Morri Draws

You feel a tap on your shoulder as you eat breakfast in the servants' hall. Turning, you find a familiar face smiling down at you.

"Tom!" you exclaim. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see Prince Baelor about returning to work." He steps over the bench and sits beside you. "Though the guard outside told me he's taken ill."

Your smile fades. "He had a bad fall a few days ago. He struck his head rather badly."

Tom's expression immediately turns concerned. "I'm sorry to hear it. Give him my best when you see him."

"I will." You look him over, noticing how naturally he moves now. "So you're feeling better?"

"I am." His grin returns. "I had a healer look at my arm yesterday. She said the bone's knitted properly, and I've been carrying sacks of flour around the house to make sure it's strong enough."

"I'm so glad." You smile warmly before a pang of guilt finds you. "I'm sorry I haven't come home to see you."

Tom waves the apology away. "It's a fair walk from here to Cobbler's Square. Besides, you've clearly been busy. Maybe we could have a proper chat after you've taken the prince his breakfast?"

“I’m afraid I can’t.” You frown. "I'll be with Prince Baelor all day. Prince Maekar relieves me at night."

A crease appears between Tom's brows. "I thought you were his cupbearer."

"I am."

"So... why are you nursing him?"

You hesitate. "I offered."

"But surely there are nurses in the Red Keep."

"There are." You fiddle absently with the edge of your sleeve. "I cared for him the last time he fell ill. I thought... he might rather have someone familiar than a stranger."

Tom studies your face for a moment. "Right."

His tone says he isn't entirely convinced, though thankfully he lets the matter drop.

"Well, if you're free later, how about we have supper together? There's a tavern on River Row that serves a decent meal."

"I'd like that." You smile. "I just can't promise exactly when I'll be finished."

"That's alright." He stands. "I'll wait around here near suppertime.”

"I'll see you then."

You carry Baelor's breakfast up to his chambers, where Prince Maekar steps out of the bedchamber as soon as he hears you arrive.

"How is he?" you ask.

"He slept much better."

Relief washes through you.

"I'm so glad."

As Maekar steps closer, you take in his appearance. He looks exhausted. Dark shadows linger beneath his eyes, and there is a weariness about him.

"You ought to get some sleep yourself, Your Grace."

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of one hand.

"It is surprisingly tiring, watching over a sleeping man." A dry smile tugs at his mouth. "I was bored senseless."

"Perhaps bring a book tonight."

"Hm." He considers it. "Perhaps I shall."

With a brief nod, he takes his leave.

You carry the tray into the bedchamber. Baelor looks up as you enter, greeting you with an easy smile. Already he seems improved. The shadows beneath his eyes have lightened, and though he is still pale, he no longer looks utterly exhausted.

"Good morning."

"Good morning." You smile as you set the tray down. "How are you feeling today?"

"Better than yesterday."

"And your head?"

"Only a dull ache now."

You hum approvingly as you pass him his breakfast, pleased that he is being open about his pain.

"I think we may need to find a nurse to replace Maekar." Baelor says. "I'm afraid I'm boring him terribly."

You laugh. "I don't think you'll get rid of him quite so easily, however much he complains."

Baelor smiles, though sadness lingers behind it.

"He blames himself." The words are quiet. "I know he does." He looks down at his plate. "I only wish I knew how to convince him he has nothing to blame himself for."

"All you can do is keep reminding him."

He nods faintly before returning to his breakfast. You cannot help noticing how heartily he eats.

"I hope I wasn't too late with your breakfast. Tom came to see me while I was eating."

“Tom?” He looks up. "How is he?"

"His arm has healed." You smile. "He actually came to ask whether he might return to work. He didn't know you'd been taken ill until he arrived."

"I am glad to hear he's recovered." Baelor's smile is genuine. "And once I'm back on my feet, I will gladly speak with him."

"We're planning to have supper together this evening after I'm finished here."

"I'm pleased. Please give him my regards."

~

You stack the breakfast dishes onto the tray, and as you lift it, Baelor looks up at you.

“Could you fetch Arnol when you go downstairs?” he asks. “I should like to freshen up and get changed.”

“Of course.” You smile. “Would you like the bedding changed as well?”

“That would be welcome.”

You carry the tray down to the kitchens before seeking out Arnol in the servants' quarters to relay Baelor's request. He sets off immediately, looking genuinely pleased to have something useful to do again.

