Baelor has been standing at the foot of your bed for… much longer than he intended to. There's a tilt to his head, seventy-six degrees and counting, and a rise and fall to his chest that seems to be getting slightly faster with each passing exhale.

You do not see it. You are, as it is, asleep.

You're wearing his shirt. This is what has him still as stone, drawing his eyes over you in slow drags that he just can't seem to put an end to.

It's not an elaborate shirt. It's not even one of his best ones— the royal seamstresses have laden him with shirts of silk and fine woven cotton, embellished with hours of needlework or, in some horrifying cases, even beading. He has shirts of every color and shade, shirts of damask and velvet, shirts for summer and shirts for winter. Tunics from Dorne. Doublets from the Reach. Myrish robes. Qartheen samite vests.

You have chosen none of those. The one you have chosen is as simple a garment as he would choose on any given day, to wear against his skin beneath his doublet. White linen gauze, unembellished, unadorned. Its sleeves almost as billowing as its body, coming to plain rectangular cuffs. A simple collar, a sturdy yoke across the shoulders, double-stitched to keep it from unraveling. It is, in a word, efficient. Standard.

He knows, without having to ask you, that you chose to wear this shirt specifically because it is standard. Because it is one that he wears often. The cuffs have gone slightly soft with the wear, the neckline just a bit stretched along the bias. The felled seams are coming undone just a touch at the hem, a fact that he always sees but hasn't brought to the attention of his attendant, because it would mean a week of waiting to have it repaired. It is unfussy. But it is his.

And you are curled up in it like a kitten, asleep in his bed, your leg thrown over a pillow that you had moved toward his side of the bed in his absence. He has spent too long at his work, he knows. You spent too long waiting for him— long enough that you removed your nightgown and donned one of his shirts, and you fell asleep like that. Alone. In the bed you are meant to share with him.

Baelor feels a tightness in his chest that is ringed with fondness, an aching longing for you that hadn't stopped after your wedding, and doesn't seem like it will any time soon. He is too taken with you, too in love and consumed by it for that intrinsic sense of need for you to fade. It is a tender thing, tied around his heart in an intricate knot, with a tail that you hold the end of. You twirl it around your little finger and he buckles like a man who has never seen combat, who doesn't know what it is to stand his ground.

Baelor sighs as he undresses, but he keeps one eye on you all the while, as though you may disappear if he moves too far away. But you don't move. You don't even stir, when his belt hits the stone floor, or when his breeches follow. You are caught up in a world of dreams, unaware of what the sight of your sleeping form is doing to your husband, bringing him to the brink of something he has never quite been able to put a name to.

You do not stir when his hand presses into the mattress.

You do not stir when his weight dips the bedding and he moves slowly, purposefully, over you.

You do, however, stir just the smallest bit when his fingers dance over the curve of your hip through the fabric, feeling its drape over the soft plush of your skin. The meat of your ass, the swell of your thigh. Baelor feels, smoothing and caressing with a languid stroke that is not intended to rouse you, although he knows very well that it might and he does it anyway. Your fingers flex on the pillow that you clutch instead of him.

He finds himself, at that moment, inordinately envious of a pillow. A lump of fabric and feathers in your hands, between your thighs.

His hand grows bolder, a broad stroke over the small of your back, into the dip of your waist. You make a small noise in your throat, twitching the slightest bit as he passes over a particularly sensitive area.

"Shh, my sweet girl," Baelor whispers quietly, a lulling murmur in the darkness. Everything about you is soft— your skin, the fabric of his shirt as it lays over you, your hair, the expression on your face, the candle light on your sleeping body. It overwhelms him. It turns him into something that he's not normally, unless he is with you: a man. Not a Prince, and not the Hand of the King or heir to the throne. Not a warrior and not a subject of songs and poetry, myths and stories. With you, in this bed, he is simply a man in love with his wife, devoted beyond measure.

By the time his hand reaches your nape, your eyes are fluttering open the barest amount. Your face is still pressed slightly into the pillow, but you shift, a perking of your head as awareness returns to you. "Baelor?"

"It's me," he tells you, his voice low enough to not even constitute words.

"Mm. Waited for you," you mumble, confirming what he already knew.

His eyes crease at the corners, his smile overly tender. "I know. I'm here now."

Even as he says it, his hand is finding the hem of his shirt draped over your thigh, its frayed edge tickling against the smoothness of your skin. You hum quietly, dropping your eyelids against the feeling of his warm hand, burrowing between pillow and fabric and skin to find you, bare and wet and waiting for him.

"Oh," you sigh when his fingertip draws a slow circle around your clit.

"I know," he reassures you again, pressing a chaste, sweet kiss to the back of your neck. "I know, my love."

You turn your head further into the pillow beneath you, letting out a small whine at the feeling, your hips arching into his touch. He responds in kind, laying his weight flush to your back, his hand pinned between you and the pillow below.

"You're wearing my shirt," he remarks, his fingers finding your entrance and sliding in, stretching you open quick enough to make you keen softly. He gives you a few shallow strokes, feeling you grind back into the press of his cock against your tailbone. "My beautiful wife, wearing my clothes."

"W-Wanted to— to feel you— mm." Your voice is still slightly slurred with sleep, the heat of his body and the slowness of his movements doing nothing to rouse you more. You are still somewhere between awake and dreaming, pleasantly lulled, drowsy in your responses to him. Still, you moan at the curving of his fingers. "Wanted you… close to me…"

"Then let me be close," Baelor whispers, dragging the wilting fabric of his shirt up over your hips. He puffs a sigh through his nose, the ghost of it breezing against your neck. "What am I to do with you, hm?"

