed in your chest as you lifted your hand.

Only for you to bring it down once more between you two.

You imagined him coming to your bedchambers, sitting down with a groan for his bones were weary, he was not as young as he used to be. You imagined yourself, sitting down on his lap of burned leather and expensive furs and kissing him. Not the closed mouth kissed you bestowed upon him once in a while, when he wanted you to, but open and hungry, like the ones Nymella’s books wrote about. You imagined him grabbing you with his strong hands and not rushing anywhere for once. 

You rubbed your thighs together and for the first time since meeting him you wondered: What in the Seven Hells were you so frightened of? 

You grabbed his shoulder and turned his much bigger body around with a definite pull to sit on his back.

You shuffled closer to him, closing your eyes as you often did when you were near him in such a situation. You opened them back up as you felt the smell of sandalwood and cedar and his broad shoulder land in the middle of your chest. 

He opened his eyes and that’s when you were expecting a remark, a curse, anything. You braced. Nothing came. Only his eyes. And yet, you didn’t cower like a flower in winter.

You touched the left side of his face and grabbed hold of his beard, forcing him to come closer and respond to your kiss. His lips were soft and careful as your own grabbed his upper lip and held it. His mouth tasted of summer wine and you were sure yours did too. You turned your head to the side, see if he tasted sweeter from there and your lips made a sound as they broke apart and then collided again that traveled right to your stomach and between your thighs. Maekar was surely feeling your heart beating out of your chest but you didn’t care for that. 

You moved your body to sit half on top of him as he grabbed your leg and put it across his thighs, legs moving on their own to find any friction between them that may ease the heat you felt. In a moment where you thought he would bring himself above you, as was his rightful place to be, he did the opposite.

Maekar grabbed your behind and pulled you on top.  

With his strong hands, more used to a mace than the soft skin of your waist beneath your nightshift. He settled your heat on top of his growing one as you placed both hands near his head and kept kissing him with as much need as any girl might towards her lover. You found all the long weeks spent dreaming of this moment and longing for it to happen to come crashing down all at once. So it could happen to you too. This wasn’t just books and whispers by friends in court.

He rose up to meet your feverish kisses and you found him pressing his hot mouth to your neck as he held your hair back. The noises that left you were so unlike you that, on any other day, with much less wine drank, you would’ve bowed your head in shame. But it was he who must be shamed, for he had treated you so unkindly.

You touched his broad chest and looked down upon your dragon husband. He looked smaller this way, much less royalty and more man. He grabbed your soft nightshift, raising it, and you threw it over your head and away from the both of you. His gaze swept across your body, to your breasts and waist, towards your thighs and the place he wished with ardent desperation to be inside of. 

You swung your leg off him and took his pants off. He needed the help, for his eyes never left your body. By the time he was in an almost-comfortable position you got on him again, feeling his heat on your own for the first time without rushing, and without closing your eyes so you may not die in shame. 

Your folds parted slightly as you took him beneath you and rubbed down on him. Moaning and looking down at him as he looked away to the canopy above you, lips parted and groaning all the way under your affection. His hands rested on your hips, but he barely commanded you to move.

You smiled. Then you grimaced in pleasure, and then smiled again. For this is what you wanted, no, needed. He looked into your eyes as you stood on your knees and brought him before your already wet entrance. His brows were furrowed and you felt his heart beat fast beneath your palm on his chest. You lowered yourself down and his moan was like that of your own. 

He brought his hands up to your breasts and closed his eyes as you tried to find a pace and a movement that might bring enough pleasure. At one point you stood too straight and a feeling like that of being impaled shot through your flower and towards your belly, you lowered down on him. Elbows on both sides of his head and kissing him like you did before as he rose up to meet your thrusts. The old bed croaked after each press of your body to his. 

The one stoic Maekar was groaning like you’ve never heard him before whenever you would meet him halfway. The only sounds in the room were your wetness and the feeling of damp skin pressing against each other time and time again as you cried into your husband's mouth. 

You rose again as he told you “Slower”, voice smaller than he ever used, but you couldn’t even begin to think about caring for any of his requests as you shoved yourself down on him time and time again. He didn’t seem to mind your pace either as he closed his eyes, and held your hips, grabbing you like you might disappear between his fingers. 

Your most sensitive spot rubbed against his own body time and time again and you grabbed fistfulls of his undershirt as you came. Squeezing him time and time again as he pulled you down once more on him. You wet your throat as he grabbed the back of your head and held you there. He didn’t stop until his thighs were shaking from beneath you and you felt the familiar pulse of his manhood, pressed as deep as he could in you. 

You remained laid with your head on his chest. His heart was beating so hard you could feel it beneath his hot and damp skin. 

After a moment, you looked at him. His cheeks, even in the soft light of the moon, looked impossibly rosy, like a maiden on her wedding night. And his once careful swept back hair was because of your hands, restless and wanting something to cling to, tangled and unkept. 

You kissed him again and he smelled of you.

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

You couldn’t say things remained the same afterwards. 

Meakar wanted you all the same, and yet you found yourself wanting him too. Nymella smiled whenever you came into her chambers with a knowing look.

“Your husband smells like a ‘Tyrosh brothel'  from neck to feet, any wonder why that is?”

The changes were subtle at first, like the slow turning of a season. It wasn't that Maekar suddenly became a man of poetry and flowers, but rather, the sharp, jagged edges of his temper had been filed down. He still scowled, but now, when his eyes caught yours, there was a flicker of something that looked like a secret shared between the two of you. A secret that set your heart on fire and pooled low into your stomach and beneath your thighs as you would be the one to call him to bed when he spent too long in his study.

You knew that his attitude would never touch you again, nor would his words make a dent into your humors as you regarded him as soft as summer air when you two were alone. Gone was the man who towered over you and you shivered in his shadow. He still existed, though you liked to imagine him with those silver locks of his buried beneath your legs as you held him there. 

You found that he loved the tartness of pomegranate juice one of your maids made and that he enjoyed the smell of jasmine. That he would much rather prefer staying in silence, each of you doing something of your own devices as you would often catch his gaze, though it wasn’t scrutinizing, you knew it was, in his own way- the only way he knew. His confession that he cared for you. He cared for you passionately as he extended your library and ordered Chestnut to be brought a wonderful saddle, made of fine leather from his own home, Dragonstone. 

His booming voice regaled you with stories of old, stories from his own family and how cruel he found life in the Red Keep, overshadowed by his brothers. He was glad he would never have to return there. 

He once told you, after you were both spent, with your back to him and his strong arm holding you, that he loved you, that he wished for you to love him back, if you could find it in you. You laughed. How dull could this man be? 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

You looked ahead into the horizon as you waited for the Carons to arrive, you had to make amends for the way you treated them last time they visited you, Maekar had no choice but to obey and scowl at the sun.

“Maekar” You turned your purple silk dress towards him “please try to be pleasant- smile, at least.”

“I am smiling.” His face hadn’t moved from a scowl.

“Look at me. Smile,” your face was brought to a grin while you pointed at it “like this, see?”

He looked at you and tried his hardest to replicate your face, yet he looked like a sneezing tiger more than Lord. You doubled over in laughter as he looked away- this time, with a real, genuine smile on his face that made him look a decade younger.

He could be funny when he wanted to be.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

Chapter two

Chapter one

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

The servants sworn to you carefully tended the garden ahead. It was a quiet afternoon, the sort that ought to have passed without note.

Nymella had said the words with the brightest smile upon her face. It was, after all, what was expected of such news. The maester had already set it to parchment, that word might be carried by raven to the capital and to the rest of your family so that they may send their blessings and make their own offerings to the Mother for your health. A breeze passed over your cheek, soft as a blessing, while the sun warmed your temples. It was not as hot as it had been in past days. Summerhall, for once, seemed gentle.

And yet you could not be still.

Countless women had stood where you stood now, and still no soft assurances from your mother or your sisters could make the truth sit lighter in your breast. Nothing, in truth, could prepare you for the strange and swelling weight of it, that fierce love, the trembling excitement, the fear that stole in behind them both. Fear and love, bound together for the small life you carried.

Maekar was away overseeing an exchange of knights between House Martell, the ruling house of Dorne, and the royal family. Even so, your heart quickened not with loneliness, but with anticipation. You thought only of how you would tell him. Of what his face might become when he knew.

When the sun dipped low against the mountains, Summerhall was bathed in streams of red and orange, as though the castle itself had been built of firelight. Your mourning doves had begun their lament by then, soft and low beneath the eaves. It was time to retire.

You passed beneath the shade of a lemon tree as you climbed the terracotta steps to the palace. Its fruit hung heavy and golden above your head, sharp with scent where the leaves had been bruised by the wind. Servants bowed as you passed.

He was seated already when you entered, his gaze cast ahead into nothing, as though whatever occupied his mind lay farther off than the walls of Summerhall. Before him the table had been laid simply, though no royal table was ever truly plain: warm white bread wrapped in cloth to keep its heat, a dish of green olives glistening with oil, soft goat cheese dusted with herbs, and roast quail browned crisp at the skin. There were figs split open upon a silver plate, their red flesh jeweled in the candlelight, and a jug of dark wine breathing its spice into the room.

He heard your steps and turned to look at you. He smiled, soft and courteous with a deep breath, like a weight had been lifted. 

That smile was for you alone. 

Dressed in purple and red silk, you came at last to join your husband for the first time that day, to break bread with him and speak as married couples do. 

“-all are green boys,” Maekar said, bringing an olive to his mouth. “Stupid and young. At the sight of an enemy, they would sooner shit themselves than think to attack.”

You toyed with the quail breast, cut open and placed earlier by your husband on your silver plate. You could hardly stomach anything for the past couple of days. 

“We have you and your brother to thank for that. Daemon’s rebellion is over. The only things they should be ready to fight are the maidens swooning over their chivalrous advances.” A servant brought wine, but you covered your cup before he could pour it. He bowed as he moved to Maekar.

“I suppose.”

“You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you all day.”

“Why did you not send for me?” He broke a piece of bread, absentmindedly.

At your silence he left the bread on his plate. Eyes narrowing at you, trying to decipher what sort of things you could be wanting to say.

You took a deep breath as you started, “You should’ve been the first to know. But when Maester Crassen insisted I sent the ravens I couldn’t say no to him. Of course, it was also Nymella-“ 

“What has happened?” He must’ve been thinking some horrible illness took you. Poor, dear Maekar. His mind was ever quick to assume the worst.

“I am with child.” You had no idea what could’ve taken hold of you, but your voice broke and eyes stung at saying it out loud. It was real and happening. 

He looked at you for a very long moment in which you thought he was finding words to say to you. But in the way he kissed you and brought you to his lap, muttering words in a language you could not understand, not yet at least, you knew he was happy.

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

Maekar moved through those months with a quiet quickness quite unlike the somber man the smallfolk had come to know. There was something lighter in him now, something almost boyish in the way he turned whenever you entered a room, as though his eyes sought you before his mind had even thought to do so. Pride and love sat so plainly upon his face at such moments that it made your own heart ache to behold him. He wished to double the guard. He wished to send to Oldtown for another maester besides your own. He wished, it seemed, to place the whole of the realm between you and any harm that might still find you. You had refused him what you could, though never without affection, and still his fussing knew no end as your belly grew rounder with each passing moon.

In those months, both his family and your own came and went through Summerhall’s gates, bearing silks and carved cradles, little gowns, fine blankets, congratulations, prayers, and well wishes for both yourself and the life you carried. The castle had never seemed so full. And late into the night, when all had gone quiet, you would whisper to the babe of how fiercely they were loved already. How wanted they were. How cherished.

Maekar would lie beside you with one hand spread over the swell of your stomach, as though even in sleep he must keep some part of himself upon you both. In the darkness he would murmur of names, of ancestors, of hopes too precious perhaps to be spoken beneath the light of day. Sometimes his voice would fall into High Valyrian, soft and low against the dark, and though you understood little of it still, you knew enough to hear the devotion in it.

King Daeron sent his well wishes too. Yet his gift, when it came at last, was worth more than gold.

It arrived with two letters: one in High Valyrian for your husband, and one in the common tongue for you.

And with it came a dragon egg.

For a time it seemed that Summerhall held within its walls something older than kingdoms, older even than memory. Your husband placed the egg within the unborn babe’s cradle with a care almost reverent, there to await its sibling’s birth. And if the gods meant to favor your child as they had favored your husband’s line for centuries past, perhaps flame and life would wake within it.

Your own family set less store by dragon eggs. Their gifts were of a different sort, though no less lovingly given: a sword and shield, crafted of the finest steel, meant for the child’s valor in battle and wisdom in peace. It was a Dayne’s blessing, as true and earnest as any prayer, and you loved them for it.

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

The pains began in the deep of night.

At first they were little more than a tightening low in your body, strange enough to wake you, faint enough that you thought perhaps you had dreamed them. But soon another followed, and another after that, each one stronger than the last, until there could be no mistaking what had come for you.

By dawn the chambers of Summerhall were awake.

Women moved in and out in murmuring haste. Basins were brought. Cloths were warmed. The maester was sent for, and Nymella had scarcely left your side. Outside, the castle endured as castles do, unchanged and indifferent beneath the morning sun. But within your rooms all the world had narrowed to pain, breath, waiting.

Maekar had dressed in such haste that the ties at his sleeve had not been fastened properly. His hair, usually kept with such martial neatness, had been left half disordered by restless hands. He said little. There was nothing in his face now of prince or commander, only the hard, drawn look of a man forced to stand before something he could neither master nor strike down and you had never seen him so helpless. 

He remained near whenever he was allowed, close enough that you could feel him there even with your eyes shut. Hand tightly wrapped around yours. Sometimes it was at the nape of your neck or braced beneath your shoulder to help bear you through the worst of it. 

The hours lengthened until time itself seemed to lose all meaning. Pain came in waves so vast you thought each one must surely be the one to break you, and yet always another followed. There were moments when fear took you whole, when you thought dimly that women had died doing this, that queens and peasant girls alike had bled and labored and been lost to it, and that no crown, no bloodline, no prayer to the Mother had ever made a woman safe from such things.

He looked as though each cry torn from you laid a blade against his own flesh. Once, when the pain had left you trembling and spent, staring at the canopy above to find answers in the pain you were feeling, you felt his mouth against your temple. His hand shook where it held yours. 

When at last the final agony came upon you, it seemed to split the world clean through. Then there was a silence so sudden it frightened you.

And after it, a cry.

Small, furious, alive and everything in the room changed at once.

You fell back against the pillows with tears on your face before you had known you were weeping. Someone was laughing. Someone else was thanking the gods. Nymella was crying as she wrapped the babe in cloth. Your son lay on your chest, red-faced and squalling, and for one wild instant you could only stare, unable to understand that this small, wailing thing had been the great and terrible center of your fear for so many months.

Maekar looked as if struck senseless, all the color gone from his face. You would’ve laughed at the expression if it was happening in another circumstance, but you knew, your eyes held the same emotion.

He held his son as though afraid he might vanish in his arms.

He had never loved you lightly. Of that you had always known. But now, with his child before him and your body still trembling from the labor of bringing the soul into the world, his love seemed almost too large to be borne. It was there in the way he could not stop looking at you. In the hand he kept upon the babe, as though no power in heaven or earth would take either of you from him now without a fight.

The castle moved differently after that.

Summerhall had always been a place of warm stone and open air, but now it seemed to breathe around one small life. Servants crossed the halls with smiles they tried and failed to hide. Ravens were sent in careful haste to King’s Landing, to Dragonstone, to Starfall, bearing word that a son had been born between your houses. In the kitchens, honey cakes were made in greater number than the household could ever eat, and wine was poured more freely in the servants’ quarters that evening than on any feast day of recent memory. Men-at-arms who would sooner have faced ten Dornish spears than a woman’s labor spoke of the prince in lowered, reverent voices. Even the maester’s chain seemed to catch more light when he bent over the cradle.

The dragon egg remained where Maekar had placed it, dark and ancient, as though it too, kept vigil.

Baelor and Jena came to Summerhall, when the gardens were as green as can be and the air smelled faintly of milk in the nursery and damp earth after rain. They came not with courtly noise, but with the hush proper to a house where an infant slept. Baelor took his nephew in his arms with that easy steadiness of his, and Jena after him held the child beneath the pale light of the window as though she feared the moment might vanish if she breathed too deeply. She had always been kind, but there was something different in her then, something tendered raw by want and prayer and long waiting. 

Later, when the men had gone from the chamber and the sunlight had shifted golden on the floor, she confided in you in a voice so quiet it seemed part of the room itself. She had prayed for a child and received only silence. You comforted her as best you could, and when she departed from Summerhall, carrying none of that pain lessened and yet somehow not so alone beneath it, something between you had altered for good. After that her letters came often, and yours went back just as quickly, until affection had ripened into something nearer sisterhood.

A year passed. Daeron grew sturdy and solemn, all blue eyes of his father and grave wonder, his small hands forever reaching for things just beyond him. Summerhall was as usual gold and green and rose-colored dusk. You told Maekar of your other blessing in the garden. The scent of crushed thyme and sun-warmed stone clung to the air. Maekar had been speaking of some matter of court or training, something half-lost to you already, when you laid your hand low against your belly and brought him to stillness.

For one suspended heartbeat he only looked at you, all the blood gone from his face before it returned twice as fiercely.

“Another?” 

“Yes” you laughed.  