Before returning upstairs, you fill a fresh pitcher with water and stop by the rookery to collect more willow bark. By the time you make your way back to Baelor's chambers, your arms are full once again.

You pause in surprise as you step inside. Rather than resting in bed, Baelor is sitting at the desk in his solar.

“You're up.” You smile as you cross the room.

“I would hardly call this up.” A rueful smile touches his lips. “I am simply staying out of Arnol’s way while he changes the bed.”

You set the pitcher and pouch of willow bark upon the desk. Baelor has changed into a fresh shirt and smells faintly of soap.

Without thinking, you reach out to brush a few loose strands away from the edge of the bandage. His eyes drift closed beneath your touch, and your hand lingers, gently cupping his cheek. He leans into your palm with a quiet sigh. Your thumb strokes lightly across his cheekbone before you reluctantly withdraw.

Taking the pitcher once more, you cross to the hearth behind him. You fill the kettle with water, rake a few glowing coals forward with the poker, and settle the kettle over the heat. Then you return to the desk, open the pouch of willow bark, and begin breaking the dried strips into smaller pieces, dropping them into the waiting cup.

A gentle touch at your waist makes you start. You relax almost immediately as you realise it is only Baelor.

His hand rests lightly against the small of your back. Smiling, you place your own hand upon his shoulder, but instead of letting you continue your work, his fingers curl around your waist. With a gentle tug, he draws you closer until your hip rests against the side of his chair, and then, with quiet deliberation, he leans forward and rests his forehead against your stomach. Your fingers slip instinctively into his hair.

“Are you feeling alright?” you ask softly.

“You have done so much for me these past few days.” His voice is quiet, almost lost beneath the crackle of the fire. “I do not know how I could ever express my gratitude.”

“I don't want gratitude.” Your fingers continue their slow strokes through his hair. “I just want you to be well again.”

He is silent for a moment.

“What if I never am?”

Your hand stills. “What do you mean?”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes.

“The maester warned me after Ashford that head injuries such as mine seldom leave a man unchanged.” His gaze drops briefly before returning to yours. “The consequences... they may remain for years. Perhaps for the rest of my life.”

The words settle heavily between you.

“I may always have these headaches. There may be days when I cannot work as I should, or think as clearly as I once did. Is that truly what you want? To bind yourself to a sick man?”

You slowly turn until your back rests against the edge of the desk, bringing yourself fully before him.

“I want to be with you, Baelor,” you say, your voice gentle but unwavering. “Whether you are well or ill, whether your days are easy or difficult. None of that changes how I feel.”

“I do not want to become a burden.”

“You never could.” You place your other hand over his where it still rests at your waist. “When you truly care for someone, you do not care for only the easy parts. You care for them through joy and hardship alike. Through health and illness.”

For a long moment he says nothing, simply searching your face. Then his shoulders loosen, as though some invisible weight has finally slipped away.

You hear the kettle begin to boil and straighten, taking the cup of willow bark in one hand while brushing the other lightly against Baelor's arm as you pass. Lifting the kettle from the coals with a cloth, you carefully pour the steaming water into the cup just as Arnol emerges from the bedchamber, his arms laden with bed linens.

“The bed is all changed, Your Grace,” he says to Baelor.

“Thank you, Arnol. You have been a great help.”

Arnol smiles at the praise and bows his head before departing. You set the cup on the desk to steep for a few moments.

Baelor lets out a quiet sigh. “I should get back to bed, I suppose.”

The moment he begins to rise, you step to his side and offer your arm. He threads his through yours, leaning on you just enough to steady himself as you walk together into the bedchamber. You wait while he settles carefully onto the mattress, then return to the solar to collect the tea before bringing it to his bedside.

As you draw closer, you notice the familiar tension around his eyes – the same tightness that appears whenever his headaches worsen.

“Should I fetch the Grand Maester?” you ask softly.

He shakes his head.

“I can tell the pain is bad again.” You say.

“It is,” he admits. “But I do not wish to take milk of the poppy any more than absolutely necessary. I shall have it tonight so I can sleep.”

“Alright,” you say gently. “I only hope the tea eases it a little.”

“It will,” he assures you, taking the cup and cautiously sipping. After the inevitable grimace at its bitterness, he drains the rest in a few quick gulps before setting the empty cup aside.

