The Misquoted Chronicles

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The silver bracelet your husband gave you felt cold against your skin, a circle of braided Valyrian steel that bit slightly into your wrist as you toyed with it. You turned the metal obsessively. He should be back any second now. You watched the shadows stretch across the floor, long and distorted like the necks of the dragons your family no longer flew.

You had wedded your Baelor on a stormy night much like this one, an evening where the very atmosphere felt thick with the scent of ozone and unspent lightning. The ground of King's Landing had been a slurry of mud and anticipation, yet you walked through it with the poise expected of Rhaegal’s daughter. You didn’t know at the time how he would be like, as you didn’t interact or see him much. You thought he would be prideful or cruel, though all your fears were for nought, Baelor was kind and just. He was a prince worthy of song and praise, when he will take the Iron Throne with you by his side there will be no other like him. 

King Daeron had been the architect of your union, driven by a feverish desire to "strengthen the Blood of the Dragon" against the rising tide of outside influence. He had beamed at the wedding feast, his smile widening into a triumphant grin when you announced your pregnancy a mere two months later. "The seed is strong," the King had declared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. He spoke of a future where the dragons would return, lured back by the purity of your line. In his old age he became adamant on the fact that the intermatching of the Targaryen’s blood with the noble houses of Westeros weakened you, made you unworthy of your flying companions and beasts of magic, though you knew better. You knew that the only reason the House of the Dragon was no longer aided by them was because of your pride. Pride and foolishness. Many dragon eggs laid under your grandfather’s watchful eyes, none would hatch. No matter how many nights you prayed, no matter how many tries of bathing them in fire and sacrifices. They slumbered in their cocoons. A mocking gesture that proved time and time again you were no longer the conquerors that brought the known world to heel. You remained a shadow, a whisper spoken by lords who knew better than to shout it. The House of the Dragon was weak.

Maekar was seething when he came back to Ashford Hall and you prayed his anger hadn’t reached his smallest son. He was a man of few words. Few words and lingering glances towards you- on your silver hair, on your face and then your hands that reminded you of how disappointed he was that you were not betrothed to him. You were supposed to be a gift for his valor in the Redgrass Field that destroyed the Blackfyre pretends. King Daeron promised him your hand, but something changed in your grandfather’s mind in the eleventh hour. What it was, either Baelor himself or the king's own foresight, you could not say. Though you thanked the Gods for it. He remained a pillar of silence and exchanged little words akin to grinding stones with you now. 

You remembered his son, little Aegon, with his head shaved and his identity hidden, playing at being a squire to a lowly hedge knight. The boy was clever, perhaps too clever for his own safety, but he was still just a child caught in a world he didn't yet understand. You knew Baelor would not allow Ser Duncan to lose his head for a boy’s jest. Baelor understood the difference between a crime and a misunderstanding. The candles in your chamber burned low, the wicks drowning in pools of melted wax. The fire in the hearth cracked, a sudden pop of wood sending a spray of orange sparks against the soot-stained brick.

Your heart ached with the distance between Ashford and King’s Landing. You wished to see your Valarr again. He had only seen four winters, yet he already carried himself with a miniature version of his father’s gravity. He had Baelor’s soulful eyes and dark hair, though your heritage asserted itself in a single, startling lock of silver at the nape of his neck. The blood of the dragon.

You would have stayed with him, tucked away in the safety of the Red Keep, as you regaled him with stories of old and played, but the King’s command was absolute: you were to stand by Baelor’s side at Ashford. You were a living symbol, a reminder to the smallfolk that the next generation of Targaryens was as formidable as the conquerors of old. You smiled softly at the memory of your son's laughter. If the Gods were just, he would grow to be as mighty as his father, mayhaps even mightier. Baelor loved him so much it brought tears to your eyes. Your husband wept as you did when he was brought into the world. 

The sudden murmur of voices drifted through the heavy oak door as the Kingsguards took their place outside. The wait was over.

The door groaned on its iron hinges, a sound that seemed to slice through the suffocating silence of the room. Baelor stepped inside and looked older than he had that morning with the shadows under his eyes bruised and deep.

You locked your gaze with his, searching for a sign of the verdict. He didn't speak immediately, instead, he offered a weary, soft smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He moved toward the table in the middle of the room, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone, and reached for the decanter. The sound of the wine splashing into the chalice was sharp, like a stream over pebbles.