He picked you up in his strong arms so that kissing you would be easier.

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

Some days you would burn to the high heavens, unable to have anyone near you. Your skin felt as if a fire had been stuck beneath it. The maester said it was normal, the Blood of the Dragon is strong. Bearing a Valyrian’s child came with those misfortunes. The second labor came swifter than the first. 

You knew what it was almost at once. There was less fear in you then, though not less pain. Summerhall woke again in darkness and candlelight, in hurried feet and lowered voices, in steaming water and linen and prayer. The maester was fetched. Nymella came. And Maekar, as before, remained close as a shadow. He bore it no better for having endured it once. If anything, the knowing made it worse. He had seen before what it cost you. He had heard your cries and stood helpless beneath them. Now every look in his face was drawn tight by dread, every touch careful to the point of reverence. He said little. His hand was forever upon you as though he might hold you to this world by sheer will.

The hours did not drag as cruelly as they had with Daeron. Yet when the worst of it came, it still seemed enough to split you open upon the wheel of the world.

And then, as before, there came that terrible stillness.

You wept before you could stop yourself. The child was laid against you, warm and squalling, all flushed limbs and furious life. You felt as if you could do it all over again, to feel this love, to see your husband in such a state, unmovable by the fact you brought a part of him into this world. 

Another son. 

He kissed your brow, then the babe’s crown, and closed his eyes a moment as if in gratitude too sharp to be borne.

Aerion was loved no less fiercely than Daeron had been.

Three years passed in the manner years do when children are concerned: quickly, and never quietly. 

Jena wrote after, telling you of her own pregnancy and you must’ve cried with joy when you read her words. Both Maekar and you departed Summerhall for King’s Landing with both of your boys when Jena’s time finally came. You never liked the capital much, and neither did Maekar. But you were glad to see all of Maekar’s family. From your good-father Daeron, who pressed a kiss to your temples and called you ‘daughter’ to the Dornish queen Myriah who held you as tight as your own mother in her arms.  Rhaegal and Aerys were both overjoyed to see everyone in one place, even though Aerys was happier to leave you all to his books afterwards.

Summerhall, which had once seemed all red stone and sun-warmed terraces and long still afternoons, gave itself over instead to small footsteps and laughter and the unsteady tyranny of growing boys. Daeron ran before he ought to have, climbed where he was forbidden, and regarded the world with a solemn intensity that was somehow more disquieting in one so young. Aerion came after him like bright fire to banked coals, quicker to noise, quicker to temper, quicker too to charm. Where Daeron would fall into thought, Aerion threw himself headlong toward delight.

One was no mirror of the other. Yet you loved them each to the hilt of your soul and so did Maekar.

He was not softened into some laughing fool of a father by it. The world still knew him stern. Men still stepped more carefully when his eyes fell upon them. Yet your sons had only to lift their arms toward him and he would take them up at once, no matter who watched. He taught Daeron how to hold a wooden sword before the boy’s fingers were steady enough for it. He endured Aerion’s sharp little hands in his hair and the indignity of being climbed like a keep under siege. When Daeron couldn’t sleep, it was to him as often as to you that he reached in the night. At day’s end the castle quieted around the small rites that had become dearer to you than feast or tourney or courtly praise. The boys were brought bathed and warm to their chambers, smelling of soap, milk, and summer linen. Daeron, tried, as usual, to refuse sleep as though it were some lesser thing unworthy of him. Aerion did not refuse it at all, he only fought it with the full insulted fury of one who believed himself wronged by every darkening sky.

You loved those hours best.

You would tell each boy a story, and Daeron would already be drowsing by the time Maekar drew the covers higher about him, his father’s large hand absurdly careful against so small a shoulder. Aerion, stubborn and flushed with sleep, would burrow into your neck while you carried him, one hot cheek pressed to your skin, his fist still caught in the fabric of your gown. And when at last he was laid down, he would blink up at you as if betrayed, only for Maekar to rest a hand over his little chest until his breathing steadied.

There were times the sight of your husband bent over the children with that grave, guarded care made your heart clutch hard enough to ache. 

The child you were carrying now was easier than Daeron or Aerion, some days they would move against your palm as if on command. To show you they were there. 

By then the candles had burned low. The night air had cooled. Beyond the open lattice the dark lay soft over Summerhall, and the doves beneath the eaves had long since quieted. Maekar sat at the edge of the bed unlacing one sleeve with the look of a man still half-thinking of tomorrow’s duties. You watched him a moment before slipping beneath the coverlets.

When he finally laid his body down and drew your back to his chest, one arm settling heavily and familiarly across your waist you spoke. 

“Aerion seems adamant about doing everything himself” you smiled at the memory, “-he yelled at Maester Cressen today that he didn’t wish to have his hand held as he tried climbing the steps.”

You chuckled into your pillow and felt your husband’s smile against your hair. 

“Aerion is every punishment the gods denied us with the first.” Maekar kissed your head as he laid in a more comfortable position.

“He is your son.”

“Sure enough.”

You held his hand, fingers intertwining, as he caressed the child yet unborn in your belly with his thumb. Here he was only your husband. Here his sternness was thinner, his silences kinder, his want of you plain in every unguarded touch. He held you close until the warmth of him and the long day carried you under.

It was strange later to think how the body knew before the mind did.

Some small, buried part of you had already risen toward the surface when Daeron screamed. 

Not fully awake, not yet, but seized all the same by a sharp and nameless dread, as though the sound had reached you before it had truly reached the room. By the time it tore through the corridor outside, you were already pushing yourself upright. So was Maekar. The warmth of the bed was gone at once, split clean through by terror.

“Daeron,” you breathed.

Maekar was moving before the name had left you.

The floor was cold underfoot. The corridor beyond your chamber darker still, torchlight shivering low in its irons as you ran. Another cry came then, strangled and wrong, and it struck something so primitive in you that for one instant you thought your heart had stopped altogether. Maekar reached the boy’s chamber first and flung the door wide hard enough for it to crack against the wall.

Daeron was not merely awake.

He was half-upright in the bed, tangled in his blankets, his little face white with terror, his eyes too wide and fixed upon something no longer there. His whole body shook with it, trembling and sobbing as if struck. He did not seem to know where he was, only that whatever had found him in sleep had not loosened its hold.

Maekar crossed the room in two strides and took him up at once.

Daeron made a broken sound and caught fistfuls of his father’s nightshirt, clinging with a desperation that made your stomach turn. Maekar said nothing, only gathered him hard against his chest, one hand firm at the back of the boy’s head, the other under his small body, holding him with the blind force of a man who would have fought the dream itself had it taken shape before him.

He took Daeron back toward your own chambers while you turned instead down the passage to Aerion’s room, your pulse hammering still. But Aerion slept on, one arm flung above his head, his mouth parted in the loose peace of the very young. His covers had slipped nearly to his knees. You drew it back over him, laid a trembling hand gently above his little heart, and stood a moment longer than necessary just to feel him breathe.

Maekar held his son to his chest as the boy cried. He pulled the coverlet over them both, as you entered and climbed into bed.

“What happened, Daeron?” You rubbed circles on the boy's back as he pushed his face in the crook of his father’s neck for protection. 

When he finally calmed down enough, he showed you his face, bathed into the moonlight as he gazed at the balcony doors behind you, curtains blowing in the passing wind.

“A fire.” His voice shook. He dragged a breath into himself as though even that hurt. 

“Only a dream, sweet boy.” you said.

“No.” His lids fluttered shut. His eyes, once they found yours again, looked full of sorrow, sorrow beyond his years. “No. No. No-” he began crying once more and your heart broke all over.

Maekar gathered him closer, one arm closing round him so fully that Daeron nearly disappeared into his father’s chest. “Enough,” he said softly, not in rebuke but in mercy.

The boy’s trembling did not stop at once. It went on in small aftershocks through him, each one making your own heart clutch afresh. So the two of you held him between you until at last the worst of it ebbed. His breathing slowed. His hands loosened in the linen of Maekar’s shirt. 

He brought his little arm up toward you and you pulled his back to your chest, laying down properly. Maekar held you in the same manner. He rubbed circles with his thumb on his son’s arm. 

You must have drifted off, half-waking and half-dreaming, because when Daeron stirred again it took a moment to understand what had roused you.

“Mom..”

His whisper was no louder than the curtains. His little hands, holding the bedding.

Maekar slept still, one arm thrown protectively across the both of you. The boy had half turned towards you, wide awake, his small face pale. 

“Yes, my love.” You brushed his hair back, fighting against the wave of sleep threatening to overthrow you.

In a voice rubbed thin by fear and sleep, he asked, “Tell me a story.” 

Both boys loved your stories, as a Dayne, you excelled in all manner of fables, myths and legends. If this would pull him under dreamless sleep, you would do anything. And what other story could you tell your son, but the one you knew best. You told him of Starfall.

Of the pale stone seat of your house where the sea broke white beneath the cliffs and the dawn came sharp over the water. Of the old kings who had lived there when the world was younger and stranger. When magic and dragons ruled the earth. Of the night a burning star had fallen from the sky and struck the earth beside the mouth of the Torrentine, bright enough, they said, to turn darkness into day. Of how from that stone your ancestors had forged the blade called Dawn, not Valyrian steel, but older and fairer, pale as milkglass in the sun and deadly as any dragonlord’s sword.

Daeron listened without moving. Gasping at the mention of Dawn, you promised your son you would take him with you when the time was right, just the two of you, to see it with his own eyes. 

You told him how the sword passed only to the worthiest of your line, never by simple birthright, but by honor and valor, and how men had crossed half the realm only to look upon it. You told him of the tower from which the sea could be seen for miles, of gulls wheeling silver in the wind, of lemon cakes in the kitchens and old women who swore the star’s light still lingered in the stone when the moon was high. You told it slowly, softly, with one hand smoothing his hair back from his brow whenever it fell.

You told him how whenever he would see a star running across the sky, luck beyond measure would be bestowed upon him from the Gods.

By the time you reached the end, his body had grown heavy against yours.

His breathing had softened. One hand still clutched the sleeve of your shift, but only loosely now, as though even in sleep he needed to be certain you remained. You bent and kissed his temple. The moon had painted the chamber in silver. Beyond you, the curtains moved like water. Behind you, Maekar slept on, worn out by fear and love alike.

You woke to a morning of a far gentler spirit than the night had left you in.

The chamber was full of pale gold. Somewhere below, servants had begun to move through the halls again. For a moment, waking slowly beneath the weight of sun and sleep, you almost forgot what had driven the three of you into one bed.

Then you felt Daeron’s foot against your thigh and remembered at once.

Sometime before dawn he had managed, in sleep, to sprawl across nearly half the bed like a conquering little king. Both arms spread open as if awaiting an embrace, while you and Maekar had been driven together so near the edge that another inch might have seen you both tumble to the floor. You turned your head just enough to look behind you.

Maekar was already awake.

He lay on his back with the expression of a man who had endured an indignity in grim silence for several hours and meant to make it known now that daylight had given him leave. His hair was disordered from sleep, his jaw clenched. His blue eyes looked upon you as if you pushed him yourself towards the cliff that was his place on the bed.

“Well?” you murmured.

“My back is ruined.”

You smiled as you looked once more at your boy. At that, even half asleep, Daeron let a small smirk sneak its way to his face, as though some part of him had heard and approved.

You laughed quietly and reached to smooth the hair from his brow. In the morning light, with his face untroubled and his limbs loose with sleep, it was almost impossible to believe such terror had gripped him only hours before.

For the next few nights he slept with you still.

Not because he woke screaming again. He did not. Whatever cruel thing had found him once did not return, or at least did not come so near the surface that it could drag him out of sleep. Yet each evening, when the candles were lowered and the servants dismissed, he would hover near your bedchamber with too careful a bravery, as though he meant not to ask and hoped instead that love would spare him the humiliation of needing to. And every single time, it did.

So he was brought again beneath the coverlets, and though he tried the first night to lie solemnly and take up no room at all, by morning he had flung himself sideways in sleep and driven his father once more to the very edge of the mattress. On the second night he curled nearer, warm and trusting, his small back to your belly and Maekar’s hand resting over him in the dark. On the third he fell asleep before the story was half done, one fist in the linen near your shoulder, and slept through until dawn with no sign of fear at all.

Maekar complained every morning.

He complained in the same tone he complained about a great many things, even if you both knew full well he would submit to the same discomfort again that night if Daeron so much as looked uncertain at dusk. Whenever darkness came, and Daeron climbed between you, it was Maekar’s arm that drew the child nearer and Maekar’s hand that settled over him before sleep.

By the end of the week even you had ceased to think much of it. One evening, you and Maekar sat together in the fading warmth outside while the boys played in the garden below the terrace. You held your belly as you watched the children. 

The sun had gone softer by then, laying amber across the terracotta and gilding the lemon leaves where the wind turned them. Daeron was chasing some private glory with a stick in hand, grave and intent as ever, while Aerion, not to be outdone by anything in creation, had abandoned nobler pursuits in favor of crouching down and picking at the ground with all the concentration of a scholar.

You and your husband had been speaking of something forgettable, letters from King’s Landing, perhaps, or which knight ought to be sent back to court and which ought to remain, when his attention wandered from the subject in that way you had long since learned to recognize. He looked into your eyes and then at your lips as you talked and you felt yourself growing shy even, under his gaze. 

He glanced toward the boys once, then back to you.

“He sleeps in his own chambers tonight,” 

You kept your gaze upon Daeron, who was solemnly announcing some victory to no one at all, and said, “Does he?”

“He does.”

“So decided,” you murmured.

“Indeed.”

As if summoned by the subject itself, Daeron came trotting up the steps not long after, all bright cheeks and wind-tossed hair, with the abrupt seriousness children often wore when approaching matters close to the heart.

“May I sleep with you tonight?” he asked.

Before you could answer, Maekar said, “Not tonight.”

Daeron stopped short, looking first at his father and then at you with quick disappointment gathering in his face.

“You have slept well these past nights,” Maekar said. “You must learn to sleep alone again.”

It was not cruelly spoken. It was reasonable, and because it was reasonable it struck the boy all the harder.

You reached for him before the silence could bruise. “I will come and tell you a story,” you said. “And I shall stay until you are asleep.”

At once some of the disappointment eased from him. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

He considered that with the solemn care he gave all bargains of importance, then nodded. 

That was when Maekar’s gaze shifted past him.

“Aerion!”

The sound of it cracked across the terrace with enough force that both you and Daeron startled where you sat.

Below, Aerion froze in the act itself, one grubby hand half-raised, his mouth already suspiciously open for something.

“Do not eat it.” Maekar called, already rising to pull Aerion away from his newfound delicacy.

Aerion blinked up at him, offended by the interruption and wholly unrepentant.

Daeron, recovering first, twisted toward you with all the outraged superiority of an elder sibling. “He was eating dirt.”

“Yes,” you said, already, laughter spilling from you before you could stop it. “I saw.”

Maekar muttered something low and despairing under his breath that only half deserved to be called a curse. Aerion regarded his father with the solemn, dirty face of one interrupted in important work.

When he reached him, he rubbed his face clean with his hands, then his little fingers. 

“No dirt.” Maekar said.

Aerion frowned. “Why?”

“Because” your husband continued as if speaking to one much more intelligent than a boy of three “you are a prince of the realm and not a goat.”

Daeron laughed.

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

Then came Aemon. Quieter than his brothers, seeming to watch the world before he had properly entered it. You and your boys settled into your own kind of rhythm. When time would allow, you would watch Maekar teach Daeron and Aerion how to fish while you held Aemon to your breast. All boys received dragon eggs, none hatched, but you or Maekar didn’t care much for that supposed disappointment you should be feeling. You were happy that they were healthy and all yours, each one of them. The nights were short and the days longer, one of the longest summers in living memory existed all around you and life seemed to be perfect in every way. 

When your husband would return to your bedchambers and take you in his arms, running his hands all over your body and kissing you like you would disappear. His need for you grew with each pregnancy it seemed. 

You smiled whenever he would tell you he wanted a girl from you, and then you’d be left alone. 

“You promise?” You murmured against his lips between kisses.

“No.” He brought you on top of him.

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

Daella and Rhae followed after, soft-cheeked and lovely, with Maekar undone by them both almost at once in the secret, helpless way stern men were undone by daughters. 

The children grew before you knew it. Daeron lengthened into a solemn boy who looked too hard at things and seemed, at times, to know more than any child should. Aerion burned hot through every hour of the day, all fierce temper and impossible fancies, as though some part of him had been born expecting wings. Aemon learned silence before speech had properly left him, happiest with old things, old words, old pages. Daella moved sweetly through the halls like candlelight. Rhae was all sun and mischief and little bare feet over warm stone. Summerhall had once belonged to princes. It belonged now to children.

By the time you carried the last of them, nearly eight years had passed since Daeron had first been laid against your breast.

And this time the gods were not kind.

The pregnancy with your sixth child sat ill upon you from the first. It did not bloom in you as the others had, with fear and tenderness twined together, but with a slow cruelty that seemed bent on wearing you down bone by bone. Food turned your stomach. Even water lay wrong in you some days. The heat of Summerhall, which you had once loved, became an enemy. The stairs exhausted you. The weight of the child dragged low and hard, as though he meant to pull you with him toward the earth before his hour had even come. Some mornings you woke already tired. Some nights sleep would not have you at all. The women said such things happened, that a last child could be stubborn, that a mother who had borne five babes had a body grown weary of miracles. You smiled when they said it. You thanked them. You said little else.