Closing his eyes, he releases a long, weary breath. When he opens them again, his gaze finds yours.

“This will likely leave a permanent scar.” He gestures toward the bandage around his forehead. “Will you still find me handsome?”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You laugh softly. “Of course I will.”

“That is a relief.”

You are both still smiling when a faint shuffling sounds from beyond the doorway. Your attention turns just as a small head peeks around the frame.

“Father!” Prince Matarys darts into the room, his face lighting up. “You're awake!”

“I am,” Baelor says warmly. “And I already feel better for seeing you.” He pats the empty space beside him on the bed. “Come here.”

Matarys beams, hurrying around the bed before climbing onto the mattress and shuffling close. Baelor slips an arm around his son's shoulders.

“Does your head still hurt?” the young prince asks.

“A little.”

“Too much to tell a story?”

“Ah, so that is why you've really come.” Baelor raises a brow. “Not because I am your father and I am unwell, but because you require a storyteller.”

“That isn't true!” Matarys protests, looking genuinely offended.

“I know, my boy.” Baelor chuckles. “I am only teasing.”

He falls thoughtful for a moment, searching his memory.

“A story...” His expression gradually shifts from concentration to frustration. “I'm afraid I'm having trouble thinking of one.”

You catch the flicker of disappointment on Matarys' face, quickly followed by the guilt that settles over Baelor's.

“I know a story,” you say.

Both princes look up at you.

“I don't know if I'm as good a storyteller as your father,” you add with a small smile.

“What story?” Matarys asks eagerly.

“It was one my father used to tell my brother and me when we were children.” You glance at him. “Though I don't know whether you've heard it before, my prince.”

 “I like hearing new stories.”

“Very well.” You clear your throat and spare a glance at Baelor, who returns it with a grateful smile.

“Long ago, in a land whose name has long since been forgotten, there lived a king named Ulrick.”

“Was he a good king?” Matarys asks.

You consider the question for a moment.

“He was certainly thought to be a great king. He was a fearless warrior, and many admired him. But whether he was a good man...” You smile faintly. “Well, you shall decide that for yourself.”

Matarys nods eagerly, and you continue.

“King Ulrick was deeply in love with a lady named Ysilla. The trouble was that Lady Ysilla was already married to Lord Gorys, one of the king's own counsellors.”

“Oh no,” Matarys murmurs.

“Indeed.” You settle a little more comfortably before continuing. “One evening, King Ulrick held a grand feast for his allies. During the celebrations, Lord Gorys noticed the king's interest in his wife. Though the two men were friends, King Ulrick continued to pursue Lady Ysilla despite her refusing him at every turn, for she loved her husband dearly. Their friendship was shattered, and before the feast was over, Lord Gorys and Lady Ysilla departed the king's castle together.

“Enraged, King Ulrick declared Lord Gorys an enemy and marched to war against him, determined to claim Lady Ysilla as his prize. So desperate did he become that he sought the aid of a powerful sorcerer named Merion.

“Merion cast a spell that transformed King Ulrick, making him appear exactly like Lord Gorys. While the real Lord Gorys was away fighting the king's army, Ulrick rode to Lady Ysilla's castle disguised as her husband.”

“King Ulrick sounds terribly dishonourable,” Matarys says.

You catch the corner of Baelor's mouth twitching.

“That night, Lady Ysilla welcomed the man she believed to be her husband into her bedchamber. It was not until the following morning that she learned Lord Gorys had fallen in battle the day before. Then came reports that King Ulrick himself had been seen outside the city gates, and only then did she realise what had truly happened.

“Not long afterwards, Lady Ysilla found herself with child, and King Ulrick took her as his wife. When the child was born, he was named Abelor. The sorcerer Merion foretold that the boy was destined for greatness.”

You pause before continuing.

“When Abelor was still a babe, King Ulrick marched to war against invaders from across the sea. One night, they poisoned the spring beside the royal camp. The king and many of his soldiers drank from it and fell gravely ill. Hundreds died, and King Ulrick remained bedridden for many weeks. While he lay sick, the realm descended into turmoil, as rivals and allies alike argued over who should succeed him.