“What will become of the knight?” your voice broke through the sound of wine being poured. Baelor sighed, the weight of the crown heavy even if he hadn’t donned it yet. 

“A trial.” he answered shortly. He brought the chalice to his lips, closing his eyes as if it could wash away the memories of the day’s arguments.

“A trial? Does he stand a chance against Aerion? I can scarcely believe it.” You stood, your dress hissed against the floor as you approached your husband.

He smiled at you and the corners of his eyes wrinkled with a sort of grim irony “Aerion invoked a Trial of Seven. Ser Duncan could not refuse it. Not without admitting to a crime he did not commit.” 

The name of the ritual sent a cold shiver down your spine. You had spent countless nights hunched over crumbling scrolls in wonder and inspiration. You remembered the accounts of such trials in bits and pieces.There hadn’t been one in two hundred years, not since the era when dragons still cast shadows over the earth and Aegon the Dragon sat the Iron Throne. It was a relic of a more violent, distant age, a spectacle of slaughter masquerading as divine justice.

“Does he have knights to fight alongside him?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. You knew the answer before he gave it. A hedge knight without a coin to his name stood as much chance of finding six champions as a beggar did of finding a kingdom.

Your husband shook his head, his expression darkening. You stepped into his space, tilting your head back so you could look him directly in his weary eyes. You reached up, your fingers grazing the stubble on his jaw as you cradled the side of his face. The heat of his skin was a stark contrast to the damp chill he brought in from the hall. Baelor leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a fleeting second. He brought his own hand over yours, his palm rough and warm, and pressed a lingering kiss into the center of your hand. “I don’t think so, though I can imagine he could muster two or mayhaps three knights wishing for glory to raise up arms alongside him.” 

Baelor whispered and his voice was that of the honey most famous in The Reach. You could see in your husband’s eyes the thoughts that plagued him. Reading his expressions and wants came easy to you now, as he did yours. 

“His cause is just,” he continued, his thumb tracing the line of your knuckles. “He protected the innocent, just as the vows of knighthood demand. I wonder if there are any left who can see that as I do.”

You remembered the story of the puppeteer in the tent. Aerion was a cruel boy, for he was just a boy in your eyes, a cruel little boy who delighted in making those weaker than him feel insignificant. There were none that appreciated his presence, not even his father. You wonder if that is the greatest punishment the Gods gave him. 

“If he has none that will stand to fight then the trial can not proceed.” You mummured and gazed at the fire. Such a shame, that honor has no place in this world anymore.

“I will.” Baelor caught your gaze once more, his eyes filled with a certainty that made you feel like a soldier looking upon a commander “I will take his side. You know that as well as I do.”

“Baelor,” you sighed and toyed with the cold silver Hand symbol he had on his breast “Maekar will not be happy.”

“Maekar is scarcely happy either way.” He smiled a bit at the mention of his younger brother and you returned his expression in kind. 

“That he is.” You responded. He smelled of amber and kindness and everything any woman might want in a man.

He brushed your silver hair back over your shoulder and touched your cheekbone tenderly “Has there been word from Kings Landing?” Baelor asked, not in wishing he heard of the cruel whispers of court, but in wish to hear of his son. He looked at you like a father would, with his heart miles away in the Red Keep watched over by servants who swore their life to his wellbeing.

“I’ve been waiting all day long for a letter to hear of how he is terrorizing his grandfather, alas all is quiet.” you answered and Baelor tilted his head as you spoke, smiling at the fond memory of his son running through the halls of the castle with his grandfather following him and trying to stop him from putting his hands on everything that he sees. 

“What if something might befall you in combat?” You remembered the strong mace of his brother. Aerion and Daeron posed no threat to the might of Baelor’s sword. His brother was the only one capable, the only one who felled as many men as Baelor himself, the only one who wielded a true challenge. 

You wanted to give him many sons and daughters, you wanted to have him with you in health for many moons yet to come. The thought that something, anything- even a slight cut to his cheek might befall him sent you into thoughts too powerful for your eyes. If Baelor was to fall in battle, Gods forbid, for you shuddered at the thought. You would never love again.