He watched you with the rigid quiet of a man holding himself back from violence simply because there was nothing living before him he could strike for what was being done to you. He sent for the maester twice as often as was needed. He had your cushions changed, your meals altered, your chambers aired or shut according to the hour. He looked at every servant as though negligence might kill you. At night, when the children had gone to bed and the castle had softened around the last candlelight, he lay awake beside you more often than he slept. 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

Lord Rolland Penrose rode in with his wife, Lady Ellyn, and a modest train, all courtesy and stormland silk and the smell of horses still clinging to their cloaks. The lord and lady of Houses Selmy and Swann were there as well, and the supper table that night was fuller than it had been in weeks.

Candles burned long and golden across silver and polished wood. The windows stood open to the evening air. Beyond them the dark of the gardens sent up the scent of orange blossom, crushed thyme, and the warm stone still holding the day’s heat. Servants moved quietly with platters of roasted chicken, pork, and beef, with white bread and olives glistening in oil. The talk had gone from easy things to old court tales and births and marriages, as it so often did when noble ladies had been given enough wine to grow careless.

Lady Ellyn Penrose spoke first of one woman’s labor, then another’s, then, with the heedless confidence of those who mistook chatter for grace, turned to old history: “It must have been the most dreadful thing,” she said, setting down her cup. “Princess Rhaenyra’s little girl. The one born dead and twisted, half dragon, they said. I have thought of it often. How monstrous for the mother. How absolutely terrible.”

The table quieted.

Every eye seemed to turn, if not openly, then near enough. Leaning back against the ebony chair, unable these days to find any posture wholly free of discomfort, you lowered your eyes for a moment and gave the sort of polite acknowledgment expected of you. The words you wished to offer the young woman were of a far less courtly kind.

Lord Rolland Penrose looked at his wife with all the resignation of a man who had seen disaster and knew it by name.

“My lady,” he said carefully, “perhaps-”

“I only mean,” Lady Ellyn went on, smiling toward you with a brightness so misplaced it turned cruel, “what fear such tales must put into women. Particularly when they are carrying again. Though of course, you must not let such stories trouble you.” Her glance flicked, foolishly, to your belly and back to your face. “You shall be well enough, I am sure. After all, you have had five already.”

She gave a little laugh then, as if she might mend the thing by pretending it had been light.

You found nothing light in it.

Maekar only looked at Lady Ellyn Penrose, his fists clenched on either side of his plate, and there was so much naked fury in the stillness of him that even her husband seemed to blanch beneath it. Some hidden, mean, frightened part of you had already been whispering the very same words to you in the dark for weeks.

You lowered your eyes only long enough to spare the woman the full force of your face, then lifted them again with all the composure you could gather.

“Yes, my lady,” you said. “Your concern is noted.”

But after that the talk never truly recovered. It dragged itself onward until the proper hour for parting arrived and everyone fled it with relief thinly veiled as courtesy.

You rose with your husband’s help, one hand braced at your back, and thought only of sending for Nymella and the sleeping draught she had begun to keep near for such nights. Lord Rolland Penrose at last found the shame to catch Maekar aside. You both had only just reached the steps, your arm linked through your husband’s for support.

“My lord, my lady, you must pardon my wife. She meant no harm-“

“Your Grace,” Maekar said, before you could soften the moment.

Rolland Penrose swallowed. “Your Graces. Please. Pardon her manner.”

You might have done so, had Maekar not spoken first.

“Do you think my wife wishes to hear of dead children at my table?”

“No, Your Grace. No, of course not.”

“Good.” Maekar’s voice was iron. “Then go and teach your wife some restraint, or fuck off. The both of you.”

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

You stared at the flames as if you might find some answers in them. It rained again during the dinner, so the weather was brought to a comfortable chill that was well welcomed by everyone else but you.

Maekar looked at you. Then bent down to remove your slippers, carefully laced by Nymella a few hours earlier. 

“Nothing will happen to you,” he said. “Just the words of a stupid girl, take no heed to them.” He held your foot gently as he removed the slipper and moved to the other leg. 

You brushed your hands through his hair. Silver like the moon you loved staring at since you were but a girl. 

“If anything should happen,” you said softly, “you know I will not leave you. Not truly. I will always be with you. Always.”

He snapped his eyes to you, and you felt your throat become tight. Something flashed in his face then, rage, fear, refusal, all of them too near each other to be separated cleanly.

“No.” he said.

“Maekar-“ you tried to smile.

“Nothing will happen to you.” His voice sharpened, then lowered again, as though he would not let even the walls overhear such treason. “Not under my roof. Not while I still draw breath. Do you hear me, woman?” 

He moved to continue the work he started on your leg “You cannot leave me alone with Aerion.” 

You laughed at that, and he smiled too. He could be funny if he wished to be.

“If what Lady Penrose said should ever come true,” you whispered, and still you did not tell him of the bad feeling that had shadowed you these last weeks, of the private dread that came and went like weather through your bones, “you should not be alone.” 

You knew he was aware of what that meant. You had hoped you didn’t have to spell it out for him.

The fire let out a crack between you and Maekar moved your shoes to the side of the rug as he said, almost absentmindedly, because saying it while looking at you would give power to the fear: “I’ll never love again.”

The child sat too low and too heavy in you now, and even the short walk from hearth to bed had begun to feel like something to be endured rather than done. Even if this pregnancy seemed to drag you to the brink of madness, you loved your son or daughter fiercely. What great person they would become, to have taken such a great toll on you. They had to make their presence known in some way. Maekar drew you gently from the fire and guided you back to the mattress with both hands, one firm at your waist, the other beneath your arm. There was nothing delicate in him, nothing practiced in tenderness for its own sake, yet in moments such as these his care became almost reverent. He lowered you slowly against the pillows, as though he mistrusted even the bed to receive you gently enough.

The room lay in firelight and shadow. Beyond the half-open balcony doors, night had settled soft and black over Summerhall. The curtains stirred with the breeze. Somewhere far below, water whispered in the gardens. The stone of the chamber still held the day’s warmth, and the familiar things about you- the carved bedposts, the chair by the hearth, the little table near the window, the silver comb left where it had been set down that morning- seemed touched by something sharper than memory. Here your children had been safe. Here you had been wife before all else, and mother, and beloved. Here, beneath this roof, life had gone on in its own small kingdom of firelight and bread and linen and sleeping miracles made true by you and your husband . Here, of all places, the world had seemed most held.

One arm went about you at once, drawing you back against his chest with the unthinking possessiveness of long habit. His hand found yours where it rested over the hard, aching curve of your belly, and stayed there.

Summerhall slept on around you, untroubled and whole, holding its peace for one night more.

Because all girl names had already been tried and picked apart countless times, because one had already been chosen and kept close, you thought, for all the heaviness this child bore within you, for all those dreamless nights you prayed and all the food you brought back whence it came, that perhaps he would be a boy. 

And if so, his name shall be Aegon.

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

author's note: thank you thank you for reading. If you are one of the people who had lovingly send all those messages for part 2 this is for you, ily, please forgive me it took so long, a lot of personal issues had climbed on top of each other in the past weeks- but it is here now! I have left little details that hint at each child’s actual future, I hope everyone got that, also some little things that tie to the first part. Thank you for reading again, if you are kind enough to leave me a message, that would mean the world to me. Have an amazing day babes and Happy Easter

my wonderful taglist who had been so patient for part 2:

@sweetxime

@risefallrise

@gul--aaab

The air in the Maidenvault was thick with the scent of melting beeswax and old incense, a heavy, cloying sweetness that felt like a physical weight. Outside, the bells of the Great Sept tolled for evening vespers, but inside this stone sanctuary, time had seemingly curdled.

Baelor stood by the narrow window, his frame gaunt against the dying sun light over King’s Landing. He looked every bit the ascetic king, his simple white linen robes hanging loose on his shoulders. He had been fasting again, his skin pulled tight over his cheekbones, eyes bright with an unholy light. But as you moved to adjust the heavy silks of your gown—a dress he had told you was a "distraction from his sobriety"—his shadow moved across the floor, reaching for you.

Every time you moved, his gaze followed you—not with the kindness of a brother or the grace of a King, but with the shivering, jagged intensity of a starving man watching a feast he had sworn never to touch. The silence between you wasn't peaceful; it was a taut wire, vibrating with the weight of everything he was refusing to say.

"You look at me as if I am made of glass," he finally said, his voice a dry, papery rasp that made the hair on your arms stand up. He turned away from the window. "But glass does not burn, does it? It only shatters."

"Then you speak of mercy," he rasped. "You speak of it as if it were a commodity I have in surplus. As if I have not already spent every ounce of my soul keeping the demons of this blood... my blood... at bay."

You took a step toward him, perhaps too bold, driven by a desperate need to find the man beneath the martyr. Your hand reached out, fingers hovering near his sleeve. "Baelor, you are starving yourself. You are not a god; you are a man of flesh. Have mercy for yourself... Let me help you—"

He turned with a speed that defied his frail appearance. His hand clamped around your wrist in an iron-clad grip. He pulled you flush against him. His scent was different now like the sharp, metallic tang of repressed fever.

His eyes, usually clouded with prayer, were startlingly clear and predatory. They roamed over your face with a terrifying, clinical intensity.

“Careful,” he murmured, his face inches from yours. He was quieter now, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated against your skin, more dangerous for the lack of volume. “You are very close to discovering just how little of my restraint is left.”

"Is that a threat, Your Grace?" you whispered sadly, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his chest. Your trembling voice did not seem to affect him. He was no longer the kind and honourable man you loved. Yet you still held onto the man you once had known.

"It is a prophecy," he replied, his thumb bruising the delicate skin of your inner wrist. You feel the frantic thrum of his pulse through his fingertips, a jagged rhythm that betrays the calm mask he usually wears for the Realm. It is the sound of a man drowning, and for a terrifying second, you realize you are the only thing he has left to cling to.

"I have fasted from wine, from meat, from the comforts of the bed. I have scoured my skin until it bled to remain pure for the Seven. But you... you stand there with your heart beating so loud it defies the silence of my prayers..." He absentmindedly scratched your skin just enough to draw blood. "You tempt me to commit a sacrilege far greater than any the High Septon could imagine."

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot and uneven. "I wonder... if I were to take what I want, would you call it a sin? Or would you thank me for finally showing you the fire that burns beneath no matter how hard I fight it?"

His free hand moved to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, forcing your head back so you had no choice but to look into the abyss of his devotion. The weight of his gaze feels like a physical brand, stripping away your titles and your pride until you are nothing but a collection of nerves and shallow breaths.

"There is a holiness in total surrender," he whispered, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "And tonight, I think I shall find my salvation in your ruin."

Baelor’s restraint didn't just snap; it dissolved into a frantic, starved desperation. He rather dragged you toward the heavy oak table, the one usually reserved for his books and scrolls. With a sudden, violent sweep of his arm, he cleared it all clattering to the stone floor.

He lifted you onto the wood, his hot hands sliding up your thighs with a rough, frantic energy. There was no gentleness left in him now, only the terrifying hunger of a man who had denied himself for a lifetime. He wasn't looking for a wife; he was looking for an altar.

When his mouth finally crashed against yours, it tasted of iron and salt. He kissed you with a biting, punishing heat, his tongue demanding entry as if he were trying to consume your very breath. Every gasp you let out was swallowed by him, a confession pulled straight from your core.

"Tell me," he growled against your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin above your collarbone, leaving marks that would turn a dark, tell-tale purple by morning. "Tell me you want the King to be unmade. Tell me you want the Saint to sin."

As his hands found the fastenings of your bodice, his eyes never left yours. They were dark, unhinged, and utterly devoid of the "divine" peace he preached to the masses. In this shadow-drenched room, there was no Seven, no crown, and no mercy—only the crushing weight of his power and the exquisite, dark debauchery of a man finally embracing his own corruption.

He didn’t wait for your answer. He took it from your silence, from the way your fingers clawed into the shoulders of his linen tunic. With a sharp tug, the silk of your bodice gave way, the sound of tearing fabric loud in the vaulted room. It is a finality you weren't prepared for like a bridge burning behind you and leaving you exposed to a coldness that only his feverish skin can remedy.

The cool air hit your skin for only a second before his searing heat replaced it. Baelor’s demanding hands were everywhere. You quickly realised he wasn’t only worshiping you; he was also colonizing you. His palms, calloused from years of gripping sword raked over your curves with a possessive friction that made your blood sing a dangerous, discordant song.

"The books say the flesh is a prison," he panted, his forehead pressed against yours, his left eye a burning coal in the dark. "But they never told me the walls were so soft... so maddening."

He hiked your skirts up around your waist, his knee forcing your legs apart with a blunt, dominating strength. He stepped between them with a rigid line of tension in his body. His hand slid down, finding the damp heat between your thighs. You let out a choked cry, your head snapping back against the hard oak of the table as his thick fingers forced their way into your aching centre. How long had it been since he last touched you since before Ashford? It was getting harder by the second as his rings pushed and rubbed your walls, sealing you with the seven pointed stars on his silver band, making your mind hazy with lust.

You try to find the words to protest, to call him back to the light, but your voice dies in your throat as your body betrays you, arching toward the very hand that is desecrating your modesty.

"Louder," he commanded, his voice a vibrating snarl. "I have spent my life listening to the silence of the gods. Do not drown it out now. I want to hear every sin you breathe."

He began to move his fingers with a rhythmic, punishing precision, watching your face with a terrifying intensity. He watched your pupils dilate, watched the way your lips parted as you fought for air. He was like a man discovering fire for the first time, fascinated by the way it burned.

When he finally freed himself from his robes, the sight of him—lean, corded muscle and raw, pulsing need—was a testament to how deep his repression had run. He didn't grace you with a slow entrance. He took you in one deep, staggering lunge that pinned you to the table, the air leaving your lungs in a sharp, broken sob.

"Baelor—"

A moan breaks from your lips, not from pain, but from the sheer realization that the King you once knelt to is gone. He was replaced by a creature of pure, unadulterated hunger that demands your total annihilation.

"Say it," he groaned, his hands locking your wrists above your head, his chest heaving against yours. "Tell me I am fouled. Tell me I am no longer their 'Divine' king. Tell me I am just a man, drowning in you."

He began to move with a frantic, driving pace that lacked any pretense of grace. It was all hunger... The starved, desperate motion of a predator that had finally broken its cage. Every thrust was a rejection of his vows, a deliberate step further into the abyss. The table groaned under the weight of his frantic movements, the rhythm echoing off the cold stone walls.

Your fingers dig into his back, seeking purchase in the wreckage of his piety,. As you realize that in this moment, you are not just his lover. You are his living sacrifice.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking into your shoulder to stifle his own roar of release. As he shuddered against you, his entire body racking with the force of months' worth of denied desire, he whispered into your damp skin, his voice broken and utterly unhinged.

"If this is the hell they promised me... then let me burn until there is nothing left but ash."

As the last of the tremors left his body, Baelor remained collapsed against you, his forehead resting in the crook of your shoulder. The silence of the Maidenvault returned, but it was no longer holy.

You looked up at the shadow-drenched ceiling, fingers still tangled in his damp hair, feeling the cold oak of the table beneath you and the searing heat of the King above you. For a moment, you thought of the prayers, the septons, and the "Divine" white robes discarded on the floor.

The realization hit you with a cold, sharp clarity: Baelor hadn’t just broken his vows; he had used you to shatter them. And as you felt the weight of his sin pressing into your skin, you didn't feel a need to run. You felt a terrifying, dark sense of belonging.