Fearing that King Ulrick's rivals might kill young Abelor to prevent him one day claiming the throne, the sorcerer Merion secretly took the prince away from court and entrusted him to a loyal knight named Ser Ellard. Ser Ellard had a son of his own, Kym, and he raised Abelor beside the boy as though they were brothers. Abelor grew up believing Ser Ellard was his father, never knowing he was truly a prince.

“When they were older, Kym became a knight, and Abelor his squire. One day, they travelled together to a great tournament. But upon arriving, Abelor made a dreadful discovery. He had forgotten Ser Kym's sword back at the inn.”

Matarys winces.

“There wasn't enough time to ride back for it, so Abelor ran through the town searching desperately for another sword. And then...”

You lower your voice slightly.

“As he passed the town sept, he noticed something strange. In the middle of its garden stood a great stone, and thrust deep into that stone was a sword.”

“How did the sword get into the stone?” Matarys asks.

“No one knew. It had stood there for longer than anyone could remember, and a legend had grown around it. It was said that only the true king of the realm could draw the sword from the stone. Great lords had tried. Famous knights had tried. The strongest men from every corner of the realm, highborn and low, had wrapped their hands around that hilt... and every one of them failed.”

You pause again.

“But Abelor knew nothing of the legend. All he knew was that Ser Kym needed a sword. So he stepped forward... placed his hand upon the hilt...and pulled.”

Matarys leans forward, hanging on every word. Even Baelor watches you with quiet amusement, a small smile lingering on his lips.

“The sword slid free,” you say softly, “as easily as though the stone had been made of butter.”

“Abelor was the true king!” Matarys exclaims with a grin.

“Yes,” you reply, smiling back at him. “He was.”

“Was he a good king?” Matarys asks.

“That is a story for another day.”

Matarys groans dramatically in disappointment.

“My apologies, my prince, but I fear my voice would go hoarse if I told the whole tale at once.”

“Do you know that story, father?” the young prince asks, turning to Baelor.

“I’m afraid I do not.” Baelor glances at you with a smile. “So you will not hear the rest of it from me.”

“I was sure you would.” Matarys pouts. “You know loads of stories.”

“But I do not know everything,” Baelor replies.

“The words of a truly wise man.”

The feminine voice draws every eye in the room toward the doorway, where Queen Myriah stands watching with a serene smile.

“Grandmother!” Matarys exclaims, hopping down from the bed and hurrying over to her.

“Hello, darling.” She slips an arm around his shoulders as he reaches her.

You begin to rise from your chair, but the queen gently lifts a hand.

“You may stay seated, dear,” she says before taking the empty chair beside you. “Now then, how is our patient today?”

“I am improving,” Baelor replies.

“I am very glad to hear it.” Her smile softens as she looks between the faces in the room. “Everyone seemed rather pleased when I came in. Have I missed something of note?”

“She just told a wonderful story,” Matarys says, pointing enthusiastically towards you. “It was about a dishonourable king, and a prince who didn't know he was really a prince, and there was a sorcerer, and–”

He launches into an eager retelling of the story, recounting the highlights in his own breathless fashion while the queen listens with patient amusement.

As his voice fills the room, Baelor catches your eye. There is something so gentle in his expression that it warms you from within. For a few fleeting moments, Matarys' excited narration fades into the background until it feels as though only the two of you remain.

“And did your father enjoy the story?” the queen asks at last, drawing you back to the present as she looks towards her son.

“I did,” Baelor replies, reluctantly breaking your gaze. “I rather enjoyed being the one hearing the story for once, instead of telling it.”

“Careful. If word spreads that you enjoy being entertained, every minstrel in King's Landing and beyond will soon be gathering at the castle gates.”

“Well, perhaps I could clear a corner for them to set up here permanently.”

Matarys giggles. The queen laughs softly and shakes her head.

“I suspect you would regret that arrangement within a day.”

“Within an hour,” Baelor corrects.

He chuckles quietly, but the sound catches in his throat. As he clears it, a flicker of pain crosses his face. His eyes squeeze shut for the briefest moment, and the smile lingering on your lips disappears.

You reach for the goblet beside the bed and offer it to him. Baelor accepts it, his fingers brushing yours before lifting it to his lips. He drinks slowly, then hands it back. As you return it to the bedside table, you glance up to find the queen watching you. For a heartbeat, your eyes meet. You offer her a small, self-conscious smile before she turns her attention back to her son.