You make a pathetic noise when he moves your thighs apart to fit himself between them, his chest pressed to the curve of your spine, the thin fabric of his shirt separating you. He kisses you beneath the ear.

"You can sleep, darling," he tells you quietly, a whisper into your ear as his cock settles heavy between your thighs, the head sliding hotly against your cunt. Even though his voice is low, it booms through you like a thunderclap. "You need rest."

"I need you," you retort, but your own voice is far off, dipping towards the fogginess of sleep already.

Your eyes flutter shut, a gentle sigh of relief leaving you when he enters you slowly, stretching you open around him. Pressure on your back, pressure between your legs, pressure where his hand is pinned and lifting your hips from the front, angling them back towards him. Baelor's arm comes up to brace beside your head, and the scent of him surrounds you— the same scent that always drives you crazy, juniper and peppercorn, and something slightly like the salt of a raging sea.

You breathe in deep, exhale on a contented, fulfilled hum. Your entire world is Baelor, your mind and body consumed by him completely. His body spanning the length of you, bone to bone, naked skin to thin, ineffectual fabric.

You clench around him, and Baelor makes a noise as though you've punched him. So close to your ear, the headiness of it is echoed tenfold. Then he shifts his weight, dropping his hips ever-so-slightly, and then just grinds into you. His cock nestles into the deepest part of you and you groan, your mouth dropping open and face turning towards the breadth of his arm beside you.

"Baelor," you whimper, soft and broken, slurred from the recesses of sleep. Your hand finds his bicep, drawn taut from the muscle holding him up, keeping him from crushing you completely. Your fingers dig in, pull. A silent plea, a command that he follows like a dog on a leash.

Baelor fits his forearm under your head and lifts, letting you rest your chin there against the crook of his elbow, getting you into a loose headlock. Your hand wraps loosely around his upper arm, your body lax, letting him rut his hips shallowly into yours.

"My beautiful girl," he breathes into your ear, and you feel his teeth, bared with intent. His nose pressed to the shell, his beard scraping rough against your cheek. "My heart. My soul."

His arm tightens. Just a tad, but just enough. You mewl like a wounded animal, stretching your limbs so that he can move closer in, can fit his mouth to the curve of your throat, while he throbs somewhere deep in you that makes your head spin and your breath stick in your chest. His weight on you turns full, crushing, an all-over press that pins you flat to the bed, the pillow tucked beneath your stomach.

You are no longer asleep.

"Say it," he tells you, a primal rasp to his voice that wasn't there before. Low, smoky. A dragon. It's dragged from the pit of him, from some hell that lurks deep inside his body. His groan slinks down your spine and pools as raw energy right above where his cock hollows out and reaches the end of you. "Say that you're mine."

"M'yours," you murmur into his arm, breathing in the hot air that radiates from him. "Baelor. M-My heart. My soul—"

A guttural sound leaves you, your open mouth muffled by the bite you take of his bicep when he pulls his hips back and ruts into you hard, hard enough to shake the bed. Baelor's breath in your ear is shaky, stilted with the desperation of his movements, the purpose for which he collects himself.

"Gods above," he groans, his face turned into your neck just as yours is turned into his arm. With great effort, he loosens his hold on you. He presses an apologetic kiss to the curve of your shoulder. "I'm sorry. So sorry, my love."

You make a short noise, shake your head once. "Do it again."

Baelor does as you tell him. He pulls back slowly, letting his cock drag through your walls just before rushing back in with a jolt up the bed. Soft hair grinds against the plush of your ass, his mouth open and heaving with gasps against your shoulder, covered in the fabric of his shirt.

You can taste his need in the salt on his skin, beads of sweat forming in the crook of his elbow, fiery heat pressed flush to your back. "I need to— to wear your clothes more often."

"Yes." The word is hungry. It leaves no room for defiance. "You will."

The hand pinned between you and the pillow moves, snakes down to find your clit again. You are blinded with white light behind your eyelids, your breath gone still in your chest. Then, you pant like your air has no place to go, your hand tightening on his bicep, his arm tightening around your throat.

"Mm. There." The sound of his voice in your ear, while he fingers at your clit and his cock makes you so full that you can barely think, undoes you. Tremors take over your body, and you feel him smile as he continues to work at you. "That's what you get. I want you shaking."

"Baelor." You cum around him, with his full weight holding you down with nowhere to go. You are held hostage to it, to the slow, seductive movements of his hips, the lazy strokes of his finger against your clit.

"That's it. My good girl," Baelor purrs into your ear, and you sob as you clench around him. "My good, sweet, beautiful—"

He runs his tongue lightly across the nape of your neck and groans, ducking his head as he cums. His moans are muffled by his shirt on your back, his body curled over yours like fog. He presses his hips hard against yours, as though he can become a part of you if he gets close enough, deep enough.

"Oh, my love." His whisper falls upon your ears like a dream, like you may wake up and not remember it. But he's real, and he's there on top of you with his heart pounding against your back, and his fist in the fabric of his shirt, the one that started all of this.

He stays there for a breath, and then two. His hips are still flush to yours, but he's stopped moving, stopped the slow grind and the desperate, cloying attempt to get as far inside of you as he possibly could. He simply holds there, with his arm still around your throat, but not pressing in anymore. Just holding. Just cradling.