“Nothing shall happen to me, my love.” He leaned down to catch your eyes, a silent prayer to calm your nerves and thoughts.He grabbed your shoulders and pulled you into him as you swung your arms around his midriff. His body was a strong tower against your own. He kissed the top of your head and pressed his cheek to it afterwards. 

“I am as sure of that as the sun that rises in the east.” His voice, stronger now, to replace yours “Maekar would rather see himself dead than see any harm come to me. Trust me when I say so.”

You nodded against his chest. The fabric of his clothes scraping your cheek. 

He let go of you as the servants brought you dinner. 

You talked about the future. About Valarr, about dragon dreams and the weight of the crown he will bear. As you took another bite of mutton, Baelor reached over and took your hand, dwarfing yours in his bigger grip.

“In another life” he smiled at you with a glint in his eyes. His heavy demeanor had changed and was now replaced with the comfort your company always brought him “you and I are two farmers worrying about how this year’s season might end. We would be content with only the roof over our heads and each other.” 

You smiled at your husband, catching his fingers into your hand “In another life.” The light from the fire danced across his features and he looked impossibly handsome in it. 

These moments with him weighed heavier than the solid gold the Lannisters were famous for. He was always busy nowadays, always plagued by thoughts. You wondered how much Valarr will be like his father once he grows, surely he will have his stature and voice, you hoped he carried your love for history and prose. 

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The Lord of Ashford had spared no expense for his daughter’s name day, providing a bed of such plush down and fine linens that it felt like a cloud. As the storm outside turned the world to mud and shadow, Baelor left the fire to roar in the hearth, its orange glow painting the walls of the chamber.

He welcomed you in the crook of his strong arm as you two shared stories. Your legs made contact with his own from beneath the cotton blanket and you tangled them together as you settled in a more comfortable position. 

You could feel him slowly drift to sleep as you talked. 

“Baelor?” You whispered against his chest as his hand went still on your waist and breath became softer. 

“Mhhm?” His face was pressed to your own, beard slightly scratching your forehead and he pushed his head into yours. 

“If you had a dragon…which one would it be?” You knew that broke his sleep spell as you could feel him thinking about his answer. 

“Vermithor” he muttered and his chest rumbled beneath your hand. “He served Jaeherys well enough. Loved him too.” 

You paused. Vermithor was a beast of old, a titan that carried the Old King and was his eternal companion. You could see Baelor and The Bronze Fury bonded. They would be quite the match. 

“What about you, my life?” He asked you back. 

Now, you really had to think. 

You knew all Targaryen dragons, knew all their riders. This was a tough decision. The truth was that any dragon would be a blessing to have. A Targaryen without one could scarcely be worthy of their family name. You felt a bitter bite for the mistakes of your past made by hubris. All of your hearts were heavy with longing towards a sky you could never conquer. Not anymore.

“Vhagar.” You felt him chuckle as you answered in kind. 

“I should’ve expected that. I’ll leave it to you to make sure order is assured in the realm.” He pressed you even closer to him and you brought your arm across his body to hold him as well. The rain was hitting the castle wall and the fire softly cracked in the hearth. Your belly was full of the best food coin could buy a minor lord and you had your husband in your arms. The only thing missing was you baby, but he was safe and sound, and that was the only thing that mattered.

You raised your face and he was already looking at you, features soft and wondering.

“What will I do without you?” He asked as you raised your foot against the sole of his under the blanket and smiled.

“I truly have no idea.” You kissed his lips and they were soft, his beard rubbed against your chin “Maybe become a farmer?” 

His eyes brightened a bit as he leaned his head back and laughed. The sound a blessing to your ears. He pulled you closer to him as he returned your gaze once more. 

“Maybe so.” His face was free of worry and emboldened by something sweeter laying underneath. 

He brought his face down and kissed you again, stronger this time.

“Baelor.” Murmuring his name beneath his affection was hard, but you managed.

“Yes?” He pressed another soft kiss to your lips then peppered a trail towards your nose as he turned you on your back. The bed made a sound with the weight being shifted on top. In the back of the room, the hearth cracked once more with a hollow sound.

“I’m worried for you.” Your voice was small before you grabbed his face and pulled him to look at you, he stared at you with those mismatched eyes. One from your ancestry, another from blistering Dorne, a gift from his sun-kissed mother.