“Then let us burn together,” you whispered into the dark, your voice a bruised rasp that matched his own. “Because I forsake any Heaven left that would not have us together.”

standing upon the balcony that oversees the gardens, it feels as though it was yesterday, even though you know, after all, that it was not. 

you have never much been fond of tourneys, either. the noise and crowd was one thing, but the bloodshed was another entirely.

perhaps you did not have the stomach for it. the one at your family’s keep had not nearly been so elaborate as the one his grace has planned. there had been a melee in the morning among the squires, and then the jousts in the evening. 

your cousin had won and crowned his betrothed, and before you could think of it, you had been seated inside the hall for the feast, surrounded by faces unknown to you.

that is why it all feels so familiar. 

the air is heavy with anticipation—the knights and lords on the tilts, the ladies waiting to hand over their prettily-made favors. tourneys are a thing of hope—prayers and wishes for a victory, for a betrothal, for a memory to hold onto.

you do not enjoy them, and yet, your mind sends you back into time, something in the wind reminding you of a memory you have held onto with both hands, fingers grasping tightly around it, refusing to let go even now.

the moments before you had first met your husband.

you open your eyes, breathing out the clean air and blinking slowly as you take in the view. green shrubs and vines along with flowers of all colors. large, grand trees that have been here since the time of the conqueror. 

you will miss it dearly, you know, until such a time that you return to the red keep. 

you have spent so many days in this garden, so many mornings wading through it, growing fond of the new feeling of having to do nothing at all but sit and break your fast. a number of evenings spent on this very balcony, waiting for baelor to return to you from his duties.

if you think of it for too long, that horrible feeling crawls its way back into you. wondering if you are making a mistake by leaving, wondering what sort of a princess, what sort of a wife, would run and hide in this manner.

and then naerys stirs gently inside of you and your mind calms itself. 

this is for her, you try to remind yourself, as much as it is for you and baelor. 

in summerhall, there will be no more tears. no more nights of crying or skipped meals because the castle is too large to notice when one plate remains full. and it will be quieter entirely—no ladies to entertain, no maids gossiping, no royal guests to tend to. 

you have only spoken to your future host briefly in the past days. when you had requested his servant to ask if he had a moment to speak with you, maekar had come and opened the door to his study himself. 

it all seems far away now. the last few days have quickly faded into each other. 

at the very least, maekar had agreed with his brother’s request that it would be best to depart after the tourney had ended, to avoid any conversations or gossip spreading amongst the guests. 

you have never cared so much as to what other people might think of you until you came to king’s landing. another burden that seems to lift itself entirely at summerhall. there is no court there, and therefore no one to watch your every move.

you do not even recall the entirety of the conversation now, with how your thoughts are all mixed together. you think maekar had mentioned something about a seamstress that might be brought on to the castle for your new gowns.

and you suppose he is right. it seems of no use to bring your old dresses with you when they will not fit anymore. 

you suppose you shall have no need of them until—

until quite some time. 

your mind wanders, staring down at the guests king daeron has invited. they walk through the gardens, laughing and talking with one another. 

your daughter might be crawling by the time you return to the red keep, to your old gowns and your husband. 

if he remembers you by then—

you shake your head slightly, as though you might be able to silence the thought with the motion. you have spent enough time thinking. now it is time to do something, something that you know will help you and baelor, even if he does not yet see it.

you should not feel this way, you tell yourself. this was your decision, your choice. 

and still, sullenly, your eyes gaze down towards the garden through a layer of unshed tears at the thought of leaving your home behind.

a young girl skips through the courtyard, not far from where you and baelor had broken your fast not so long ago. 

you keep your hand steady on your stomach, rubbing the skin softly. finally you sigh one last time, inhaling the sweet, fresh air of the gardens.

you turn around to return to your chambers. the tourney is set to begin tomorrow, and you suppose it is time to begin packing.

-

the morning light shines beautifully through the curtains of these chambers. 

your mind cannot help but compare it to the rays in baelor’s chambers, since that is the only comparison you have in your mind, but it is warm all the same.

(his chambers are warmer entirely, though not from the sun. the memories come forth even when you try your hardest to suppress them. how it would feel to wake up beside him, his hands and his touch heated as fire on your bare skin. your husband runs hot all the time, and he has never had any issue in warming you up as well. 

the air in those chambers is transfixing, and sometimes you could not tell if you are awake or dreaming. especially when baelor would press himself further against you, bringing his lips to your forehead or your cheek, urging you to continue sleeping, even if he had to rise. 

you can be entrancing too, you know, because he has never arrived late to quite so many appointments since the time of your marriage. baelor told you so himself, murmured the words against the sensitive skin of your neck, warned you that he cannot keep delaying whatever lord he was set to speak with. 

and still, he is tardy that day and the following, and the one after that as well. those mornings in bed, when it felt as though there was no one else in the entire world save for the two of you, trapped halfway between the drowsiness of sleep and the joy of waking. you like to imagine that naerys came into this world on one of those mornings.)

and then you put it aside entirely, sitting up suddenly. you push the quilts away, your skin feeling fervid even though you know very well that this bed is cold and unwarmed.

this is how it will be, and there is nothing to do besides becoming accustomed to it over time.

after all, there is no one to sleep besides you at summerhall.

the squire’s tourney is the first event of the morning. an opportunity for the young men to prove their prowess, each hoping to earn their knighthood along with the sweetness and pride of victory. 

you do not care to watch men fight like this, not after what you saw at ashford. even the thought of sitting through this all day feels jarring, but the day is warm and your company is sweet, at the very least. you sit besides lady kiera and maekar’s girls.

kiera looks tired, you can tell. in part, at least, tired in the way that you are—of these people, of the appearances that are required of her. but still, she smiles brightly at you when she takes her seat, valarr escorting her until he is certain she is comfortable. he greets you fondly and kisses his wife’s hand before departing, likely to ready himself for the midday tilts.

the girls chatter with each other after showing you and kiera the favors they had decorated themselves. rhae’s is a rainbow of colors and flowers, and she clutches to it as though it is more an accessory for herself than some strange squire. daella’s is decorated fittingly in the house colors—a comely, soft black velvet wrapped around a circlet with red roses. 

but ultimately, she loses interest in the conversation with you and kiera and sets her sights towards the fighters, as though to ascertain which of the young men is most deserving of her favor.

“how are you feeling?” you ask quietly, meeting kiera’s gentle eyes. she turns from the girls to look at you, and there is a wistfulness in her that you recognize.

“i should be asking you that,” she says, smiling softly. her eyes trace to the faint curve of your belly, almost fully concealed under your dress—a pale green, today.

“i am fine,” you say quickly, wanting to avoid the topic of your emotions entirely. “the maids are packing my gowns today. whatever will still fit me, at least.”

“how long do you imagine you will stay there?” 

you go silent, your hand tightening up against your own favor, a small circlet of light yellow flowers, the ones from the bouquet baelor had brought you. it begins to tremble under your touch while you attempt to think of an plausible answer.

you find that there is no answer to her question.

“i do not know, i suppose. perhaps as long as it takes.”

kiera surveys you for a moment, almost as if she is deciding what to say next. finally, she smiles, bringing her hand to your shaking one, steadying it under her touch.

“well, valarr and i will miss you dearly. and we shall come visit, as soon as we are able. perhaps we might bring matarys along. he will be eager to meet his new sibling.” 

you beam at the thought—valarr and matarys playing with naerys, lifting her up and making her laugh in the gardens of summerhall. you have never seen them, but surely they are just as splendid as the ones of the red keep.

after all, they will be the gardens in your daughter’s memories, at least. that alone makes them special to you.

“and i will be waiting eagerly,” you finally say. 

you want to smile. you know you should, that it should feel more natural, grace your expression more easily, even. this is what you wanted, after all. 

what you had asked for. but still, you have to force the corners of your lips to turn up. it is only for a moment before you relax your features, focusing instead on someone, anyone else.

for a moment, everyone grows distracted, and you do not have to keep up the appearance. 

just near where you are seated, you see the king and queen arrive, taking their places in the high chairs and waving to the audience that has gathered. they each take a moment to turn and smile kindly at you and kiera and their grandchildren.

still, your mind remains plagued.

even as the squires are announced, as the seats around you are slowly filled one by one. the royal family—and you among them, though it is still something you cannot believe—are all seated together. further from you, just besides his grace, are the many lords of his small council and his half-brother. 

you can even discern the golden blonde of lenore lannister’s hair for a moment, next to her brother, before you turn away quickly, focusing your attention on kiera again. you do not desire a repeat of the afternoon tea from the other day.

she is nothing if not observant.

“that is one good thing, i suppose,” kiera begins, while you furrow your brows at her. “summerhall will be quiet, at the very least. no ladies of the court to torment you. that is a victory all on its own.”

“you are right,” you agree quietly, though your heart is not behind the sentiment. 

you are not allowed another opportunity to dwell on the matter. instead you focus your attentions on a squire from house manwoody, who is advancing his mount towards the the royal box.

but it has never bothered me before, you think suddenly and sharply, the court and the ladies and all these people. but now, all of a sudden—

the boy, whose introduction you thoroughly missed while lost in your own thoughts, attempts to guide his horse towards your direction. he seems nervous, you think, the lifted visor of his helmet revealing his face. 

he cannot be more than five and ten. 

he looks at the two of you nervously, almost as if he was preparing to ask for your or kiera’s favor. you look at him with widened eyes for a moment, before attempting to direct his gaze to the young princesses sitting before him instead.

the boy blinks, refocusing his attention while holding onto his lance tightly.

daella is beaming. the boy looks more skittish than his horse.

“my fair princess,” he begins, clearing his throat. “would you do me the honor of granting me your favor?” 

the sight is sweet, though.

daella rushes to the edge of the box eagerly, her favor clasped in her fingers and her dark hair billowing behind her. she grins excitedly, dropping her circlet onto the lance. the manwoody boy returns a small, shaky smile. 

between the two of them, you are not sure which will swoon first.

he drops the visor, riding away with his newly adorned lance and shield, a well-painted crowned skull against a black sky. 

“i do hope he wins,” daella announces breathlessly, and you for a moment, you are distracted of all other thoughts, turning to kiera to conceal a hushed laugh.

“with a princess’s favor, how could he not?” kiera says, and daella turns again, still smiling brightly, watching her young knight position himself for the first tilt.

you cannot imagine maekar is too happy about the turn of events. you crane your neck to see if you can find him besides his father, but the seats near his grace, both of them, are empty.

that is odd, you think, as the trumpets roar behind you. they should be here. 

“where are they?” you ask, suddenly much too aware that both your husband and his brother are nowhere in sight. 

your heart races for a moment, feeling as though you are missing some vital piece of information. the idea of yet another tourney going as ashford had makes you feel ill. 

“perhaps with valarr? it is only the squire’s tourney, after all. i am certain they will join us soon,” kiera encourages, clasping her hand over yours. 

you calm down for a moment, the thoughts restraining themselves. kiera’s hand is warm on yours, and you nod slowly. 

you try to smile, but it does not feel as though you can summon it. why does your expression feels forced once again? you cannot name the feeling, and yet—

and then it begins, the stampede of hooves against the dirt, lances ready to clash. you are left with no choice but to watch the young boys charge into one another.

-

you have never seen daella look more radiant. 

she glows from the inside out, her expression glowing as the crown rests easily on her head. it is a pretty wreath too, made of red and pink flowers, matching her crimson gown finely. 

the manwoody boy, for all his nerves, had performed exceedingly well. he won the first match-up in only two tilts, three, you believe, in the second round, and finally was decreed the victor in the third after breaking five lances against a squire from the stormlands.

you could not quite distinguish which house his final opponent served, not when you mind was already occupied, consumed by your thoughts.

well, one thought in particular. most of the tourney was spent wondering where your husband was.

you try to reason with yourself, as though you need to justify thinking of him so relentlessly, as though it was not second nature to you. 

it is only that it was not like him to miss the entire event. to leave his seat empty, even to leave his parents searching for him every time their eyes wandered to the unoccupied space beside them.

and thus, you are left with no choice but to worry. 

you play with your hands and your skirts, fidgeting until you feel naerys stir slightly inside of you, almost as if she is telling you to stop. 

you switch then, to rub your stomach slightly, trying and failing to pay attention to the joust in front of you. when it was over, all of you stood to clap. you tried to search for baelor and maekar with your eyes, to no avail.

“well,” kiera begins, as if she can sense you are in need of a distraction. daella rushes to her grandparents to show them her new crown, with rhae running behind her excitedly, “at least she will give you no trouble on the journey, now. she will speak of it for at least half of the trip.”

her words make you smile before you even realize you have.

“it is a special thing. she will never forget it, either,” you say, unsure of where the words come from.

a tourney is meant to be a joyous affair, after all. just because you did not see them that way any longer did not mean it was not still a festivity for others.

at the very least, for daella. she will have no shortage of tournaments in her lifetime, and you know this is not the last time she will ever be crowned. 

but it must be unforgettable, you think, to be recognized in front of everyone for the first time.

even if she does speak of it for the entirety of the trip to summerhall, you do not think you could fault her. 

for a moment, you are not sure who else she might be able to tell about it, save for her younger sister. you decide then and there to listen intently and make sure she knows you are paying attention and that you care. 

that this is something worth being excited about. 

“indeed… i still remember when valarr crowned me at the tourney for our wedding.” kiera smiles fondly, recalling the memory. you can only imagine how sweet it must have been. “and, once she grows bored of it, rhae will speak of it for the latter half. either way, you will have no shortness of stories in the carriage.”

the two of you laugh, linking arms as you walk down the path to where everyone has gathered. 

the grounds are decorated finely for the day, tents for each of the house with their sigils displayed proudly. the servants work through the crowd with chalices of sweet wine and plates of food, everyone stopping for a moment’s break before the festivities continue in the afternoon.

lords and ladies converse, parting to bow and curtsy as the king and the queen lead the way to the royal tent. daella holds onto the queen’s hand while rhae has been scooped up by the king as they both eagerly talk, likely regarding daella’s recent coronation.

“you are so good with them,” you say suddenly, following as ser donnel leads the two of you away from the crowd. 

“as are you,” kiera replies. “and i know perhaps, this is not proper for me to say. but i will say it still. are you… certain this is what you would like to do?”

you turn, meeting her eyes. you had not expected it, but they are watery like yours. 

in kiera, you had found a true friend, even despite the origin of your relationship. you, her good-father’s new wife and her, your new good-son’s wife. 

even under these uncommon circumstances, you know the caliber of love you are leaving behind. it is bittersweet to imagine days without her and valarr, to think of how close you have gotten to them, only to part so suddenly.

and matarys—you feel your heart clench at the idea of telling him that you have decided to leave after all, that this time it is of your own choosing. you had not thought he or valarr would even like you, much less think of you during a time when their own grief was rampant.

your eyes flicker towards the sigil painted on the tent. a red dragon against black. your sigil, now. 

you had not thought you would truly be one of them, one of baelor’s family. and now with this departure looming over you, you wonder why leaving felt as though it was the correct decision.

a decision made in hurt and anger. would you come to regret it, after all? you suppose you will find out soon.

you push the thought aside with all your strength, focusing instead on kiera again.

“i do not know if i am certain about anything,” you admit, finally. your words are quiet. “but it is so painful to be here. for the both of us. this might make it easier until-”

“your grace,” a voice booms, and you turn suddenly to meet the source of it. “my lady. it is a pleasure,” he says.

you recognize him instantly, even though you have never met the man before. 

his helmet is elaborate and identifying all on its own, a stag’s antlers plated in iron, and his doublet matching the colors of his house—bright gold and onyx. 

you think for a moment that even if you were blind, you might be able to recognize him from voice alone, given what baelor has told you of him.

the laughing storm, they call him. 

“lord baratheon,” you say, and kiera follows, watching him with an almost confused expression. “i do not believe we have been introduced before.”

“that, your grace, i can confirm. what, with all that business at ashford. it did not leave us much time to be acquainted, did it?”

you blink, trying to compose yourself so that you do not begin frowning at the memory before him.

“no, my lord, it did not.” 

it feels almost silly—to spend the better part of an entire moon’s turn thinking about that day at ashford meadow, only to forget about it in a moment. the force it returns with is like a blow to your chest.

or my head, you think.

“and besides that,” he continues, waving his hand in the air. “i am certain that if we had met first, we would all be addressing you as my lady, instead of your grace.”

kiera’s eyes go wide from her position beside you, and you hold back from shifting your expression to gape at him. at the very least, his lordship has a flair for humor and flattery.

he is just as baelor described him. in an instant, you wish lord baratheon would return to his tent so that you might find your husband.

“that is kind of you, my lord. are you enjoying the tourney so far?”

“deeply. our good king does know how to entertain, after all.”

“indeed. lady kiera and i look forward to seeing you face your opponent in the lists today.”

“not only face, my lady,” lord lyonel says, his words serious and calm. the calm before a storm, perhaps. “destroy. i must live up to my house words, after all. fury, and whatnot.”

“that should be fun to witness,” kiera says under her breath. you bite your cheek to refrain from laughing.

“regardless, we wish you luck, my lord.”

“and i thank you, your grace, but i do not need luck,” lord lyonel says, smiling in a smug, confident manner. you are not surprised. “though perhaps, if i had a princess’s favor on my lance, i would be left with no choice but to win.”

you fluster for a moment. 

you had made your own favor yesterday. the supplies had been left out in kiera’s solar where the girls had been working on theirs with the septa. 

in truth, you had not planned to make one. why should you, after all, when you had no one to gift it to? perhaps if matarys was entering the tourney, you could have made one for him. maybe even purple and black, a mixture of colors to represent his father and his mother. 

but he was not partaking, you knew that already. 

it had not taken as much time as you thought it would. your cousin had spent days working on hers, only for aerion to ask some other lady that had been present that day. you had not even bothered to ask your aunt if you might make one as well, knowing what she would say and not giving her the chance.

perhaps that is why you had sat in kiera’s solar, staring at the circlets and fabric for far too long. finally, you selected a shimmery white fabric and brought it to your own chambers with you.

and now you move your hands, deftly hiding the small favor behind your skirts, smiling charmingly at lord lyonel to distract him for a moment while you conceal it.

“that is a generous claim, my lord, but you will have to forgive me. i have brought no favor with me today since his grace is not partaking.”

“ah,” he says, his blue eyes surveying you carefully. they are full of mirth, you think. if he can see through your lie, he does not show it for even a moment. “most commendable, your grace, but rather a shame. your favor deserves to be displayed. where is your husband, if i may ask?”