"I don't know if you noticed," Baelor says after a moment, his voice tremulous and padded by a wad of fabric between his teeth, at the nape of your neck. He releases it. "But I quite like it when you wear my clothes."

You huff a laugh, and press a kiss to the inside of his elbow. "If you do that every time, I may never get any sleep."

Baelor hums. "The chances are very slim, indeed."

Even so, you wear the same shirt the next night. And the one after that.

You don't get much sleep.

You could feel the heat of the sun hitting your bare skin even at this early hour in King's Landing.

Stirring, you hugged the cool bedsheets to your body, hoping the feeling of them might lull you back to sleep. But the air was already heavy with summer's warmth; you decided to just rest your eyes instead.

Baelor had suggested you go to Summerhall, where it was more pleasant at this time of year. You would be able to rest better there, he said. And he was probably right, but the idea of going to bed and waking without the feeling of his body next to yours...

That you might feel the first flutters of your child without him by your side...

The thought broke your heart. So you stayed in King's Landing.

A sweet warmth rose in you, and you placed your hand under your heart; you were not so far along, but the curve of your belly swelled a little more day by day.

Suddenly, you felt a hand over yours and Baelor's stubble against your shoulders. You smiled as he held you close, even despite the heat.

'Good morning, my love,' he murmured against your skin.

'Mmmm,' you turned your face so you could kiss him. There was something nice about waking early because of the summer: you could spend some more time together before Baelor had to leave to tend to his duties.

Some of these mornings were spent slowly, sunbathing together; he called for fresh fruit, and you broke your fast together.

Other times, he devoured you instead.

Those days, you could feel his passion even before you opened your eyes; he only reached over, and you already knew he woke up with his cock hard.

At first, he tried to hold back, afraid he'd hurt you or the babe. But you wanted him, too: seeing him desire you like that ignited a need that you suspected was enhanced by your pregnancy. You won't hurt me, you said to him, as you begged him to fuck you.

This morning, his hand gently caressed the small mound under your heart.

'How are we today?' he asked softly.

'Resting so well. Still no sign from the babe,' you shifted your head to see him, 'It's strange. Shouldn't it be...'

'I'm sure it's alright. It's early still,' he reassured you as he kept stroking your belly with his knuckles, 'Don't worry.'

You sighed, knowing he was right, but you couldn't help it. In some ways, you knew you wouldn't truly relax until you brought the child into the world. Baelor must have seen that in your eyes because he planted a kiss on your lips.

'What can I do for you?' he breathed softly.

He took his fingers and, with a featherlike touch, he ran his fingertips along your side; you slept naked because of the heat, and your skin felt especially sensitive these days. You shuddered.

'Hmm...' you sighed softly. It escaped your lips without warning: you couldn't help it when he caressed you like that. His fingers were barely touching you–just the tips of them glossing over your body–but the light tickle woke a hungry feeling in you.

'Is that good?' he asked of you, and you nodded. His hand ran along your spine, and your body trembled under it.

He'd do this for as long as he could, watching and marveling as your body, out of your control, chased the movement of his hands like the disturbed surface of water. He'd listen as long as he could to your sighs that grew from pleased to desperate; he denied you his full touch as long as he was able to.

It amazed you when you first realized what this did to you. He barely had to touch you, and by the end, you were writhing and moaning from just the soft brush of his fingertips on your skin. When he couldn't hold back any longer, he spread your legs and stared at the wet mess your cunt had become.

Perhaps it was the pregnancy that made you more sensitive; you couldn't know. You pressed your thighs together as you felt the slickness grow between them now.

Baelor pressed his mouth to your ears.

'What am I going to see when I open you up?'

His knuckles were brushing from your waist back up to your neck. You whined softly at the sensation.

'I'm already soaked for you–' you uttered, fingers digging into the pillows. You could feel his hardness pressing into your back; he hid it better, but this had an effect on him too. It was only a question of time when he broke.

'Don't even have to touch you to make you act like this,' he whispered in your ear.

His hand trailed lower and lower, then rested on your backside.

You angled yourself, beckoning him to feel between your legs; he moved his fingers there. You were drenched, and his fingers running against you made an obscene sound. You could feel his hot breath against your neck as you pushed yourself to him.

'Is that all you'd like?' he inquired, already knowing the answer.

'No...'

'What else then?'

'You...' you could barely form the words. Heat rushed to your cheeks when you thought of how quickly he could undo you.

'Ask nicely,' he put up a good fight, but you could hear that his breath was ragged, and he was pressing his hips to you. You loved knowing how much he, too, needed you.

'Please fuck me, Baelor,' you breathed, 'make me yours again...'

He tore himself away from you, rolling you onto your back. Hovering above you, he kissed you greedily. Then, he moved his mouth lower until he reached your breasts, and when he took them in his mouth, you let out a cry. You were so sensitive, dull pain mixing with pleasure. He stayed like that for a while, licking and kissing your nipples, making you sob when his teeth grazed your hard peaks.

When he had had enough of teasing you, he straightened up and ran his hand over your belly. You knew he was looking at it; the evidence of what he'd done to you. His caress was gentle and so soft, but the desire in his eyes and his painfully erect length gave away how turned on he was by the sight of his pregnant wife.