“I should let you rest now,” she says, rising from her chair. She crosses to the bed and kisses Baelor's cheek. “I am glad to see you in such good spirits.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“You must come too, Matarys.”

The young prince looks disappointed, though he offers no complaint. He gives his father one last embrace before slipping from the bed and returning to his grandmother's side. Taking her hand, he allows her to lead him from the room.

Just before they leave, the queen glances back at you.

“Continue taking good care of him.”

“I will, Your Grace.”

She offers one last smile before disappearing through the doorway with Matarys. A moment later, you hear their footsteps recede, followed by the soft click of the outer door closing.

“My mother likes you,” Baelor says.

You look at him with an incredulous smile. “She is simply being kind.”

“When it comes to my own mother,” he replies, amusement dancing in his eyes, “I believe I know best.”

You laugh softly. “I suppose I cannot argue with you on that.”

~

Once Baelor has eaten his supper and Prince Maekar arrives to relieve you, you return to the servants' hall before retreating to your bedchamber. After washing your face and tidying your hair, you make your way to the castle gates, where Tom is waiting.

“I hope you weren't waiting long,” you say as the two of you begin walking down Aegon's High Hill together.

“I wasn't.” He smiles.

He leads you to the tavern on River Row he'd mentioned earlier and secures a table in a quiet corner before ordering supper for you both.

The tavern is warm and comfortably busy, the air thick with the scent of roasting meat, onions and fresh bread. It feels strange after spending so many hours shut away in the Red Keep – stranger still to be sitting anywhere other than beside Baelor's bed.

When your drinks arrive, Tom leans back in his chair.

“How was Prince Baelor today?”

“He showed some improvement.” You cannot help smiling.

You tell him about Baelor feeling well enough to wash and change into fresh clothes, and how Arnol had helped him sit in the solar while his bed was remade. You explain that he looked much better after finally getting a proper night's sleep, though only because you had managed to persuade him to accept milk of the poppy. Then you tell him about Prince Matarys' visit, and how you had stepped in with a story when Baelor could not think of one himself.

Tom smiles fondly. “I always loved it when Father told us the tale of Abelor. Did Prince Matarys enjoy it?”

“Oh, very much.” You grin. “I suspect he'll be back soon to hear the rest.”

You go on to tell him about Queen Myriah's visit, and how watching Baelor with his family has shown you just how deeply loved he is. You speak of how he hides his pain because he cannot bear to worry those around him, and how, little by little, he has begun trusting you enough to admit when he is hurting.

As you continue talking, Tom grows quieter. At first, you barely notice. You keep speaking about Baelor's recovery, how relieved you are to see him improving, and how difficult it has been watching him suffer.

Eventually, Tom leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“You're fond of him, aren't you?”

The question catches you off guard, and your smile fades.

“He has always been good to me,” you reply carefully. “Good to us. I respect him immensely.”

“Yes, but…” Tom says gently. “You've spoken of nothing but him all evening.”

You blink. “Well... I work for him. And he's been very ill. I've spent nearly every waking hour with him these past few days.”

“I know.” He nods. “But you could have told me about the other servants, some bit of gossip, new friends you've made...” His eyes remain on yours. “Instead, every story you've told has been about him... and the way you speak about him...” He hesitates. “I've never heard you speak about anyone like that before.”

Your gaze falls to the tabletop, tracing the grain of the wood with your eyes.

“Do you have feelings for him?” Tom asks quietly.

You had always known this moment would come, when you would have to tell Tom about you and Baelor.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “I do.”

Tom studies you for a long moment before letting out a slow breath.

“You know nothing can come of it, don't you? He's the heir to the Iron Throne, and you're–”

“A lowborn nobody from the other side of King's Landing,” you finish for him.

A pained look crosses his face. “I wasn't going to put it like that.”

“It's alright.” You manage a small smile. “Once, I would have agreed with you. I did agree with you.” You pause. “But something has come of it.”

Tom straightens. “What do you mean?”

“Baelor cares for me too.”

He simply stares.

“He even asked the king for permission to marry me.”

“What?”

“The king refused.” You lower your eyes. “But Baelor asked.”

Tom slowly leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he tries to absorb what you've just told him.

“So... it's serious.”

“Yes.”

He sits in silence for a moment, lips pressed together, before rubbing the back of his neck.

“Have you...” He grimaces. “Seven hells.” He exhales and leans forward again. “Have you lain with him?”