He brought his head down in the crook of your neck. “Whatever for?” you stifled a giggle as his beard tickled your collarbone. “Aren’t I the Hammer? I’ve broken sturdier things than some knights and my youngest brother.” His strong voice was a whisper that traveled through you. You knew he was right.

“Hammers break, Baelor.” 

He pulled back once more and saw the fear in your gaze. He smiled and with tender words answered you “Tomorrow I will return to you and you shall see that all your fears were for naught. We will laugh about this on our way to Kings Landing. I promise you.”

You turned your head to the side, contemplating his words. Baelor never lied to you. His word was law and be it because of the comfortable night or the heat pulling into your own belly at your husband’s presence you locked eyes once more with him.

“I want to be your husband tonight. Can I?” His gaze was tender, albeit laced with a boyish glint you scarcely saw lately. His soft words hit your face and your stomach twisted in anticipation at what he offered.

You nodded as you touched the side of your husband's face, brushing your hands against his beard and pulling him closer to you by the back of his head, soft brown hair in your hands. 

Your lips parted and reunited again and again as you brought your arm around his neck and pulled him down on you. His cotton shirt touched your night gown as you tried to be impossibly closer to your love. You felt as if he was the only thing that mattered in the world at that moment, your cheeks aflame and heartbeat quickening under his gaze and affections. 

Baelor's lips opened and welcomed yours in familiarity, he touched you everywhere he could get his hands on, on your face, on your waist and finally he brought your leg to lay on his side as he raised your gown up beneath the cotton blanket and caressed your thigh. 

He kissed you time and time again as he whispered honeyed words he loved blessing you with: “My life and desire.” Your hands shook like a maiden’s as you suppressed an innocent smile. 

He had held you like this countless times over the years, yet it was never dull. His gaze swept into your soul, finding the blushing bride you had been on your wedding night and drawing her out again. He paused to smile at you, his eyes searching your rosy, upturned face, lingering on the way your breath hitched before he continued his quiet confessions.

You wondered, as he was bringing his lips over yours again and softly groaning into your mouth with a sound that traveled right between your legs- if he knew exactly what he was doing. 

What a foolish thought, of course he did. 

You could feel the hard line of his desire pressing against your hip. Taking a breath that felt like a prayer, you shifted, bringing your leg beneath his body in a silent, desperate order for him to take his place. He obeyed with a moan that sounded like a surrender, settling between your thighs with a slow, heavy drag of his hips that set your nerves on fire. Baelor was not a man who rushed. The lavender pressed linens enveloped you in their warm embrace. You could almost think of yourself a poet for this moment.

Bracing himself on one sturdy arm as to not crush your smaller frame he brought his hands to your neck and then below, grabbing the string that held your nightgown from coming undone at your breasts. When the knot finally gave way, he pushed the fabric aside, his hand sliding inside to cup the warmth he desired. His groan was a physical weight against your skin, and your eyebrows furrowed.

Baelor brought his head down and pressed hot kisses to your chest, then your breasts as you moaned. 

“Do you love me?” his breath was hot on your skin.

“Of course,” you managed to choke out, your fingers tangling in his brown hair, holding him there as if he might vanish if you let go. You felt him move then, the rustle of fabric as he removed himself from his pants, his eyes never leaving yours.

He muttered something in High Valyrian, a prayer or vow you could not make out as he touched your flower with his hand. You gave a silent gasp and smiled at his own expression, before settling with his touch. He brushed his fingers again over you and you fought to be closer to him. You wanted him to finally press up against you but he would not relent. 

“Baelor.” you pleaded into his mouth, voice breaking. He gave a sound of acknowledgment towards you as he brought his body down, lower and lower. 

You chuckled as the realization settled in, then gasped with pleasure as you felt his beard where you were most sensitive. You wished to stay quiet, truly, but caught in the heat of it all you must’ve made the most pathetic sounds of whispers and moans as your husband lavished you with his full attention. 

You felt your stomach twist as he tasted you where you needed him most and you brushed your fingers into his greying hair, wishing for something to grab hold of. Whenever a sound would leave him, it would vibrate and set you unconsciously rising up against him. He grabbed hold of your breast with one hand, the other holding your hip gently but firmly down, keeping you pinned to his pleasure.