“right here,” you hear baelor’s voice cut through the noise of the guests that surround you. 

before, you could hear it so clearly—her grace speaking with daella, something about no, you may not marry the manwoody boy. his grace’s conversation with lord lannister, who has travelled from his tent and does not seem to leave, no matter how many times the king suggests they discuss business of the court at the next meeting of the small council.

even kiera—she has turned from you to speak with valarr, the two of them exchanging words quietly. she had not made a favor the way you and the girls had, instead selecting a fine pink ribbon that matches her hair. she ties it now around his arm, the color shining brightly against the metal of the armor.

it all melts away now. every time you see him, it feels as though it is the first encounter all over again.

the rest of the world finally becomes quiet and manageable. 

you stare, perhaps longer than you should. baelor comes and stands beside you. today he is wearing a green doublet, the color of dark emeralds. you know it is a favorite of his, and it matches your own gown well, and for a moment, it makes you smile. 

baelor is smiling too—quickly, only for a moment towards you, before his expression changes as he faces lord lyonel.

the two men speak for some time—you hear bits and pieces. it is as though someone has stuffed cotton into your ears, everything gone soft and making little sense. all you can think of baelor’s hand, which hovers over the small of your back and the warmth of his skin. 

you stare at baelor until he finally returns your gaze, meeting your eyes. 

“well, your grace,” lyonel says to baelor before turning to you. “your grace. it was a pleasure to finally meet you. keep a close eye on your husband this time, yes?” 

you blink at the man, attempting to form a sentence, but he is gone as swiftly as he arrived.

“ignore him,” baelor says, bringing your hand into his quickly. “that is what i have learned.”

your heart thrashes in your chest at the familiarity of his touch. he does it so easily, as though it is natural.

for a moment, you forget that there are dozens of people surrounding you. guests, his family, your family. as though no one else exists.

you look down to where baelor holds your hand, and then to his eyes. he is watching you carefully, concern shining clearly, you think. perhaps he is just attempting to maintain appearances.

after all, he cannot let it seem as though there is some disconnect between the two of you, not when this plan was close to working. you will be gone soon, and then—

baelor brings his hand to your shoulder, tracing the fabric of your dress against his fingers for a moment.

“this color is familiar to me.”

-

the silken fabric of your nightgown rests somewhere on the floor of the chambers. it was green today, resembling the color of sage, one that he has seen before. 

baelor still relishes the feeling of taking it off of you—of sliding the straps away from your shoulders, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses where you are now bared to him. you squirm as though it is the first time he has ever kissed you all over again.

something in the expression on your face—euphoric and unrestrained and nothing similar to what you are like outside of the privacy of these four walls—is maddening to him. 

baelor cannot help it. he is drunk off it, off of that feeling, that makes him so frenzied he thinks he is some sort of a lovestruck green boy again. when your shyness melts away in his presence, when you are truly yourself when it is just the two of you alone.

even two months into marriage, it is mind-addling. years more of this and he is sure they will denote him too with the so-called targaryen madness that runs in his blood. 

it would be well worth it, he decides finally, resting with his back against the bedframe, sitting up just slightly. you rest against his chest, your warm hand pressed to the skin just above where his heart beats.

your eyes are closed, but every few moments, he feels the lashes of your eyes against his skin. you blink, as though you are reminding yourself you are still awake, still here, that he is still here, before resting once again.

but there is nothing that could make him leave. 

your body is flush against his, the heat trapped between the two of you. you are covered now with the silks, and he traces his fingers against the expanse of your back, travelling down to your waist and working his way to your neck.

you sigh sweetly, and he feels that pleasant sensation work its way through his body, relaxing every muscle and bone.

you open your eyes again, no doubt to continue your examination of him.

where your skin is soft and unmarred, his is marked and rough. for the last moon, you have seemingly worked up the courage to ask about the origin of his scars. each night he explains a different one, and you listen to the lull of his voice until you have fallen into slumber.

tonight is no different.

you trace it with your fingerpad, a narrow, white scar that has left a small divot in his skin. it sits just below where your palm was resting, a notch below his heart.

“what about this one?” you whisper, as though the words should only be kept for the two of you. it is late enough that the entire keep has gone quiet, no interruptions, no noises.

just the two of you and the sound of the fireplace crackling.

“that one was painful,” he says quietly. “redgrass field. i was not as careful as i should have been. one of the rebels, well… any higher and you would not have a husband.”

you lift your head suddenly, away from his chest, his skin missing yours in an instant. but when he looks to your face, he feels regret bubbling quickly, hot and thick under his skin. 

your eyes are filled with tears. 

“oh, no, sweet girl, i did not-” he trails off, bringing you closer to him again, his hands wrapping around your skin tightly. he presses into you firmly, trying to remind you that he is, in fact, still here. “a poor choice of words. do not cry, please.”

“the thought is very frightening,” you admit quietly, the words buried with a sob. after a few moments, he listens to you breathe softly, wondering what he has done to earn so much of your affection is such little time.

he feels undeserving of it, of the intensity of your love, but only a fool would deny himself of it. of you. 

“let us discuss another one, then. you need to sleep. the hour grows late,” he finally says, allowing his hand to move to stroke your hair gently. he feels it again, that brush of your eyelashes against him. 

you move your hand again, selecting the target of your curiosity this time, further up, along where his shoulder meets his neck. a jagged scar there, almost completely faded. 

baelor turns his head to look at it, keeping his fingers between the soft strands of your hair. 

“that one is from a lance. the tourney for my aunt’s wedding. a knight of house ladybright struck too high.”

“is that when you won? against daemon?” you ask.

“indeed, in the final tilt. i was ten and seven, and-”

and you were not yet in this world. 

the thought is enough to bring him to reality for a moment. he tells you these stories, but he had almost allowed himself to forget that you would not know the parts that feel so familiar to him.

and what is worse is that you have suddenly gone very quiet and still in his arms. he knows why.

“-these are old tales, sweet girl. it is not my intention to upset you in the telling of them.”

“i am not upset,” you say, as though you are trying to convince yourself more than him. “i should like to hear of it. were you proud of your victory?”

“i was. it was my first one.”

“that is very nice,” you say, moving slightly until you are comfortable against him once more. your fingers wrap around his, intertwined as you play with them absentmindedly. “and that is when you crowned her?”

“yes,” baelor says quietly.

he is not a fool. he knows what he brought you into—the sort of life that has been given to you now that you are married to a prince. a widowed prince.

memories of jena live in different places in the keep. these chambers, where they used to sleep sometimes. jena would complain about the noises—his snoring and the rustle when he would wake early to start his day—and sometimes preferred her private bedchamber. he would laugh whenever she used to bring it up.

and it is almost impossible not to think of her every time he looks at his younger son. 

valarr is him, in every way that a boy can be his father, but matarys… he is jena, through and through. even in their smiles, the way the boys laugh sometimes, baelor can hear it, and the memory takes over him before he can stop it.

there is a portrait of her along with the others, next to the one of dyanna. it is in the corridor by the great hall, and though he does not make it there as often as he should, he knows you have seen it. he saw you standing before it once, staring deeply, not even noticing when he had stepped in and stood behind you.

he had not asked you what you were thinking, though perhaps he should have. it is only that—

“she must have been so pleased,” you say faintly. “it is such a romantic gesture.”

the expression on your face, the sweetness in your voice—he can only describe it as maddening. how you name his past with jena as romantic, how you think of how pleased she might have been. 

jena did not care for tourneys, but baelor can still remember the crown of purple flowers he had placed in her lap. oddly, he cannot remember what she had—

another thought takes over him hotly. 

“sweet girl, can i ask you… have you ever been crowned at a tourney?”

he already knows the answer. you say something quietly, your voice filled with sleep. something about how the tourney for your cousin, the one where you met him, was only the second one you’d ever attended.

he kisses your forehead, telling you to close your eyes and rest now, and you comply, your body going still against him. he can hear your quiet, even breaths as sleep escapes him.

if only he were ten years younger—he would host a tourney before the turn of the moon, invite every lord and landed knight he could name just to give you a proper audience when he fells them all.

all to crown you as his queen of love and beauty, just as you deserve.

if only.

-

“baelor,” maekar calls, and both you and he turn to face him. “father requires a word.”

baelor turns back to you, watching your wide-eyed expression carefully for a moment, if only to engrain it into his memory.

do you recall the moment he thought of? do the memories remain easily thought of, or do you try and bury them now, suppress them when you can?

he wants to ask, but he knows he cannot.

“baelor,” you say quietly, blinking fast, as though you are trying to make sense of what you have just felt. perhaps even what you have just recalled.

“stay with kiera,” he says. “matarys will come join you as well. he is eager to watch his brother compete.”

“will you be joining us?” you ask, taking a breath and holding it for far too long in anticipation. your hands tremble slightly, a trait he mislikes deeply. he brings his hands over yours again, squeezing for a moment.

“i will try. do not worry,” he begins, attempting to carefully choose his next words. “i may remain in the tent with valarr. but i desire for you to sit and enjoy it. will you do that for me, sweet girl?”

your lips part as though you are surprised by his words. you nod slowly, and he brings your hands up, pressing his mouth against the back of your hands before settling them down.

the tremor seems to have abandoned you, if only for a moment.

“i will be back shortly.”

he leaves you with kiera, turning and walking towards the tent, as painful as it is to deny you something you desire. 

this time, he prays, it will be well worth it.

“father was looking for you,” maekar repeats, settling into the tent. the armor is sprawled throughout, different sets and various pieces spread throughout the space. 

baelor eyes a rather plain suit, sitting in the corner of the tent. the metal seems tough and hardened, without any of the flairs he has seen in the others. this armor is not pretty, but rather durable.

“i spoke with him already,” baelor responds, not moving from the corner. he continues to stare at the suit carefully.

“about what?” maekar asks. “and what are you staring at so fucking hard? you’ll hurt yourself.”

“no, i won’t.” 

not in this armor, at least. it will be well-fitted, i know. 

maekar makes his way to him quickly, almost as though he can read his mind.

“what the fuck are you playing at?” maekar says, and baelor turns carefully to face him.

“what are you playing at, brother?”

“speak plainly. i do not know-”

“you know what i speak of. you are leaving… with my wife.”

maekar is silent for a moment.

“so that is what you are so angry about. baelor-”

“no. this is not a matter of anger. you are leaving with my wife. you should have-”

“baelor, she asked me-”

“and you should have said no!” baelor yells, the words hot and ragged as they leave.

and angry too—though mostly at himself. 

how could he have let this happen? how could he have been so foolish as to not learn his lesson? he already lost a wife to death, and now he loses one to his own foolishness. 

but he will not, cannot, allow himself to lose you without putting up a fight. it all blends together—the way his blood boils at the sight of baratheon asking for your favor, the way maekar intends to take you away, the very fact that his own wife is leaving, just as he is finally remembering those moments that show him why he had fallen in love with you to begin with.

“what am i to do?” maekar says, frustration seeping out of him. “i am trying to… i gave her little choice when you were unwell. i am attempting to correct my mistakes. i-i am trying to help the both of you-”

“if you want to help me… then aid me in convincing her to stay. her place is here, by my side.”

“she decided-”

“maekar. she is my wife. and i have made a great deal of missteps, i know. but i can attempt to fix what i have broken, now, before she leaves. are you going to help me or not?”

his brother sighs.

“how can i help?”

-

the scene is a grand one. 

you do not think you have ever seen anything quite like it—scores of guests cheering excitedly as the competitors come out, one by one, much louder and more packed than the morning.

they wave banners and flags, chattering amongst themselves on the outcomes. bets have been placed, you are sure, amongst families. each girl clutches onto her favor tightly, waiting for the moment when some dashing knight comes to claim it.

you watch it with kiera at one side and matarys at the other. aegon sits somewhere behind you, cheering as daeron covers his ears, no doubt.

and every time matarys catches the sun, his auburn hair gleams, and when he turns to greet you, his eyes sparkle just as his father’s do.

no matter the thoughts that run through your mind, you have made a decision, at last. you will enjoy this occasion as you are meant to, shutting away all thoughts of what will happen tomorrow until it has arrived.

if these are to be your final memories with your family, you will make the most of it.

“look!” matarys says, his gaze on his older brother. “there he is.”

valarr is stationed at the tilt furthest from where you all are seated. 

and yet, of course, lord baratheon is the closest. he raises his lance towards the crowd, gathering cheers and shouts. you could have recognized him from a league away, you think, giggling with the girls at the look of his antlered helmet. 

but still, you do not doubt that he is a formidable foe. it only seems silly for the talents of the warriors to be displayed in such a performance before a crowd. 

for glory, you suppose, though it seems an odd way to claim it.

you see valarr more clearly now, the pink ribbon making him shine brightly against the other men near him. it looks as though ser crakehall of the kingsguard is across from him, his white armor shining splendidly in the sun. 

ser donnel claps valiantly for his brother from his position near you and kiera. 

“the lists have made ser roland his first opponent,” matarys says, and you feel your shoulders sink with relief—at least you know the outcome of his first match.

it is not that you are worried about valarr. it seems as though it is a natural response, your body strung tightly despite how you try to convince it to relax and enjoy the games. 

you look around, searching for him by the tents. you recognize the squire serving valarr and two other men, but he is nowhere to be found.

“have you seen him?” you then ask kiera, who is attempting to point out something to the girls. 

“valarr? we only just-”

“no, no, baelor. i thought he said he would try to join us, but…” you trail off, unsure of what to say. 

the recollection of him calling you that name he always uses makes you feel flushed and warm despite the breeze blowing through the stands.

“no, i do not see him,” kiera says. matarys turns towards you. “ser donnel? do you see his grace?”

“no, my lady.” he leans down to say something else to kiera, but you do not hear the words, not until kiera repeats them close to your ear.

the noise has gotten louder, if possible. the crowd continues to cheer at the new knights as they are introduced and take their positions. you can hardly hear yourself think.

“ser donnel says his grace had an urgent matter to attend to in the castle. but he said father told us to enjoy the tourney and that he will return later.”

“an urgent matter? what urgent matter?”

“something with the council, no doubt,” matarys says, his voice reassuring. “now that all the lords are here, i am sure one evaded the tourney to request a private audience. father would not want us to remain inside bored and miss the first tilt.”

“oh,” you say quietly. he had said that he would try, but you suppose even he could not deny someone who approached him.

in fact, he would not deny someone. you know that very well. 

moreover, he wanted you to enjoy the tourney. you suppose it would have been more enjoyable by his side, but it is no matter now. 

(a memory rushes back to you as though you are the one who has been deprived of them—the tourney at ashford. aerion had been so cruel, targeting low to harm his opponent’s steed, and baelor had rushed to cover your eyes, but it had been to no avail. you had seen it before your husband brought his arm around you, but still, even the though of it is enough to—)

“my lady,” daella says to kiera, as you feel rhae tugging on your skirts. “who is that one?” 

your eyes scan the knights. you recognize colors and sigils. a darklyn and a rosby are set against each other, and you have a feeling the darklyn will win. lord baratheon is set against a knight of house caswell, you believe, when you look at the yellow centaur on his shield. there is a buckler further down, facing some house from the riverlands with a shield that you cannot quite make out.

and then you reach one that you cannot discern at all.

he dons an unpolished steel armor and a plain oaken shield banded with iron. there is nothing identifiable, and you are certain they did not announce a name, and yet—

“kiera? matarys? who is that?”

“ser donnel says a mystery knight has entered the lists,” matarys says, watching intently and sitting up straighter as though he might be able to see through the knight’s helmet.

“a mystery? how exciting,” daella adds.

“i think he calls himself evenstar, or evenfall. or perhaps evenhall. something like that, i did not quite catch it.”

“what?” you breathe, staring at the mystery knight yourself now. 

it is impossible to tell anything with his visor covering his face, with the crowd roaring in surprise, but, perhaps… it almost—

you almost think he is looking at you. 

“evenfall? he must be a stormlander, then,” you finally say quietly.

“one of lord baratheon’s men, no doubt,” kiera supplies.

who else would have the gall to enter as a mystery knight minutes before the tourney is set to begin? you are not well versed in your histories, but the word sounds familiar—the seat of house tarth or estermont. one of the two, though you are not sure which one.

it does not make much sense. 

the journey from tarth would not allow for a knight of the house to arrive in time for the tourney. and, if he was truly a knight of the house, he would wear its sigil proudly.

“why would a man enter as a mystery knight?” you question to matarys, since you and kiera do not have the answer.

“perhaps to defend one’s honor. one of the other knights may have insulted him. or perhaps to defend someone else. it may be a squire from the morrow’s lists, even.”

“i did not know that.”

“father has always said there is more honor in it. it is not for renown, like the others. take the dragonknight, for example. he competed as the knight of tears to crown queen naerys.”

you turn to look at matarys quickly, before your thoughts are interrupted by the trumpets as they burst into sound, as the competitors prepare themselves.

“let us see how our mystery knight fares, then,” kiera supplies with a smile.

you watch silently as it happens. valarr steadies himself, nodding to his grandparents and to kiera, showing off his ribbon as he takes his place. ser roland does the same, tipping his head as he passes his brothers in arms. 

lord lyonel meanders over to where of the crowd nearest to him. conveniently, where lady lannister is seated besides her niece. she rises, reaching over to tie her green ribbon around lord lyonel’s lance, before resuming her seat.

his opponent does not move from his position. 

your eyes search of their own accord, attempting to see if any of the other knights have shifted from their positions, watching with all the others to see which lady’s favor they will request.

“is that it? but some of these knights have no favor at all-” daella begins, turning to look at you with a combined expression of annoyance and disappointment, one she has mastered by copying her father. 