You conceived that day in Ashford, when he finally came back to you; you were so caught up in relief and spending all your attention on nursing him back to health, you didn't even notice. After a few weeks at Ashford, you all went to Summerhall for Baelor to finish his recovery. It was there that you realized, but you dared not tell him till more time had passed and you were back in King's Landing; you did not wish to tempt fate.

In truth, you were still scared sometimes that you'd wake from a dream.

But as you lay there under the gaze of your husband, you couldn't think of that now. His eyes shifted lower from your belly to the sight of your glistening cunt. You held your breath as he leaned down, and when you felt his stubble between your thighs, you threw your head back.

The teasing from earlier and the combination of his tongue on you had you rutting on his face soon, and with your release still on his beard, he flipped you around so you were on your knees now.

He already knew you liked to be taken this way; passionate, sweet, devoted at first, then rough. You knew he wouldn't get as harsh now that you were with child, as before: when he'd grab your neck as he pumped into you from the back; when his fingers would tangle in your hair, holding you in place for him; when his hand would meet your ass in loud strikes. You loved knowing that the man who held you tenderly could also treat you like that.

Now he held back, but still gave you what you wanted. He fucked you from behind slowly, hands digging into your ass. You hoped they would leave a mark; you loved the signs on your body that you were his. The proof of his claim on you in your womb; the marks of his fingers digging into your ass that he'd kiss afterwards. They would never be enough for you.

He soon came spilling onto your stomach, and you thanked the summer heat for rousing you and gifting you these hours before everything else-duty, the Realm, and business called.

You met him at your cousin’s school performance. She had spent the entire week talking about her new best friend, Egg, and the moment the show ended she dragged you over to him to introduce you. 

Egg greeted you like he knew you forever, smiling brightly. He then introduced you to his father, who was standing behind him. Maekar merely inclined his head.

“Hello.”

One word in that voice, expression serious, ice blue eyes staring at you. That was all it took, and you felt your whole brain seize at the immediate crush you had on him.

Later that night while chatting with your best friend, you told her that you were apparently losing it. Because for the first time in your life, not only you developed a crush on a blond man, you wanted to desperately fuck said blond man.

Her response was immediate.

Thoughts and prayers. 

The second time you saw him was entirely by accident. You were doing some shopping therapy, when someone shouted your name loudly enough to startle half the other shoppers nearby. 

Egg came running towards you.

“There you are!” He announced, hugging you.

“I was not aware I was being hunted down.”

Egg rolled his eyes dramatically. Then you noticed Maekar approaching behind him. He wore a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms that immediately became the reason you forgot anything you were about to say.

You coughed and tried to recover, smiling sweetly at him. “It is nice to see you again.”

Maekar studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded.

“You as well.”

You spent the rest of the interaction trying very hard not to stare. 

The third time was at Egg’s birthday party. Your aunt and uncle could not attend, so you ended up accompanying your cousin. Not that you minded and Egg was happy to see you as well.

The children were having fun, and the adults were making small talk. Nearly an hour into a conversation about school admissions and property taxes, you decided you deserved a medal for endurance. The small talk got to you in the end, and you excused yourself.

While searching for the bathroom, you turned a corner and nearly collided with someone. A warm hand settled on your arm to steady you. You looked up and your breath hitched.

Maekar, who had just left his office and was looking at you with that unreadable expression again. 

“Oh my god, I am sorry!” You exclaimed.

“You need to watch where you are going.” He warned, but his hand did not leave your arm.

“I know, but I was trying to escape from the parents.” You laughed.

For the first time, you saw the faintest hint of amusement in his expression.

“Come with me.”

Fingers curling on your arm, you followed him into his office. His office was quieter than the rest of the house, insulated from the noise of dozens of children and parents.

A heavy silence settled between you as he poured a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling as he handed it to you. 

“I am glad I am not the only one who cannot stand the fuckers.” He almost growled, his voice so low that it made your stomach flip.

You let out a chuckle and downed the whiskey in one go, the burn of the alcohol almost mirroring the heat radiating from him. You caught him watching you as you did that. Not just your lips, but his gaze roamed greedily over your body, tracing the lines of your dress as if he were imagining exactly how to rip it off you.

His expression darkened at your slight, inviting nod, and the tension snapped.

He lunged forward, his mouth crashing hard against yours. The kiss was not gentle, it was a claim, a conquest. He tugged harshly at your lower lip with his teeth, and it made you moan loudly. You reacted instinctively, your fingers diving into his silver-blond hair, gripping tight as his tongue forced its way past your lips to claim every inch of your mouth. 

“Fuck…” He groaned as he firmly gripped your ass, pushing you more towards him. 

Not leaving your lips, his warm hand then slid under your dress to grip your thighs with bruising force, hoisting you up. You gasped as he moved, sitting you on the cold surface of his desk, his body pressing firmly between your thighs. You wrapped your legs firmly around his waist, pulling him closer.

You could feel the ridge of his hard cock through the fabric of his trousers and your soaked panties, pressing firmly against you. You arched, grinding yourself against him, moaning as his hips moved to meet yours.

The world outside the office ceased to exist. There was only the sound of your ragged breathing, his groans and the noise of your lips meeting his, your tongue touching his in desperate need. 

You were both on the verge of tearing each other’s clothes off, the hunger too visceral to be ignored anymore. But just as his hands moved to push your panties down, and yours moved to open his trousers, you both froze.