His love continued until you could barely decide between trying to get away or push your legs close to his ears and keep him there. Sounds leaving you before you could stop. You grabbed hold of his arm and pleaded with him as raised his body up over yours once more. 

“Please.” You almost had tears in your eyes, but they were not from sadness. He kissed you and he tasted of you all over his lips and damp beard.

“Please?” Baelor brought your upper lip beneath his own “What?” He smiled into your mouth like the wolf he was and you had half the mind to start crying.

He enjoyed the thought of hearing you say shameful things as you tried to not have your ears catch on fire. It brought him as much pleasure as any grand meal in the capital but you thought words were beneath you now as you reached down, your hand finding the heat of him. His own breath hitched, brows furrowing in a sudden, sharp pleasure. You brought him to the threshold and pressed a quick, desperate peck to his lips as he finally, mercifully, pressed himself inside.

You both gasped in unison and you closed your eyes, every muscle in your body tightening as you adjusted to the fullness of him. He pulled out and then pressed once more, gently, into you. You felt a pleasant pressure in your belly and happiness settled in your heart at finally getting what you desired. You brought your legs over his hips as he moved. Baelor pressed his head down next to yours, the hair on his beard coarse against your soft skin as he gave you sweet sounds of pleasure. The fire in the hearth was dimmer now, but you had all the heat you needed on top of you. Thunder rumbled outside.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek, breath hot on your ear as he told you “Wrap your legs tighter around me,” he commanded, his breath hot against your ear. You obeyed without hesitation, your arms sliding under his to grip his broad shoulders. “That’s it. Just like that.”

You moaned into the crook of his neck, the sound muffled and raw. He raised up on his elbows, the old oak bed complaining in a rhythmic, wooden groan beneath his weight and hips. A thin layer of sweat made his brow glint in the low light, and he smiled down at you, his voice nearly breathless. “You’re so beautiful.” 

You were sure you looked a mess, lips and breasts sore from his eager kisses. A mess of his own doing you supposed and he took no greater pleasure than that of seeing you this way.

“Look what you’re doing to me.” His movements became more eager now, the slow patience of the beginning giving way to the frantic chase of the peak.  His movements became more eager, more enthusiastic to chase the end of his own pleasure that he forgot his own power and weight for a moment as he allowed himself to press down on you. You turned your head to the side, gasping for the cold air of the room to keep from fainting from the heat of him.

He took the chance to trail kisses down your neck, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. Your flower and stomach oscillating between pleasure and the beginning of discomfort from his love making. Your left eye let out a small, incandescent tear of pleasure, which he leaned forward to kiss away.

In that moment, you wanted him to never stop, you wanted to have him on his back, on his side, to feel him in every way possible until the sun refused to rise. He pressed inside one last, devastating time, his body shuddering. You could feel him pulse inside in his climax as he grabbed your face.

“Kiss me.” He said. 

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His breath was hot on your ear as he softly snored, finally content with the night. Your body was flush against his, with his arm around your waist and hands embracing one another above the blankets.

The fire in the room was no more as the rain lashed against the cool castle wall. You brushed your thumb across his hand, trying to memorize the pattern of each knuckle and the feeling of his skin. The sun would rise in the east whether you wanted or not, and time passed either way. You had to get your rest. Breathing in the smell of cedarwood and amber you squeezed his hand as you pressed your face to the pillow. Somewhere, the hedge knight that sheltered Aegon was finding his knights between glory seekers and few friends he probably had, completely oblivious he had the heir to The Iron Throne on his side. You knew your husband could tip the scales in his favor, you knew that after this, you would probably return to Kings Landing and have a few months left of peace before the Seven Kingdoms called for his guidance. 

His breath hitched, a low murmur escaping his lips as he pulled you closer in his sleep, seeking you even in the deep drift of slumber. You managed a weak, watery smile, closing your eyes to paint the picture he longed for, your husband, not in armor, but in a sun-bleached straw hat and torn down clothes, his hands rough from the plow instead of the sword.

Holding onto the image of the farmer, a man of the earth rather than the realm, a blissful creation that would break the instant dawn broke and the bounds of honor demanded their hero. 

You felt sleep claim you as well.

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