Heat immediately floods your face. “No.”

It is the truth, even if only just. There had been that night, when everything had almost changed. Before Baelor pulled away. Before his collapse. Tom doesn't need to know how close the two of you came.

“Good.”

The single word leaves him in a sigh, the tension visibly easing from his shoulders.

“Good?”

“Yes.” He meets your eyes. “It's good that he hasn't taken advantage of you. A lot of men in his position would have.”

You understand why he says it, and you appreciate that his concern comes from love. But he does not know the whole truth. He does not know that you wanted Baelor to touch you. That you wanted to share his bed. That, had he not stopped himself, you would not have refused.

Nor does he know that, despite the impossibility of marriage, part of you still longs for the day when the two of you might finally belong to one another in that way.

“What if things change?” Tom asks, breaking into your thoughts.

You look up at him. “He promised he would be true to me.”

“I'm sure he means to be.” Tom's voice is gentle. “But... he's a prince – the heir to the Iron Throne. He has duties and expectations. Today he may mean every word he says, but what about in a year's time? Five years from now?”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that, one day, he may meet a noblewoman whose family offers an advantageous match.” He hesitates before continuing. “If that happened... things could change.”

“But it might never happen.”

“No,” he agrees. “It might not. But being in your position, without the protection of marriage... you're vulnerable. Nothing guarantees your place beside him.”

You lower your gaze to your lap, willing your face to remain composed despite the sinking feeling in your chest.

Tom sighs. “I'm not trying to upset you.” His voice softens further. “I'm only trying to be realistic. I'm worried about you.”

Your hands remain clasped tightly in your lap as your eyes settle on the worn edge of the table.

His concerns are sensible. They are exactly the sort of things you ought to consider. But you do not want to. All you know is that you want to be with Baelor, and he wants to be with you. Somehow, despite everything standing against you, the two of you are trying to make it work.

“He truly does care for me, Tom.” Your voice is quiet but certain. “Why else would he ask the king for permission to marry me?”

“I believe you. And I believe he cares for you.” He pauses. “I just don't want to see you get hurt.” His eyes meet yours. “You're the most tender-hearted person I know. If something were to happen... I think it would break your heart.”

By the time your meals arrive, your appetite has vanished. Even so, you force yourself to eat a few mouthfuls, though every swallow catches against the tightness in your throat.

Sensing he has said enough, Tom steers the conversation elsewhere. You answer when he speaks, but your heart is no longer in it. Weeks have passed since you last saw your brother, yet you cannot enjoy the evening together. His words continue to echo through your mind, impossible to silence.

Eventually the plates are cleared away, and as the tavern begins to empty, Tom settles the bill before you have a chance to protest. Then he insists on walking you back to the Red Keep. The journey passes mostly in silence.

When you reach the castle gates, you stop and turn to face him.

“Thank you for supper,” you say. “It was good to see you.”

“You too.” He smiles, but after a moment it fades. “I can tell I've upset you. That wasn't my intention.”

“I know,” you reply quietly.

He opens his arms, drawing you into a hug.

“Look after yourself.”

You hold him tightly in return. “And you.”

When he pulls away, he rests a hand briefly on your shoulder.

“Make sure you get some rest.”

“I will,” you promise. “Get home safely.”

He gives you one last smile before turning and making his way back down the hill. You watch him until he disappears into the evening crowds, then let out a slow breath before slipping through the servants' entrance.

Back in your chamber, you prepare for bed, setting aside your clothes and washing your face at the basin while Tom's words continue circling your thoughts.

You had tried to focus only on what was before you. On Baelor's smile. On the tenderness in his eyes whenever he looked at you. On the way he instinctively reached for your hand whenever you sat beside him.

Until now, that had been enough. But doubt has found its way into your heart. One day, Baelor will be king. And when that day comes, will there still be a place for you beside him?

You slip beneath the blankets and stare into the darkness.

Sleep refuses to come. Instead, you lie awake wondering whether wanting something with all your heart is enough to make it last.

~

You wake the following morning after a restless night. Once washed and dressed, you break your fast in the servants' hall before gathering Baelor's breakfast, as you have done every morning since his fall.

By the time you climb the tower stairs, you have schooled your features into what you hope is a convincing mask of calm. It would be unfair to burden Baelor with your worries while he is still recovering.