The distant sound of Egg’s laughter echoed, a sharp reminder of the occasion. 

He pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, noses touching as both of you struggled to catch your breath. His eyes were almost black, filled with a raw and agonizing lust.

“Dammit.” He hissed, the word a guttural curse.

He could not do it, not here, not during his son’s party. But the restraint was clearly torture. 

Before you slid out of the office, you gave him your phone number and he captured your lips one last time in a bruising, possessive kiss that tasted of whiskey and promise. He let you go, but the look he gave you as you walked out the door told you exactly what he planned to do to you the moment you were alone.

The fourth time you met Maekar was on a date he set up after three long, agonising days. The air between you was thick, tension simmering during dinner.

You wore your favourite little black dress, playing the part of the civil companion while your mind was simmering with desire. Every time his gaze roamed over you, you could feel the phantom sensation of his tongue, his teeth, and the heavy weight of his cock pressed against. 

You knew he was fighting the same war, his eyes already darkened with a possessive heat.

Any pretense to civility shattered the moment you were alone. There was no slow build, only a desperate, frantic need to touch one another, for him to be inside of you. 

Your moans echoed loudly in the living room. You were perched on top of him, your hands gripping his shoulders as you sank down, taking every bit of his thick cock. He stretched your walls to a delicious, aching fullness that made your toes curl and your vision blur. Maekar’s hands were iron clamps on your hips, anchoring you firmly as he leaned forward to latch his mouth onto one of your nipples, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

On the floor beside the couch, the remnants of your red lace underwear lay destroyed, torn in his haste to get inside you.

You began to move slowly, hips rolling in a rhythmic, grinding movement before you lifted yourself high. A loud groan ripped from his throat as you slammed back down with force, burying him deep in you. He released your breast, trailing wet, searing kisses up your neck before capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. Your fingers tangled deep into his silver-blond hair, pulling him closer, needing more of him. 

“Maekar-” You whimpered against his mouth, the sound cut short as his palm connected with your ass.

“You liked that?” He chuckled darkly, hissing as you gripped him tighter when he delivered another spank.

“Yes!” You keened, the sharp pain sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your clit. 

You picked up the pace, your breath coming in ragged gasps. “Please… please Maekar do not stop.”

He delivered a few more firm spanks that left your skin glowing red. He moaned loudly, his head tossed back to the couch as your walls tightened around him like a vice.

“Fuck, you are so tight…” He groaned, your name sounding like a prayer on his lips. “You feel like heaven.”

His praise made you blush, and you were shaking, hovering on the edge of a cliff.

“You liked that, did you not?” He asked, his voice a low, commanding rumble. “Like to be told how good you are?”

You could only nod, kissing him again with a desperate hunger, your hips moving in a blur. 

“I did... oh, so much…” You barely managed to choke out.

Suddenly, his hand shot up, fingers wrapping firmly around your throat. He squeezed, cutting off your air just enough to make your head swim and your heart hammer against your ribs. The sensation sent another jolt of pleasure through your clit, your pupils dilating as you looked down into his almost black eyes.

He released you just as the need for air became desperate, his hand winding into your hair and tugging your head back harshly to expose your throat. He shifted his weight, his hips surging upward in tandem with yours, driving himself even deeper. 

“You are mine now!” He growled, the possessiveness in his tone absolute, his grip on your hair tightening as he claimed you completely.

“Yes! Yours!” You almost screamed, your walls clenching around him as you both spiraled towards release.

Because the last time you had been at a party and ended up drunk with Daeron, Maekar knew what happened. His jaw made that specific movement at remembering that the mole on your right underboob was common knowledge for both Daeron and him.

He did not want a repeat of that exact sequence of risk, even though the outcome had ultimately worked out in his favour years later. Mostly because he did not believe in pressing his luck twice.

"Fine," he'd said. Flatly. "I'll drive."

"You don't have to come in," you'd said.

"I'm coming in," he'd said, in the tone of a man who had already lost this argument with himself and was simply informing you of the result.

Which was how Maekar found himself standing against the wall of a club at eleven-thirty at night, arms crossed, wearing a black button-up that he had clearly put some thought into despite his ongoing and vocal disapproval of the entire evening, looking like a man personally offended by the bass-boosted music.

"You look thrilled," you said, handing him a water you'd bought him without being asked.

"I look like a man in a club," he flatlined his voice.

"Same thing, with you."

The almost-smile. Brief. Gone before you could enjoy it.

Daeron appeared with two drinks, deposited one in your hand, and surveyed his father with the expression of a man assessing a situation for comedic potential. "He's been standing like that for twenty minutes," he reported. "Like a bouncer who hates the bar."

"I'm doing you both a favour," Maekar said.

"You're doing yourself a favour," Daeron said. "You'd have spent the whole night at home wondering if we were dead in a ditch. Or worse."

Maekar didn't dispute this, which was as close to a confession as he was likely to offer.

You drank your drink. Daeron drank his. Maekar stood against the wall radiating the specific energy of a man counting down the minutes until he could reasonably suggest leaving, and you looked at his sour expression and felt a small, specific, entirely deliberate idea begin to form.

You looked at Daeron. Daeron, who knew that look, grinned immediately.

"Oh, we're doing this," he said.

"We're absolutely doing this," you smiled widely.

The plan, such as it was, required very little explanation, because Daeron had been waiting his entire adult life for an excuse to mess with his father and required no convincing whatsoever. You had to admit, as Maekar's eyes followed his son, that the kid had courage.