“do not speak so soon, daella,” kiera warns. 

your eyes are fixated on the tent—wondering if baelor might step out if his meeting ends. the only lord you can imagine would bother him while his son was set to compete is lord lannister, and you know the man can speak for ages—

your eyes move again, this time to lady lannister. 

she is beaming, no doubt planning a golden wedding with lord lyonel in her head. 

but she is speaking to her brother, seated beside her, meaning that he cannot be the one inside the keep with baelor now.

then who could it be, if not—

“princess,” matarys says. “princess.” 

“yes? i am sorry,” you say, feeling as kiera’s hand comes to yours.

“your grace, look.”

you hear daella gasp, and then whisper to rhae—it is the mystery knight! 

and for a moment, it seems as though the world stops spinning. 

the knight, in his plain armor, has positioned himself carefully near your seat. it seems as though the rest of the audience has gone quiet too, as he silently lifts his lance until it is resting against the barrier. 

“it would be an honor to wear the princess’s favor.” his voice is deep, and unfamiliar, no doubt deepened through the metal of his helmet. he still does not lift his visor, as all the others had done.

you suppose you cannot blame him—after all, he is a mystery knight.

and before your mind can dwell on it, before your fear and your nerves stop you, you feel your body rising. you move to the wooden balcony that separates the two of you. from here, you can look down at the knight clearly, at his chestnut brown steed and the shield that bares no sigil.

you release a shaky breath, bringing your small favor into your hands. they are not trembling, to your surprise. the petals of the flowers seem to glow in the sun, as you drop the circlet around the knight’s lance. it falls, resting midway. 

“i wish you luck, ser.”

the mystery knight does not say anything, bowing his head at you curtly before he rides away to claim his position. you catch carefully as he goes, not yet returned to your seat.

you can see it clearly now—his opponent’s sigil. he will be facing a dalt of house lemonwood. and without thinking about it, you hope the lemonwood knight is not impressive today. it is wrong to wish for any knight’s downfall, and yet—

“look, your grace,” daella says as you finally resume your seat. the noises of the crowd are still muffled, and you do not know what to think of it. you have never been asked for your favor before, but—

“it is a good thing father is not here to witness this,” kiera whispers to you.

you watch as the knight tilts his lance, capturing your favor in his hand. he tucks it safely into his armor, saving it from ending up in the dirt when he clashes with his rival.

you do not recognize the room instantly, and worse—your head is pounding. it aches all around, from the back of your skull to your temples, at an intensity that you can only describe as blistering.

not the sort one receives after indulging in their cups, or the kind after a restless night of sleep. this is something else entirely. 

you sigh, your body sinking into the mattress further. it is more comfortable than you recall, your limbs stretching for a moment with a satisfying burn, the shield of sleep still thick in your mind.

everything seems a little numb, still. the sounds of the world outside your window are fairly quiet, save for a few birds chirping. it must not be early enough—usually you can hear the thunderous ring of steel on steel, courtesy of your brother and whatever household knight he is sparring with to begin his day.

even the noises outside the door seem duller than normal. your mother’s solar is only a few steps away, and usually you can hear the chatter radiating from there when you wake. her and your sister, no doubt, the one that rises early every morning with your parents and makes you look bad in comparison.

it could not be your other sister, not anymore. she has been married for almost the length of a year, nearly expecting her first child now, and yet when you are tired, you can almost forget.

the feeling is rather sweet, you think tiredly, when you wake up too early and it feels as though you are still in a dream altogether. one where you are still a girl, waiting for your septa to come wake you, one where all your siblings still live in your home, where everyone is still together.

if you were not so fatigued, you might smile.

you turn your head towards the door slightly, eyes attempting to fixate on the location of the noise, or at least, where the noise would be coming from. it is surprisingly silent, you think, at least for your family’s home. you are all an awfully noisy bunch, and yet—

that is odd, you reflect for a moment, stirring to rub at your eyes. 

the door is not… in the correct place? you look to the right of you, where the entrance to your small room has always been, just besides the vanity where you ready yourself. your eyes turn quickly in each direction, looking for those familiar objects—the vanity, the mirror, the wardrobe.

this room is not your own.

you jolt up in bed, sitting up and bringing your knees to your chest, as if you might be able to defend yourself against your confusion somehow. 

the only word you can think to describe this room is… morose. 

nothing like your bedchamber at home, which is lively and full of sun and color. here, the curtains are almost completely shut, just the barest bit of light pouring in. the fireplace glows dimly but it does little to brighten it enough for you to make sense of where you truly are.

how could that be? how could you have fallen asleep at your home and woken up in an entirely new place?

you turn your head again, looking in the other direction for the door to this chamber. instead you find—

“seven hells-” you shout, scrambling to move yourself from your position under the covers. you push yourself to the other side of the bed, away from the stranger sitting in a chair besides you.

he had been asleep, you think, your own head throbbing even more painfully now from the sudden movement. he had been sitting, but his elbow was against the arm of the seat, leaning against it in his slumber. you think he was even snoring.

you could not make out a face, just a flash of light colored hair, and now—

fuck. he stares for a moment, both of you gone silent, as he blinks wide, lilac eyes at you. and you think for a moment, scanning his features, that he looks almost… relieved. 

that is most odd, given that you are anything but relieved. you frantically tug down the hem of your night gown, trying to cover yourself. when you look back at him, he is still silent. 

worse—he is staring at your exposed skin. you could almost gasp at the indignation of it if you were not so confused. a sound like a scoff almost escapes you—you thought princes were supposed to be chivalrous. 

“your… your grace?” you question, your voice coming out raspy. your throat feels sore, almost, as though you have not drank enough water in some time. suddenly, you feel parched. “uh… where am i?”

“i…” the prince—one of them, you imagine, though you do not know his name since it is your first time ever meeting one in person, like this—begins, before trailing off. “i am glad you are awake now.”

his voice is filled with a sincerity you do not completely understand. he speaks with a seriousness of tone, as though there was a possibility of you not awaking, somehow.

“as am i, your grace,” you reply, blinking at him slowly. “pardon me, but-”

“i will fetch the maester. lay back down,” he orders, and you furrow your brows in confusion. 

“maester?” you ask, as he begins to step towards the door. “no, i do not require the maester. can you please call for my mother and father?”

the prince freezes, his hand stopping mid-air as he reaches for the doorknob. he turns around slowly, his violet eyes meeting yours. you notice it then as his jaw tightens, clenching slightly.

relax, ser, you think bleakly and unfiltered, you do not have to go chase them down yourself. i need only a maid to find them—

“your mother and father?” he repeats. you think for a moment that you can hear his teeth grinding against each other.

“yes, your grace. are they not here with me?”

“why would they be here?” he sounds listless, as though you are burdening him with questions he does not want to answer.

“well, my brother then? they did not send me off alone, did they?” you ask, panic rising in your voice as he continues to look at you with that expression on his face. “a-and where am i, if i may ask? i do not recognize these chambers.”

“i am going to fetch the maester. you are in need of his services,” the prince says quietly, and you can no longer discern what emotions exactly lies behind his voice.

“i… i-” you begin, before faltering. you are not even sure what you intend to say. 

you stare at him for another moment, breathing heavily. you pull on the cotton sheets to try and cover yourself further.

his grace steps away from the door, walking towards you for a moment. he walks until he is at the edge of the bed, leaning forward to look at you. you shudder under the intensity of his gaze, realizing quickly that this is not—

the prince glowers down at you, his purple eyes locked on yours. his expression is mostly unreadable, but from this close, you can see him very clearly.

it is not light hair, nor blond. it is silver, just as the history books describe it. his hair gleams where the light catches it, pure argentine the longer you stare. you rake your eyes down slowly, to the lilac of his eyes and the pale lashes that he blinks at you.

then the curve of his nose, which you look at for far too long. it seems almost oddly… intimate to study him this way, but you cannot help yourself, not as you take in the pink of his lips and the scars that mark his cheeks.

he must be one of the king’s sons. there is no one else he could be. the crown prince is more dornish than valyrian, you know, so it cannot be him. one of the three others then. perhaps you should have paid attention more closely when your septa would teach you. or even to your father’s conversations at the dinner table. 

there always seemed something more important to think about. and well—

your thought is interrupted by him.

“what is it?” he demands, his face much closer to you now.

“i, uh,” you start quietly, blinking rapidly. “you should call for a chaperone, at least. this is not proper.” 

the prince shifts from concerned to exasperated.

“what is not proper?”

“well, us, of course. we cannot be alone in a room together,” you state plainly, confused why he is not understanding what you are saying.

are the dragon princes truly so high in the in-step that they do not remember any of the customs of society? just because he is royalty does not excuse him from requiring a maid or some guard to oversee the encounter. to make sure something untoward does not occur, the sort of thing that could ruin you.

gods above—the man was in here while you were asleep. how could that possibly be proper?

the prince brings his fingers to his face, pinching his nose, his fingers forming a fist when he finally brings them back down to his side. he looks frustrated, you think.

and he is not the only one. you pause, your mouth hanging open slightly, waiting for him to say something. 

“do you know who i am?” he demands again, the words lingering in the air for a moment before you nod slowly.

“of course. you are a prince.”

he blinks at you.

“i am… a prince? that is all?” his handsome face contorts into an entirely unpleasant expression.

you had not thought your forgetfulness would impact him so deeply. in fact, you cannot even remember ever being introduced to him.

he is not making a good first impression upon you. he cannot expect every lady of the kingdom to be able to tell him apart from his brothers on the first interaction? 

you try to think harder, but your head hurts deeply. there are only two silver-haired princes, you finally recall, because the other two have dark hair. 

but even of the two, you do not know which stands before you.

“i apologize, your grace,” you start. “my head is ailing me. if i am forgetting our introduction, then i am truly very sorry. i hope you will not judge me too harshly.”

the prince swallows, staring at you. he does not look pleased, not that he ever did.

in fact, he looks as the sort of man who might never be pleased, not about anything. lines of worry are seemingly permanently etched into his face, surrounding his eyes most notably. 

you suppose he must have many duties as a prince. children to take care of, surely. you do not know which of the targaryen brood belong to him, but you have seen them before. you think it was a tourney, but you cannot recall exactly now. there is only a few of them with that silver hair that your prince possesses.

those must be his sons, no? the ones possessing the hands and the lances that your younger sister was dying to get her prettily made favor into?

you look at him again, pushing away your thoughts. he sighs, his broad shoulders rising and falling for a moment beneath his doublet. 

“i will return with the maester and a chaperone.”

“thank you, your grace.” 

you move yourself back slightly, settling against the bed, sliding your legs under the covers again. he watches you as you move, and you suddenly feel warm at the realization.

when his hand reaches the handle, he pauses for a moment. you steal the opportunity before it evades you. 

“my prince?” you ask hesitantly. 

“yes?” 

is that… eagerness? in his voice? you blink, trying to decide if your mind is deceiving you. why would a prince be eager to speak with you, anyhow?

“can i ask for your name? i apologize again, i… i am having trouble remembering.”

the prince looks at you again, but it is unlike the other glances and gazes from just now. he stares intensely, his purple eyes boring through you, the feeling almost hot and fierce.

“maekar,” he says, though the word is strained. “i am maekar.”

oh. yes, you think, that makes sense. the one from the song.

“thank you, prince maekar.” 

you turn away, staring out the window of this strange room for a moment. you hear the prince sigh, and then he opens the door and steps outside.

once the door is shut, maekar waits. his head rushes with thoughts that he does not want to think about, and questions that he does not have answers for.

a servant boy walks towards him, no doubt to ask what he requires, but maekar has just lost the last of what remained of his patience.

“get the fucking maester,” he snaps, and the servant almost flinches.

“right away, your grace,” the boys, before hesitating for a moment. “-and what should i tell him?”

you had only ever heard loose tales as they traveled down the kingsroad and eventually landed at the mottled stone of your family’s home. 

tales of his arrogant father, the unworthy, they had begun whispering now that he was well in his grave. tales of his sweet, sad mother and his beautiful dornish wife.

you had never paid much attention when the topic of the royal family was brought up at tea. the steward’s wife would sit across from you, your aunt and cousin in the opposite chairs. you were invited even though they did not want you there because it was expected.

the steward’s wife was kind, though. she smiled at you and asked about you even when there was little space left for you to speak. she would inquire about the garden you had been working on when she remembered it. 

you try hard to recall something she had told your aunt about during one of those teas. you were not paying much attention, lost in thought about something that escapes you now. 

they had been speaking of the king and the rebels and regarding his retinue when something had loosely grasped your attention. something about—

“my good daughter,” king daeron bellows, and you are snapped away from your thoughts.

“your grace,” you say, dropping into a curtsy before you straighten yourself. you move your palms to the round curve of your belly, holding yourself there as you smile back at him.

you would think that it might be forced, but his grace has never been anything but kind. seeing him is not a burden, as it is with many others of the court.

in fact, his company has always been most welcome to you. his grace did not mind silence much, but he never left you to suffer when everyone else was speaking of a matter that you did not know much about.

such as when they reminisce on maekar’s trips to starfall when he was courting lady dyanna. they laugh and smile about the memory, their eyes fond and wistful. 

you had never met lady dyanna, so you had smiled politely and focused on your meal. you do not recall where baelor was, but you still did not know maekar well enough to comment on his dear wife. 

you had, at first, developed a tendency to go quite silent when you were near the royal family. it was almost habit, you remember thinking, wondering when you had decided that no one would notice if you did not speak a word for the duration of the meal.

you even recall a single, specific thought—it would all be better if baelor was there with you, seated across from you.

but in his absence, his father had stepped into the role. 

you must have looked like a fool with how surprised you were when his grace first addressed you. he asked questions of how you were finding the keep, which of  the ladies you had spoken with about joining as your company, and even if you felt the gardens here compared to your own.

it was perhaps then that you realized all that baelor had truly offered you when he proposed his suit. 

more than just a new life, more than just a new title. rather, a new family entirely.

one that remembers your likes and mislikes, one that does not desire for you to stay silent and invisible.

such a small gesture from his grace, and yet, you remember it like it was only yesterday. even now, when you look at the king, you can see all those qualities baelor has inherited from him.

in fact, that is what it was—what your aunt and the steward sometimes mulled over. how the crown prince looked nothing like the king, how he had clearly taken after his mother. 

and truthfully, just as you had told baelor during your very first meeting, it is a lovely thing to look like one’s mother, even if the rest of the world did not agree on the matter when it came to targaryens.

you can still hear the bitter words from your aunt in your head now.

but they would never know the truth, you now realize. 

the truth of their character, the truth of their quality. of baelor’s kindness when you were worried over what people of the court might think of you, what his family might think of you. of how the queen greeted you so graciously, of how she had taken you in as another one of her children. and the king, a figure from your histories and stories, is now your father-by-law who is eager to meet his next grandchild.

if you think about it for too long, you overwhelm your senses. their acceptance and love that you had tasted, even if only for a few months.

how will summerhall compare to this?

“princess?” his grace says, and you blink slowly, before meeting his gaze once again.

you wonder if he knows yet of your departure, but it is no matter. by the end of the tourney, you will be leaving with the other guests. his grace and the queen do not much leave king’s landing, you know. 

you wonder when he will get to meet the child named after his mother.

“yes, your grace?”

“i was only asking what you thought of our festivities? they have decorated the gardens quite beautifully, i hear,” king daeron says, and your expression falls into that familiar smile that is often present around him.

“i have no doubt of it,” you reply, though you are distracted. 

your body goes warm and flushed at the thought of the gardens—where you had last seen baelor.

you had thought you were being clever in your avoidance of him. the hours of his many meetings and appointments did not stray from day to day, and you kept your outings, few as they were, to those times he would be occupied.

it feels almost unnaturally cruel, a jape of sorts from the gods. avoiding your husband when there was a time not so long ago that you desired nothing more than his constant presence.

but, you tell yourself, this is not entirely your husband. 

he is not your baelor, not completely. and every moment you spend in his presence, your mind slips further and further into the sincerity behind his eyes, the familiarity of his touch, of his skin on yours.

in the gardens, he looked as though he did not want to leave.

but surely, that could not have been the truth. baelor has never shown you anything but kindness and sincerity. he does not want to hurt you, nor anyone. and after all, he did not fight you on the matter of your departure. if he was truly remembering, you think perhaps he might have.

you are not sure of anything anymore. the maester had said the early months of your pregnancy might lead to confusions of the mind, while your body focuses itself on growing the babe. 

if only you could—

“and i would have you review the list of guests, if you will. perhaps you might spot any omissions, as it were. you are much keener than my son in those matters,” his grace says.

you are being intolerably rude again, so lost in your thoughts that you have missed most of his words.

“yes, your grace. i am set to meet lady kiera this afternoon. i shall look over the list with her,” you reply, playing with your fingers again.

“and of course, we had one written for your aunt and uncle. the last time they visited king’s landing was for the wedding, no?”

in an instant, your heart sinks into the depths of your stomach. 

“oh,” you whisper, the sound breathy and quiet. “indeed, your grace.”