Prince Maekar greets you briefly before leaving you to take over his watch, and you carry the breakfast tray into the bedchamber.

Baelor is already awake, propped comfortably against his pillows. His face brightens the moment he sees you.

“Good morning.”

The warmth in his smile sends an ache through your chest. At least the shadows beneath his eyes have almost disappeared.

“Good morning.” You return the smile as you settle the tray across his lap. “How did you sleep?”

“I made it through nearly the whole night without waking.”

Relief washes over you.

“That's wonderful.”

He begins eating, then looks up again after swallowing his first mouthful.

“How was your evening with Tom?”

Your stomach tightens, though you keep your smile in place.

“It was good to spend some time with him.”

“I am glad.” He tears another piece of bread. “If you ever wish to spend more time with your brother, all you need do is ask. I would be more than happy to give you the afternoon.”

“Thank you.” This time, your smile is genuine.

Once he has finished breakfast, you clear away the dishes before fetching your sewing basket from your chamber. Having completed your embroidered handkerchief yesterday, you decide to begin another.

When you return, Baelor announces that he is tired of being confined to his bedchamber.

“I think I should like to sit in the solar for a while.”

You help him to his feet and accompany him into the adjoining room, supporting him until he reaches his desk. Once seated, he asks you to fetch a particular book from his shelves. You place it before him, briefly thinking to mention your concern over him worsening his headache. The thought dies almost as quickly as it comes. He is not a child. If it proves too much, he will stop.

You pull another chair alongside his and settle beside him with your sewing. Hemming the edges of a handkerchief requires so little thought that your hands work almost of their own accord. Your mind, however, refuses to remain still.

Beside you, Baelor studies his book, a slight crease resting between his brows as he reads. The quiet feels comfortable. Peaceful. You wish things could always be this simple. Just the two of you, sharing the same room without needing to fill the silence. Then Tom's words return.

What about in a year's time? Five years from now?

Will the day come when you are no longer welcome in these chambers? You shake the thought away. The movement is enough to distract your hand. The needle slips, and a sharp sting pricks your fingertip.

You inhale through your teeth. Baelor looks up immediately. You draw your hand back and watch a bright bead of blood well beneath the tiny puncture. Before it can drip, you bring your finger to your lips, then quickly inspect the linen to make certain it escaped unmarked.

“Are you hurt?” Baelor asks.

“It is nothing.” You smile faintly. “Only a prick from the needle.”

He continues watching you. “Is something troubling you?”

Your eyes lift to meet his. “No. Why do you ask?”

“You seem quieter today… distracted.”

Your heart sinks. Of course he noticed.

“I am fine.” The words sound unconvincing even to your own ears. “Only a little tired.” You add quickly.

Something shifts across his face, and his gaze lowers.

“Of course you are,” he says quietly. “You have spent days caring for me.”

“I didn't mean–”

“I will not have you exhausting yourself on my account.” His tone is gentle but firm. “You must rest when you need it.”

“No.” The word comes out more sharply than you intended. You soften your voice immediately. “I only meant that I slept poorly last night.” That much, at least, is true. “I want to be here. I like being with you.”

The tension leaves his features.

“And I like having you beside me.” His smile returns, though it remains touched with concern. “But if you need to rest, promise me you will.”

“I promise.”

He studies you another moment. You have the distinct feeling he does not believe you. Still, he gives a small nod and returns to his book, allowing the matter to rest.

~

The remainder of the day passes quietly.

You accompany him on a slow walk through the courtyard, his arm linked through yours should he lose his balance. The fresh air seems to lift his spirits, and the colour in his face is healthier than it has been in days. It ought to make you feel lighter too. Instead, your thoughts keep circling back to Tom.

More than once that afternoon, you catch Baelor watching you with quiet concern. He knows something is wrong. The knowledge leaves a knot of guilt in your chest. But he needs peace more than he needs another burden to carry.

By evening, Prince Maekar arrives to relieve you.

Baelor insists he no longer requires constant supervision, but his brother ignores every protest and settles himself into the chair beside the bed as though the matter had never been open for discussion.

You gather the empty dishes and your sewing basket before bidding Baelor goodnight.

He smiles as you turn to leave. Yet beneath that smile, you glimpse something else. Concern. And the unsettling feeling that he has not stopped wondering what you are hiding.