You pulled him onto the dance floor. Close. Closer than strictly necessary for two people who were, definitionally, just friends — your back to his chest, his hands loosely at your hips in the universal gesture of platonic dance-floor chaos, both of you grinning at each other like co-conspirators, because you were.

You did not look at Maekar.

You didn't have to. You felt it. The specific quality of attention from across the room, the bass thudding and the lights moving and underneath all of it the very distinct sensation of being watched by someone whose patience was finite and currently being tested on purpose.

Daeron spun you, laughing, entirely too pleased with himself. "He's physically vibrating," he reported, over the music. "I can see it from here. He's doing the jaw thing."

"Good," you said, and let Daeron dip you slightly, theatrically, both of you committing to the performance with the full enthusiasm of people who knew exactly what they were doing and were prepared to suffer the consequences just for the comedy of it.

You didn't get much further than that.

Maekar crossed the dance floor in a way that should not have been physically possible at that speed for a man his size, and his hand closed around your wrist — not roughly, but with absolute finality — and the next thing you knew you were being pulled away from Daeron and into Maekar's chest with the kind of decisiveness that left no room for negotiation.

"Having fun?" you said, looking up at him.

"No," he almost growled.

"You looked very calm from over there."

"I was not calm," he said. His jaw was doing the thing. His hand had moved to your waist, broad and certain, and he was looking down at you with an expression that was several things stacked on top of each other — irritation at the surface, and underneath it something much less composed and hungry.

"Daeron's just dancing with me," you said. Innocent, doe eyes. Devastatingly so.

"Daeron," Maekar said, without looking away from you, "is going to regret this."

From several feet away, Daeron — who had not stopped grinning since the wrist-grab — called out, "Worth it!"

Maekar exhaled through his nose. Then his hand at your waist tightened, slightly, and he pulled you in against him properly, his height and his size doing the thing they always did, surrounding you, and his voice dropped low enough that only you could hear it over the bass.

"Need I remind you who you belong to?" Flat. Certain. The same way he always said it, except now with an edge underneath that hadn't been there before.

"I know," you said.

"Then don't make me cross a dance floor like that again."

"You didn't have to."

"I did," he said, "and you knew I would, which is why you did it."

You smiled at him. He looked at you for a long moment with the specific expression of a man who knew exactly what had just happened and could not entirely bring himself to be angry about it, the almost-smile threatening at the corner of his mouth despite his best efforts.

"You're such a brat," he said.

"You love it."

A pause. Something flickered behind his eyes — the specific complicated thing that happened whenever the word love came anywhere near a sentence about the two of you, even sideways, even teasing. He didn't deny it.

"Dance with me instead," he said. Not a request, exactly. More an instruction with the faintest edge of something that might, in a different man, have been called asking nicely.

"You never dance," you said.

"I'm making an exception," he said, "so Daeron stops getting any ideas."

You let him pull you in properly. He was not, strictly speaking, a good dancer — more a man standing very solidly in one place with his hands on your hips, swaying with the controlled minimalism of someone applying engineering principles to a problem he hadn't anticipated solving tonight — but it was effective, and it was his, and you were significantly more interested in this than in continuing the bit.

From the edge of the dance floor, Daeron watched the whole thing with the expression of a man who had just witnessed peak comedy and intended to discuss it at length for the rest of the night.

"I'm telling Daella about this," he said as he passed both of you on his way back to the place you had been occupying.

"Don't," Maekar said, without turning around.

"I'm telling everyone about this."

Maekar's jaw worked as Daeron disappeared. His hands stayed exactly where they were, on your hips, and he looked down at you instead of dignifying his son with a response.

"Worth it?" you asked him quietly.

The almost-smile, finally allowed through. "Don't push it," he said, but his hands had gone soft at your waist, and that told you everything his words weren't going to.

Daeron, watching from a safe distance with a drink in each hand and an expression of pure unfiltered delight, simply said to himself, "Short fuse on that man. Absurd. Iconic."

remember how i told you yesterday that i'd be out of order until Sunday? yeah, well...

—※—

The prince’s dream always begins the same.

Always the same meadow.

Always the same mist.

Always the same terrible certainty. It has been plaguing him for weeks now…

Each time the meadow lies surrounded by a forest so dense with ancient trees and thorny undergrowth that no light seems able to reach the forest floor. A wall of green, almost black, as though the woods themselves want to conceal the horror that waits at the heart of the grassy field. 

Today the prince notices something is different…

Until now, the dream had unfolded with him as a bodiless bystander. This time he’s no longer merely watching. He stands at the edge of the meadow, feeling his actual body, touching the grass, the mud. Sensing the cold of the foggy morning as a shiver runs down his spine.

As always he is involuntarily drawn towards the center of the field. Wisps of thick, curling mist drift by like clouds, concealing something from view. The cold grey light of morning makes it even harder to see anything amidst the fog. The wet smell of last night's downpour still lingers in the air.

The same thought crosses his mind, as it always does. He has always loved the scent that lingers in the air after a downpour. The way it sharpens every other scent. The way it makes the world feel clean. The way it makes him feel alive. Yet this is different. The air is cold, thick, and wet against his skin, as though the meadow itself seeks to pull him under. Beneath the scent of rain lurks something else. Something foul. Still, he has no choice but to continue. The prince knows what awaits him. 