“yes, well, i am sure they will be glad to take the journey. another opportunity to see you, after all. i am certain-”

your mind takes you away for another moment, unwillingly. you watch as king daeron says something, but you cannot hear him. 

all you can think of is your aunt and uncle, here, in king’s landing.

you had last seen them the day after your wedding to baelor. their carriage had been waiting by the doors to the keep.

you are like a child chasing a lost dream. you thought and hoped, for a moment, that perhaps they might realize that they will indeed miss your company. that perhaps they were sad to part with you after all these years.

perhaps you should have remained hopeless.

you can still recall crying alone in your chambers after. baelor was away with the small council and you had been all alone, realizing that in the midst of the grandness of your new life, lived a small reality that had been difficult to fully accept.

proof that they truly did not care about you, the only family you had in this world. 

but when baelor returned to find you crying, when he comforted you… you knew you had gained a husband that cared for you tremendously. if anything, your only failure was not being able to accept his love as easily as he doled it unto you. 

and then when the king and queen welcomed you with open arms. when maekar began warming up to you, you finally knew that you had gained back a true family to replace the false.

but all of this, now, you think gravely. you had not so much as written to your aunt and uncle about your unborn babe or baelor’s accident. to have them here—

another thought strikes you suddenly.

if you leave for summerhall a moment before they depart, or if they perhaps have even an inkling of a suspicion that you are leaving and that your husband is staying behind, you know what will happen.

they will never stop speaking of it. 

you can imagine it now, just as it was before you had left for king’s landing for the first time. the way they gossip over tea and meals. they will whisper that you could not please the prince. that you were not enough for him, that all along they knew he was making a grave mistake in selecting you.

that he would come to regret it. 

had their words become the truth?

“father,” baelor says, and you almost jump at the sound of his calm, familiar voice somewhere behind you. for a moment you are so distraught that you do not even turn to look at him, trapped in your thoughts. “i shall oversee the invitation for my good-family.”

you blink, your eyes moving between the king and the prince for a moment. if possible, your heart sinks down further. they converse for a moment, words that sound like nothing to your ringing ears, until finally king daeron smiles at you before departing himself.

you turn to face baelor. 

“your grace, i-” you hesitate for a moment. 

he does not know the truth about them. he does not know—

“their invitation,” baelor begins, and your heart begins to beat faster, “will conveniently be left behind. misplaced by a servant, you see.”

oh. 

relief courses through your veins, a sensation akin to a cool breeze compared to the heat continuing to burning under your skin. your shoulders sink down, your heart ceases its endless pounding, and you stare at your husband. 

“but i-” you start to say something, but he interrupts you gently, his hand coming to your shoulder to steady you.

“the maids will recover it a few days after the tourney has ended. then i will write them a missive myself explaining the mishap.”

“baelor,” you breathe, your eyes prickling with hot, unshed tears.

“you see, my wife, they will have no one to blame but me.” 

baelor picks up the list of guests from the surface of the desk that his grace had left behind, the one you were meant to review with kiera. 

“you do not have to,” you whisper, reaching for the paper yourself. “they will be so upset if they feel slighted.” 

your words are dejected, but they are the truth. 

you would hate for baelor to have to absorb to brunt of their ire, since you have no way of telling how they will behave now that they can consider the crown prince a part of their family. 

odd, given that they never considered you—

“do not think of it for a moment longer. i shall see to it,” baelor says, folding up the parchment and tucking it into the pocket of his doublet. 

you stare again, wide-eyed and breathless, wondering how he could have recalled this so quickly. was it also learned from maekar? 

but how could maekar know, unless baelor had told him some time ago? it did not entirely make sense, and yet—

baelor takes your hands into his, the skin of his fingers hardened by years of wielding the sword, but still so surprisingly gentle with you. his tenderness never fails to make your knees weaken. 

you must be trembling, you think, under the depth of his eyes on you, of the unsaid words that linger between the two of you. 

he brings your hands up, close enough until he can press the softness of his lips onto the back of your hands. 

your heart skips a beat, as though it is the first time he has touched you all over again.

part ii.

you and kiera have always shared a common mislike of the ladies of the court.

well, it is not truly a misliking. you would have to know them somewhat in order to make that decision. 

indeed, you have not hosted enough gatherings and teas to attempt to win them over.

it is truthfully more your fault than theirs—it is expected of a prince’s wife to select ladies in waiting. it is expected to host them and exchange idle gossip and make them feel as though they have your favor and to reassure yourself that you, in turn, have theirs.

their husbands expect it. they expect it. 

there is an underlying web of politics to the entire construct that you have never much been able to make sense of. 

it just seemed so… wrong. 

wrong to waste your newly found freedom with highborn ladies from great houses who you had such little in common with. 

indeed, that time felt so much better spent in baelor’s company, or getting to know your new family. you could spend an entire evening in the presence of maekar’s children and not grow bored or tired for a single moment.

not when aegon had a hundred new stories to chatter on about, or the girls had a new toy or dress to show off. they would run around and entertain themselves and you in the process, whilst you gave their septa a much needed break. 

you dreamed of the day when the youngest of his brood would begin to think of you as more of an aunt and less of their uncle’s new wife. and it seemed that day was not so far away before all of this. 

but in all that time, you had not yet developed the relationships you were supposed to with the members of the royal court.

it is not only your fault. baelor seemed to care little of it, as well. you recall bringing the matter to his attention one day, asking him when it was proper to host a luncheon or a tea to get to know them.

your face flushes and grows hot at the memory. you remember it as clear as day—the two of you had been naked. you were wrapped in his arms and covered only by the silks of his bedding while you listened to the steady heartbeat of your husband beneath you.

you interrupted the sweet silence of the two of you catching your breath to ask about it. 

and you know now that you were much more naive then, even if it had only been a few months ago. your face must have contorted with worry, and you must have chewed on your cheek or bit your lip or some other sign that made it so obvious to baelor that the matter was concerning you, making you anxious.

so baelor had done what he always did—dismissed it from your mind entirely. he convinced you not to think of it and had you focus instead on the kisses he littered on the back of your neck and the feel of his hands gripping your waist.

even now, the memory is enough to make your heart begin to race.

more than that—you had listened to him instantly. you forgot of your commitment to the court and focused instead on your reinvigorated mission to see what else you could convince your husband to do. 

the matter had been dropped from your mind then, and you had preferred to keep it that way. 

you wrinkle your nose at the thought—it is mostly his fault, after all. if he remembered it, you would go and chastise him for it now. 

at every turn, baelor would bring his hands to your face and cup you between them, kissing your head and telling you that the ladies of the court will wait until he is ready to give up his time with you.

the very thought brings a smile to your face, until you feel sadness spreading slowly. you blink, trying to set the memory aside. 

the baelor with you now does not remember those instances, nor would he want to be left with an abundance of questions from the court once your departure is noticed.

thus, you had made a new plan with kiera. 

indeed, a part of your reluctance to greet them had been due to their treatment of your step-son’s wife. she had been at court longer than you, a great deal longer, ever since her family had arrived to celebrate some new trade deal that had been arranged between the east and the west.

it was then that her match with valarr had been arranged—meaning that the ladies of the court had plenty of time to meet with her, to get to know her. after all, she would be their queen one day. 

but you know from your time with kiera that such an invitation had never come for her. it seemed that the court had made up their mind about lady kiera, and in truth, you knew it meant they had made up their mind about you as well.

but you were not stupid enough to believe it was for no reason at all.

of everything your aunt had told after your betrothal to the prince had been decided, one part in particular had stuck with you firmly.

that the ladies of the court would not accept you willingly or openly, not when you had stolen the chance of a match with the prince out from under their noses.

indeed you knew you had not stolen anything. you and baelor were blessed—or rather had been blessed—with a true love match. but the first time you were introduced to the court, you could discern their displeasure before they had even opened their mouths, from their glares alone. 

there had been a small event following your first introduction to court, hosted by the queen. and though you had tried, you knew your efforts would bear no fruits. 

there was little space left for you to speak when the queen was otherwise engaged, little that they wanted to know about you once they learned what house you hailed from. 

they were clever too, particularly their cunning leaders. whenever a royal family member appeared, the ladies doled their attention on you, and it would dissipate as soon as their gazes moved elsewhere.

you had imagined that the court was a nest of vipers. in truth, it was much more. thorny roses and sharp-toothed lions walking ahead of the snakes.

it had been so easy to decide to greet kiera alone most days, almost too easy to prefer the company of the queen and her carefully selected brigade and your new nephews and nieces rather than making another attempt to acquaint yourself with people who already decided they did not like you.

you felt you had already suffered through enough of that. 

your plan had worked well thus far, at least.

you had feigned illness once, accompanied baelor on a trip to dragonstone another time, and then conspired with kiera to claim that she was ill and that you did not wish to host a gathering without her.

and it had all worked well enough. until now, that is. 

you are faced with an issue. you cannot leave for summerhall without even greeting the ladies of the court once since your last encounter. the rumors will gather all on their own, you know well enough, if you leave it up to chance.

at least this way you might plant the seed, whisper of your desire to visit summerhall to the person seated near you, discuss that maekar’s young children grow restless in their desire to visit their other home. 

kiera had even told you to suggest that she and valarr will visit in the coming weeks, when the summer heat grew too tiresome to bear from the red keep. 

it would not seem so suspicious, you decided. 

(another part of you swells with fear, with worry. that you are making the wrong decision. that they will see through you in an instant, that they will know the truth—that your husband does not know you or love you, despite what he says. 

that he will be alone here, perhaps even looking for someone else to fill his days, someone of his choosing. the ladies of the court that he has know for years, the families of which serve on his small council. ladies of great houses who were bred for the position that you now cower away from, a position that was never meant to be yours. 

you—the wife of a crown prince. the thought has been ridiculous since the day you arrived here. it seems that every one else, save for you, already knew that. and now it has all led to this outcome, running away from the life you had just begun to embrace. despite what he says, you know the truth. you remind yourself of that simple truth over and over again, and then you set it aside.)

lady lannister is a great deal more frightening than you recall.

she is the sister of lord lannister, the one who serves on the king’s small council. you recall multiple instances where baelor had returned from a meeting complaining of something he had said, some foolish comment or some offer he was adamant on getting approved.

indeed, it seems both brother and sister are quite determined to get the outcome they desire.

lenore flashes her sharp green eyes at you when you arrive to the afternoon tea you had—quite begrudgingly—finally organized. 

the maids are still arranging the flower decorations—white lilies and yellow roses, a collection of your favorite colors, since there were not enough of your favorite flower to decorate with—that resemble the gown you are wearing today.

you seem to be matching both lenore and her niece. jeyne is a young, pretty girl, younger than kiera, you know. the one time you had conversed with her, she had been perfectly polite, and not nearly as daunting as her aunt.

jeyne had been amiable, but once her family surrounded her, you noticed the air shift with indifference. her eyes narrowed, her tongue sharpened, and whatever mildly pleasant conversation you had been engaging in with her about the recent weather had come to a quick halt.

today, they are both dressed in a rich yellow, lannister gold, you think off-puttingly. their matching golden hair is piled up on their heads with jewels, as if they had readied themselves for a feast instead of your afternoon tea. 

“your grace,” lenore says, and you feel your spine stiffen. the words sound unnatural coming from her mouth—she was one of the many who had called you my lady and somehow managed to make it sound like an insult. 

at least, until baelor had begun enforcing the new title for you. back when he knew you enough to do so—

“-we were not expecting you so early. i am glad to see that you are well,” she says, her emerald eyes flickering to your belly for a moment.

even her words are double-edged. she means she did not expect you at all, and likely astonished you did not feign another illness to avoid the encounter altogether.

one small tea, you tell yourself, how long could it last? after this i will not see any of these ladies again for many moons. naerys will be here by then, and i shall require no other company save for her.

“thank you, my lady,” you reply, settling yourself at the seat at the head of the table. 

you can feel the intensity of their gaze on you, waiting for you to say something, anything, to acknowledge them, to give lenore another reason to begin talking. 

she is somewhat of the ruler of these circles, you had previously gathered. whatever she agreed upon seemed to slowly become the opinion of all other ladies.

and now, she waited to form her next opinion of you. 

it made sense, after all—she is from a great house with an enormous amount of influence. she had been widowed young, and without any children. you believe her older brother now sits as lord of casterly rock, and the younger serves the king here.

more than that, she is shrewd. she disarms the other ladies and leaves it so that everyone is scrambling to remain in her good graces. one of queen myriah’s ladies had tried to help you understand the hierarchy within the ladies of the court one day, aiming to try and help you recover the place a prince’s wife should occupy.

all you had taken away from the conversation was a headache.

you close your eyes for a moment and take a deep breath. 

you cannot let these ladies frighten you so—not when you have faced far more formidable opponents than them in your life. a tea with your aunt would no doubt set lenore straight, you know, the thought enough to almost make you laugh.

but your laughter dies in your throat as another thought trickles in.

had they treated jena this way? 

had they watched her with narrow eyes, wondered why the crown had chosen her instead of one among their ranks? had they laughed behind her back or poked fun at the standing of her house?

jena was a daughter of the marches. she was descended from a proud, noble lineage that spans back generations, born of a blood that does not fear what women like lady lannister have to say about her.

you wonder for a moment how jena would have approached the court if she had been in your position. in your mind, she was far too perfect to ever make the mistakes that you had already made. she would not have feared meeting them, would not have made excuses to avoid gatherings and stayed in the comfort her husband provided.

no, you think. she would have been keenly smart about it, arranging meetings on her schedule and separating the women into more manageable sizes. she would have made sense of the political schemes that brewed in the women’s quarters, would have made sure that both she and baelor profited from this spider’s web that she had access to.

and what have you done all this time? ran away and hidden yourself, like a scared child.

“my—pardon me. your grace?” lady lannister repeats, and you blink, turning to stare at her and her niece. you do not know what she said before.

“my apologies, lady lenore,” you say, hoping to remind her for a final time that her name is preceded with lady and your name is preceded with princess. “i was merely lost in thought. we have so much to prepare for this upcoming tourney, as i am sure you have heard.”

lenore smiles at you, though you are certain she has taken away her own interpretation of your words.

“of course, it is most demanding, as i well remember. the other ladies and i certainly appreciate you finally finding time to host us all. don’t we, jeyne?” 

her niece nods, and you smile at them both, blinking fast at the slight. finally. 

you almost groan out loud. she is much more well-versed in this than you are. you cannot even find it in you to be impolite to the maids you overheard gossiping about you, comparing you to jena.

the thoughts clutter your mind again. perhaps it will all be a great deal quieter at summerhall, nothing but the cool breeze and the distant chatter of maekar’s children playing in the other chambers. no court, no ladies, no one to think of besides your daughter.

your heart feels as though it is being torn in half, all by your own doing. no baelor. 

the room fills slowly, ladies appearing and taking their seats. they curtsy upon seeing you, and then they mingle and chat easily, since they are always in each other’s company.

in this room, you are the odd one out. 

kiera was not yet feeling well enough to accept the invitation, and you feel dread seeping into your bones with the knowledge that the one companion you found comfort in would not be joining you today.

it is no matter. you smile at the lady next to you, lady mallister, you recognize. she wears a deep purple gown with a silver chain, the colors of her house. 

“and how is lord mallister? has he yet returned from his journey to seagard?” you ask, and lady mallister smiles brightly at you. 

“yes, your grace, he is well. his letters state he should arrive in the next few days.”

“that is good to hear, my lady. i do hope he will be able to join us for the tourney.”

“indeed, your grace.” 

you feel a familiar rush of nerves possess you, that awful feeling when you want to say something else, but your mind does not want to allow it. 

if you remember correctly, her husband was particularly fond of jousting, a champion of several tourneys held in the riverlands before he arrived to king’s landing as the king’s lord of ships.

you should bring it up. and then that feeling trickles in—what if you are wrong? what if you are thinking of another lord? lady mallister will forever think of you as the girl trying to play the role of a princess, confusing the men who serve your husband.

you take another deep breath. something baelor once told you comes to your mind—every time he noticed you worrying like this over some small thing. 

“i imagine it serves as a reminder of his own victories at the lists. joyful memories, no doubt,” you say, blinking patiently as you await her response.

lady mallister smiles at you brightly.

“yes, your grace. and we were first introduced at the tourney in riverrun, for lord tully’s grandson. how kind of you to remember,” she says, and you beam back at her, returning her smile.

“of course, my lady. i-”

“apples,” lady lenore says, as the maids bring out the plates of fruits and cheese. “a favorite of yours, your grace?”

“uh, i… i suppose,” you say, taken aback for a moment. you had not thought of it much. you had only been planning for this tea for a short while, and even then, you had not thought it needed anything extravagant. 

you had asked for your favorite fruits alongside the apples, but the maids had told you they could not accommodate your requests on such short notice. it had not seemed a matter of any importance at the time, and you had told them to serve whatever seemed best for these events.

“oh, well that is nice,” she says. your expression remains confused until she continues. “it is always important to reconnect with our lower classes. and eat as the common folk would.”

you feel your face burn at her words. lady lannister smiles like a vindictive woman, a woman scorned who has still come out on top.

you already know why she despises you so.

lord lannister had offered her widowed hand to both baelor and maekar twice over. they had not accepted, and instead baelor had one day appeared with you, and now you are paying the price of her humiliation. 

it all rings true in your head, you think, everything you had been told before coming to king’s landing. that you do not do well with such great amounts of people. that you do not know how to handle the ladies of the court. 

you cannot even organize a simple tea properly, the way it is meant to be done. teas at your home consisted of four or five women, and you would scramble away as soon as you were excused.

dazed, you wonder what the steward’s wife must think when she gazes on your empty seat in the solar.

that you might have been better off denying his grace’s request for your hand when he had asked, that you would never have fit into this life.

perhaps even that—

“you will have to excuse me, my ladies,” you hear baelor’s voice cut through the noise of the laughter and chatter that fills the room. your eyes lift from staring at your tea cup to the doors, which are open now, your husband standing between them.