A sudden gust of wind lifts the fog just for a moment, and there it lies. Although he has dreamt this many times, he is still startled and marvels at the sheer size of the creature. There, in the middle of the field, lies the form of a mighty black dragon. Slain. Its wings are shattered. Its body is broken. Its maw slightly agape. The beast is dead.

The prince notices he is standing closer than in previous dreams. If he reaches out, he can touch it.

Suddenly, he catches sight of the large figure of a man kneeling beside the dragon's head. Dressed like a knight, wearing hauberk and gorget, yet looking utterly forlorn. His hands are resting on one side of the giant scaled snout. The knight looks bloodied and broken himself as he mumbles the same things over and over:

"Wake up, Ser. Wake up."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The words are close by, as if they are meant for the prince. He knows this man, the hedge knight. A true knight. The prince wants to say something to comfort him.

I need good men, Ser Duncan. The realm needs good men...

A sudden scream, high and terrible, pierces the air. The image of the dragon and the hedge knight fades as Prince Baelor Targaryen feels himself falling, the meadow swallowing him whole.

Only darkness remains.

How much time has passed, he does not know. There had been pain and his fingers had felt like wood, but no longer. A dull light seeps through his lashes as he carefully opens his eyes.

A numbing cold surrounds his body. It is the mist again. The prince is surrounded by a thick white mist that seems to shroud everything, even him.

The meadow still?

There seems to be no end to it.

Sudden hushed voices startle him. Their sound is far away and distorted as though his entire being is submerged underneath icecold water.

From the corner of his eye he notices a light amidst the endless dull white. Growing brighter as it beckons him, drawing him like a moth to a flame. The dulled voices grow louder and mingle into one. Still, Baelor thinks he can discern voices of those he had loved and those he had lost. The thought of it feels comforting.

The prince becomes aware of a presence approaching from within the light. Whispering his name. Inviting him. Welcoming him. 

"Baelor."

Although he can't see it, he feels he must be standing before the Stranger. Folds of radiance are coiling about the prince’s feet, around his limbs. Taking hold of his very being. "Let go," it tells him gently. "Let go, Baelor."

Though the sensation frightens him at first, it soon becomes strangely peaceful. Filling him with warmth as he starts to move towards it.

Another voice, gentle, one he does not immediately recognize, echoes through the mist. A breeze brushes past him, making him turn from the light. For a fleeting moment, the white haze lifts.

There, standing amidst the fog, is a young woman.

Her long hair cascades in waves over her body. Wearing nothing but a simple shift. Strands of hair cling to her temples, dampened by sweat. Her face looks pale, dark shadows beneath tired eyes that are searching frantically for something…

For someone.

She sees Baelor. Although startled at first, relief quickly softens her weary yet beautiful face. "There you are, my dragon. I thought I'd lost you."

Where did you come from?

From the light, more tendrils of radiance reach for the prince. A powerful pull makes him turn back towards it. Laying claim to him. All those times he had danced with death upon the battlefield, he had been aware of the Stranger's presence. Knowing that sooner or later the god would come for him.

Why fight it?

If my time has come, what use is there in warring against it? My entire life has been spent in service to others. To the crown. To the realm. To my family. If you will have my service now, Stranger, then let it be so. I am not afraid.

"Don't go, my dragon."

“You have to try.” Her voice again. Gentle. Pleading. And so familiar.

Something inside him stirs. For the first time, he wavers, resisting the mist. Resisting the pull. Suddenly, the bright light no longer feels inviting. It feels cold. Distant. Wrong.

“Let go, Baelor,” the combined voice tells him again, almost soothing. It doesn't command him. Yet the pull of the light becomes stronger. The coils of radiance start to absorb him. Still, the prince feels a strong need to look over his shoulder.

There she is. Closer now. Almost within reach. A careful smile upon her face.

“Please, do not give in.”

“Fight.”

Baelor feels it. A spark. A fire from within. His fire.

No!

With a great effort, he tears himself free from the pull of the blinding white radiance and turns completely towards her. She stands waiting.

"You are brave, my dragon."

"Fight!"

The woman stretches out her hand towards him. Power surges through his body, power he had thought long lost. Baelor reaches out.

And he takes your hand.

Somewhere in the meadow, the fallen dragon stirs. A deep rumbling breath escapes him. The beast opens his bicolored eyes to the light of the new morning.

—※—

Baelor wakes with sweat upon his brow and a scream caught in his throat. He feels immensely cold. A shiver runs involuntarily through his body. For a brief moment, he does not know where he is.

The soft greyish light of approaching dawn fills the room. The great bed with its silk sheets stands in stark contrast to the all-consuming brightness he had been battling only moments before. The peaceful figure lying beside him is an even greater one.

There you are. He recognizes you.

As you stir awake, you slowly turn towards him, smiling as you rest a gentle hand upon his chest. "It's alright," you murmur, caressing him over his heart. "The meadow again?" It is more a statement than a question.

Baelor nods.

You move closer, resting your head against his chest, and his arm instinctively comes around you. Familiar in doing so.

As he settles beside you, a sharp pain suddenly splits the back of his head. With his free hand, he reaches for the spot.

"Careful," you tell him, looking up at his face with concern. "The maesters say you shouldn't touch it."

He relaxes and presses a kiss to your forehead. Your skin is cool and soft. Gently, he rests his cheek against the crown of your head. The scent of your hair reminds him of all kinds of wildflowers.