“your grace,” they echo, each rising to curtsy as he makes his way to the head of the table, where you are seated.

you are surprised that he is here, the expression painted all over your features, no doubt obvious to them all. you do not rise, keeping your hand on the curve of your stomach where you feel naerys move around inside of you. 

perhaps it is her father’s voice calling to her.

“your grace,” you say quietly, as he stands by your chair. baelor places one of his hands on the back of your chair, and the other one moves away from behind him, revealing to you a bouquet of flowers.

yellow and white flowers, lovely and freshly bloomed, wrapped with a ribbon.

your eyes move from him, to his hand, and back to him all in an instant.

“i hope you can forgive my intrusion. i had to make a very important delivery.”

you hear quiet murmurs fill the space—the ladies whispering to each other of the dashing prince. baelor is dressed as handsomely as usual today, though it feels even more… overwhelming than usual.

he dons a dark doublet with red sewn into the cloth. his beard seems freshly groomed, and he smells as he often does—that comforting scent you are so drawn to, leather and parchment and amber. he must have been working in his study this morning.

meaning that he interrupted his work for this—

“you did not need to do that,” you say, though it is mostly to yourself, accepting the flowers. you stare at them, pausing for a moment.

these are no ordinary flowers. they are your favorite ones, the ones you had grown yourself in the garden of your childhood home. they are not quite the evening stars from the garden, but rather a hybrid of two different plants you had created yourself.

you turn your eyes instantly, meeting baelor’s mismatched gaze. he looks down at you from his position, his hand moving from the back of the chair to your shoulder.

gods above—all you do recently is cry. you have heard it is one of those unfortunate effects of child-bearing, but this suddenly feels as though it is unrelated.

you do not think maekar could have recalled the flowers you grew in your garden before your marriage. not when he had never stepped foot in that garden himself.

no, this must be something recovered from baelor’s lost memories. his memories of you, and that—

you turn again as the door opens once more, a few other servants pouring into the room. they carry trays of fruits and sweets. you do not know what exactly they carry until they rest a plate in front of you.

pomegranates and apple cakes.

you had asked for them. they had told you of the delivery from the reach had been delayed due to a bout of bad weather in the west. you recall the conversation even now—because the maid looked as though she was frightened you might yell at her. 

you think she must have only recently began working in the kitchens. you do not have it in you to yell at anyone, least of all a maid who does not possess the control of the conditions of the kingsroad and the rain. 

if you did, then perhaps you might have set the ladies of the court in order when they excluded your step-son’s wife. perhaps you would have confronted themself to stop whispering about the children she has lost and stop spreading rumors in your court.

it had been a small thing, not having the fruits and desserts you desired for the tea. such a small thing that you had set it aside in your mind. 

but this feels different altogether. the flowers that remind you of home, the fruit you used to eat every day, the applecakes you indulged in with baelor after a long dinner with his family. 

the thought feels silly. when you used to kiss him after, his mouth tasted like apples and honey—

“baelor,” you begin, but he interrupts you.

“i had it arranged,” he says, quietly. and then louder— “it is unfortunate that we have not been able to host the court properly yet. i thought they should have your favorites for the first event.”

part iii.

baelor believes his plan is going sufficiently well thus far.

despite whatever is still missing from his mind, he would not need all of the knowledge back to know that the subject of your family is a sensitive one. 

certainly, it is a great dealer easier now that he knows why. their behavior towards you is indifferent at best and cruel at its worst. 

there are a few things now that he knows for certain.

baelor’s hand inadvertently clenches into a fist when he thinks of the regained memory for too long. 

the almost casual way your aunt dismisses your despoilment, as if it means nothing to them. as though your safety and virtue is of no use to them, only a bargaining tool to get them what they truly desire—a match with his family.

it is almost humorous to imagine how they must have felt when you accepted his offer for your hand. they must have been enraged it was you over their own daughter, but then he has to stop for a moment.

had they mistreated you in the time between the betrothal and your arrival to king’s landing? how would baelor have known of that matter if you had not confided in him? 

had you confided in him? was it forever lost to him now, everything that you might have told him about your family and your childhood, each part of your soul that you bared to him in the few months of marriage the two of you enjoyed together?

he does not know yet. 

in truth, it would not have taken his recovered memory to determine that the presence of your family for the duration of the tourney would have only served to worsen your condition. 

even a fool such as he might have made sense of it with the way your entire body tenses up at the very mention of their names.

his father had requested his presence to ensure that the remaining tasks for the tourney and the feast were properly arranged. small things, here and there, trying to acquaint him once more with the responsibilities from before the accident.

it is no use trying to explain to anyone that most of his memories have returned—just not the ones that he desires to gain back the most. instead he keeps quiet, nodding and completing tasks as they were assigned.

a bitter voice rattles through his mind. it is not as though you have anything better to spend your time on, it reminds him. 

with his wife preparing for her departure with his brother. 

it is selfish and unfair, he knows, to think of the situation so plainly. he does not know what you have been through, not fully, and likely, he never will. 

maekar has stood by you this entire time—since the moment baelor fell into sleep. no doubt, you have begun to prefer his company in ways. his brother has been able to comfort you where baelor failed, has brought you peace where he has only brought strife and grief. 

and though the idea of you leaving on that carriage for summerhall with maekar riding outside, his brother’s children inside and his child growing in your belly, he knows there is no one to fault besides himself.

but he will be damned if he does not at least try.

his father’s note had asked him to review the guests for the tourney. baelor’s eyes raked through the names quickly, wanting to part ways with the task, when he noticed your family’s name in the list.

then he took his quill and scratched it out. 

and now, watching from the doorway as his father spoke with you gently about your family, he felt that familiar sense of accomplishment rush through him.

the pride of a husband, that knows his wife better than others around him. the way his father cannot discern that you are terribly anxious at the mere mention of your aunt and uncle. that the very idea of them visiting is enough to make you sink to the ground.

he knows. your husband knows.

and yet, when his father departs and you turn to look towards him with those bright, shining eyes, full of gratitude and relief, all he can think of is the gods.

they are as cruel as they are fair. to have such a lovely creature looking at him like this, even despite all that he has put you through. 

the touch of your skin is a prayer in and of itself. 

baelor kisses your hand and watches as the kingsguard escorts you back to your chambers so that you may rest easily without the fear of your family arriving in the next few days. 

he should have taken you himself, but you requested distance, and he will not force you into his company until you are ready.

(his heart sings with joy when you turn back around to glance at him before you turn the corner, only to find him already staring in your direction.)

such a small task—a bit of spilled ink and an invitation hidden beneath the parchment of his study—and it has alleviated so much from your mind. 

what else could he do besides search for other ways to calm you?

baelor had waited by your closed chamber door for a few minutes after you had gone inside, wondering if he should enter yet. 

and it was there that he ran into your maid. the very one who informed him of the tea you have been planning with women of the court. 

from there, it had been an easy task to think to the next step in his plan. in these last few weeks at court, he had not heard of you planning to meet with anyone except for kiera and his family. it could only mean that you were now arranging this tea in anticipation of your departure from the red keep.

and that also meant there must have been some reason you had not organized teas with them already.

and baelor already knows that reason. 

he does not need any memories to place it, either. it was well-known to him that lord lannister had wanted his widowed sister’s hand for baelor and his niece’s hand for one of the young princes for some time now.

except there was a difference between the brother and sister. 

lord lannister thought he had a heavy hand in the interworking of the small council and their decisions, though only because the king allowed him to live in that false belief. 

his sister, on the other hand, had a very real influence over the ladies of the court, and it would remain that way until she one day married again.

hopefully, baelor thinks, somewhere far, far, away, where he will never have to deal with her presence again. 

but the problem at hand is that you will be dealing with her presence shortly. the very one that overshadows all others in the room, that speaks over the royal family and adamantly pushes her own agenda.

he decided the only way to silence lady lannister is to give the rest of the ladies in the room something else to talk about.

namely, him and you. 

the process was not born entirely naturally. he found that maid of yours, asking innocent questions about your preferences until he came to the understanding that you would not even have the comfort of your favorites at this tea that you are dreading. 

it had not taken much to arrange for it, not when he insisted on it. and he knew that the sweet, surprised expression on your face would be well worth the effort, even if it had not been easy.

something in him knew. knew that you would smile at him, your eyes wide with disbelief that he would have gone to this length, or rather any length, for you. 

when he departs, the ladies are whispering of the fine pair the two of you make. lady lannister is as red as her emblem. 

in the evening, baelor finds himself pacing in his bedchamber before he finally gives in and makes his way to your chambers. it is not a decision made of a sound mind, but recently he has been afforded little time to speak with you.

the hour is not so late that it is improper to seek your company for a moment. when he knocks on the door to your chamber, it is a moment before you answer.

just as he is about to knock again, it swings open. 

he is greeted by the sight of your maid. the girl looks puzzled, almost, that baelor is there, and both tries and fails to conceal her expression.

“your grace,” she says, dropping her head for a moment. “her grace is still-”

she does not need to finish her sentence. he looks beyond your maid into your chambers, where he can see candles lit, illuminating the space well. there is a robe and a towel set out, and a partition that must be hiding the copper tub from his vision.

“would you like me to inform her that you are here?” she asks, and baelor sighs, wondering when he had begun to feel like such a green boy again.

it all seems to melt away when he is too close to you. even from this distance, still standing outside the chambers, that lovely scent wafts towards him. it must be your soap then, he finally decides, distracted for another moment.

if could only close his eyes and breathe it in—

“your grace?” the girl repeats, and he opens his eyes in an instant. just as he is about to respond, he hears it. 

he hears you.

“you may send him in, lyra,” you say, your voice muffled from behind the partition.

lyra steps aside and steps out. she shuts the door from the outside once baelor steps in.

the embers of the fire burn slowly, the entire room thick with the fragrance of that sweet scent in the air. baelor steps closer to you and it only grows stronger.

perhaps this is what his efforts have been leading to. a moment in your presence that does not bear the mark of these past few moons. as close to absolution as he can get for now.

it does not seem as though he has to think about it. 

baelor sinks to his knees, at the same level as the tub, meeting your enchanting eyes. they almost glow at him while you wear that expression that you often do, a gentle daze, as though nothing he does is what you expect.

but this feels like what he would have done before. so much so that he might even term it a memory of his muscles, something he does not have to ponder over.

it is only natural.

you look much at peace in the tub. soft foamy bubbles cover you to your collarbone, but still he sees his ring hanging around your neck, resting just above the valley of your breasts. 

“i am sorry,” you say, and he wishes that you would not apologize so often. “it is intolerably hot and she is restless.”

“as little dragons often are.”

you smile tenderly. baelor swallows as his heart thuds in his chest.

you must be tired, likely worn out from the events of the day. even after he left, he knows your tea with the ladies might have continued for several hours, if it had gone how you hoped.

and something in him stirs restlessly—you look so… at peace, for once. 

your head resting against a cushion along the edge of the tub, your hair tied up so it would not get wet. loose strands frame your face, damp where they touch your flesh.

and under the soap, he thinks, is that soft skin he has so missed. the curve of your stomach where his daughter grows inside of you. what he would give to hold you there again, to cradle the two of you, to keep you both safe.

as is his job as your husband. as naerys’ father. 

“and do not apologize to me. how are you faring?” he continues after a moment. you blink up at him before returning your gaze to your hand, which plays with the bubbles. his betrothal ring adorns your finger, the red stone glimmering in the candlelight.

“better now. thank you for today,” you say quietly, meeting his eyes once again. “you did not have to-”

“but i wanted to.” 

you smile again, your soapy hand hanging off the side of the tub for a moment. he does not hesitate this time, taking your hand into his, holding it until he feels you relax yourself completely in his touch.

“it was not so bad as i thought,” you continue with a quiet laugh. “lady mallister was very kind to me. perhaps i should not have delayed it for so long.”

“i am glad to hear it. did anyone give you any difficulty?"

“i had thought lady lenore would, but she was very quiet after you left. you should have seen the look on her face. she was as surprised as i was, i think,” you giggle, tilting your head back until he can see the column of your neck clearly.

he resists the urge to press his lips there, instead holding onto your fingers a little more tightly.

is this what he has deprived himself of these last moons? the presence of your company, easy and gentle as you converse about your day and while you soak to give yourself some relief from the heat?

baelor shuts his eyes, wondering what could have possessed him to ever risk returning to this life for even a moment. 

he looks away for a moment, to the vanity behind you where your towel rests. the flowers he brought you today rest there in a vase now.

“baelor?” you say softly, his attention moving from his thoughts to you quickly. 

you look at him without any anger, without any disappointment. without any expectation, either. as though you are only happy for his company and that he is besides you.

that look in your eyes and the scent of your soap, flowers and something else in the air…

his mind takes him away for a moment.

another time, a bath just like this one. except it had been warm water, without quite so many suds. it had smelled lovely then too, though he wasn’t sure if it was the soaps and the oils or rather the scent of your clean, wet skin.

as though it was only moments ago, he can imagine it so vividly. your back against his chest, the two of you squeezing into the small space together.

but somehow, it had never felt crowded. it had been just the perfect amount of room, your bodies molded together. his hands rested on your waist now but they had just been on your arms and legs, helping your wash your skin.

you laid against him, your eyes shut while you sighed in content, and however wrong it is, the urge consumes him quickly and hotly. 

so much so that he cannot let you rest any longer, even though you deserve it. a day full of introductions and greetings with countless lords and ladies.

the two of you needed this. only a few days into marriage and yet there is no world he can imagine without you by his side to face all that which is required of him.

even today—the conversation was entirely more bearable. the food tasted better, the company of those who frequently annoyed him much more tolerable. 

and you had been very brave, he thinks, because he knows you do not much like many new people and faces all at once. it would be overwhelming for anyone, but you had handled it with such grace.

yes, he thinks, moving some of your damp hair away from your neck so he can place his lips there, you will make a fine queen one day. 

you make a small, sweet noise, mostly shock, he imagines at the sensation. but he does not stop, tracing hot, wet kisses down your neck and onto your shoulder. his hands squeeze around your waist, your flesh soft under his grip, and it is not long before the sound of your sighs turn into moans that fill the chamber. 

before he can make sense of it you are turned around, facing him while you press your palms against his chest. he is guiding you, two hands on your hips creating your movements while he focuses on your pretty face contorting with pleasure.

the water is warm and wet and yet you are somehow both warmer and wetter. the feeling of your cunt squeezing him submerges him completely, as though his head is being held underwater, and then—

“sweet girl,” he rasps, the sound drowned out as the water sloshes around your melded bodies.

you move of your own accord, taking your hands and clasping them over his. you intertwine your fingers with his, but you take control of the motions, rocking back and forth while he watches, some sort of goddess of love before his very own eyes.

it was only meant to be a bath.

“baelor?” you repeat, and he blinks, meeting your eyes again. 

his skin is flushed and warm, the tips of his ears gone red, he knows, as your eyes focus on them for a moment before meeting his gaze again. suddenly the heat is suffocating and his breeches are—

“your memories chose odd times to return,” you comment, leaning your head back slightly. 

he thinks you must be tired, that barrier you have been trying so hard to uphold slipping away for a moment. the way you speak calmly makes him think this is how it used to be. 

you do not let go of his hand. it feels like another lifetime to him.

baelor clears his throat.

“i cannot help it. it is always something about you that triggers them. today it is…” he trails off, not wanting to admit the details of that specific memory. “something in the air, perhaps.”

“i remember,” you supply, smiling slightly, your eyes perhaps wistful at the thought as well. “i suppose i believe that you would not have told maekar about that.”

“i… i know i should not have lied,” baelor says, “i wrongly believed it was in earnest. i…”

“it is alright,” you say, the water moving quietly as you move your other hand to rest on your stomach. “you should not trouble yourself about it.”

that shell he is so familiar with begins to return. your voice grows softer, your words saying that which you believe he should like to hear rather than what you truly feel.

can you not see, princess, that i know the truth now?

baelor thinks for a moment that he should try harder. perhaps even attempt to push you further, to get you to see that there will be no more lies. that these past days have only been filled with an attempt to show you how much he cares for you, even if you do not yet completely believe it.

but he stops himself.

he knows what happens when he pushes you too quickly. he cannot recall it now, but there is a memory that warns him of it. his soul knows even that which his mind has forgotten.

“thank you for…” you start quietly, your fingers soft against his now. he knows you will pull away soon. “i meant to seek you out earlier but i became distracted. i thought the water would calm her first.”

“you do not have to thank me,” baelor replies. you smile at him for a moment. it feels as though he is living in one of his recollections for a moment.

“but you did not have to. and i still do not know how you found the fruits on such short notice.”

“that is the benefit of being a prince, i suppose.”

you laugh and the lovely sound of it rings through his mind over and over again. if only he could bottle a sound, he thinks, and be drunk off it. 

“it meant a great deal to me,” you finally finish, just above a whisper. he meets your eyes, which are watery again. “thank you for trying to help me even though i am leaving.”

the words are a dagger.

“of course. you are still my wife, whether you are here or at summerhall.”

your smile dims slightly, but you blink, trying to force your expression not to reveal what you are thinking.

and baelor knows that there is so much that remains unspoken. even when finally let go of his hand, even when he smiles at you for one final time before departing.

one step closer, though it seems there are still a thousand leagues ahead of him, and only a few days until you depart.