"I'm still dreaming," he sighs.

"Then this is a good dream," you reply with a smile.

"The fallen dragon in the meadow. It was me. I was dying. It felt so real." Baelor releases a trembling breath he did not realize he had been holding.

"I know.” You answer. “The maesters say you came very close."

"I saw you there. I heard your voice amidst the vast white nothingness." He pauses. "You reached for me and told me to fight. I took your hand." Baelor smiles faintly, covering the soft hand that rests on his chest with his larger one. "I have the feeling I owe you my life. I am grateful."

"There were many skilled people involved in saving you. I'm sure they are more deserving of your gratitude. Though I must admit, me saving you has a rather nice ring to it. And if that is so, then I am the one who is grateful."

You smile softly. "I think you saved me as well."

He gathers you properly into his arms, breathing in the flowery scent that seems to cling to your hair and skin. It is intoxicating.

Baelor holds you a little tighter, causing you to gasp softly. Suddenly, he is afraid that if he lets go, you will disappear. Gently, he cups your face and carefully draws you closer, lifting your chin to kiss you. Softly at first. Almost hesitantly. As though it is the first time your lips meet. He pulls away, only for a moment, to look at you. Your eyes are wide as you blink up at him, a little bashful.

"You are a marvel," Baelor whispers.

Strong fingers reverently trace the gentle curve of your jaw, the apple of your cheek. His thumb brushes over your lower lip. You part your lips. A careful smile. But an inviting one. As your smile widens, one cheek dimples ever so slightly.

Baelor quickly closes the small distance between you and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Hungry for you. Hungry for life. He no longer feels cold.

—※—

Gentle waves wash over the sand, as the two of you are walking along the beach, their sound peaceful and soothing. Just like the days you spent together.

Baelor watches as you wade through the shallows, feet bare, skirts gathered above your knees, lost in thought as you stoop to collect seashells washed ashore. He hears you mutter softly, a little annoyed, as a loose strand of hair escapes and blows into your face. The prince smiles. You look up and smile back. Your face is bright with delight. That beautiful dimple in your cheek again.

Where did you come from?

Behind him, the usually menacing castle of Dragonstone almost appears peaceful, like a sleeping dragon curled upon the cliffs. Content and untroubled by the woes of the world.

The prince reclines against a cushion nestled into the grass-covered dune. He can smell the wildflowers growing nearby as a soft breeze gently stirs them. He cannot remember there being so many flowers upon the island.

From the corner of his eye, he notices a robed figure approaching. In one hand the man carries a candle, in the other a small flask. It strikes him as odd. A sharp pain flashes through the back of his head. Sunlight catches the chains around the man's neck.

Maester Yormwell?

Coming to a halt, the maester towers over the prince. He offers no greeting. He merely sighs and places the candle and the flask beside Baelor in the sand.

Milk of the poppy?

"I have a headache, Yormwell, but it is a minor one. I have no need of the tonic." The prince frowns. "And is that candle truly necessary in broad daylight?" No answer.

The sea continues its gentle rhythm. Yet the maester says nothing. An uneasy feeling settles in the prince's stomach.

Baelor turns to call your name. Suddenly he realizes he does not know it.

The thought strikes him harder than any blow could have. He knows the sound of your laughter. He knows the feel of your hand in his. He knows the scent of flowers in your hair. He knows you. Yet he does not know your name.

How can this be?

You look up then. Hair flowing in the breeze, suddenly wearing the same shift from the meadow. Mist rolls in from the sea behind you as you walk towards your prince. You kneel before him and cup his face in both your hands. Then you kiss him. Deeply. Ardently. As though trying to memorize him.

A soft whimper escapes you when at last you pull away. Still, you do not let go. However, something begins to draw you back. Forcing you to release him.

"No..." The word leaves him in a whisper.

The mist thickens. It swallows the shore. The dunes. Dragonstone. Maester Yormwell. And finally, you. Only the candle remains. Its lonely flame flickering in the white nothingness.

"It's time to wake, my dragon."

Baelor hears your voice one last time. Soft. Tender. And unbearably sad.

"Goodbye."

—※—

The prince opens his eyes.

Though his vision is blurred, he looks around the room. It is dark, and flashes of yellow candlelight almost blind him.

Where are you, my love?

A sudden gasp, followed by quickly receding footsteps and hushed voices. Baelor tries to focus on the room he is in. There is a burning sensation every time the light touches his eyes, as if he is staring directly into the sun.

"Your grace?" A soft male voice, almost a whisper. A bright light closing in.

"The light… it hurts my eyes." A whisper. Baelor’s throat feels incredibly sore.

"Seven be praised. Go wake the king. The Grand Maester. Wake them all! At once, boy!"

Most of the light moves away again. A soft thud as something is placed on the cabinet beside his bed. Baelor knows where he is. The Red Keep. Home.

"Some water, please, Maester Yormwell."

A sound that is half relief, half disbelief escapes the man as he steps closer. A hand gently supports Baelor’s back, lifting him slightly from his pillows, while a cup is brought to his lips.

"Drink, your grace. Careful now."

The familiar voice of the maester who has served him for years. Baelor tries to focus, but he sees only a vague figure leaning over him. He tries to sit up a bit more. Pain explodes through the back of his head and down his spine. He collapses back into the pillows with a groan.

"No, your grace. Do not exert yourself." Yormwell’s hands guide him back down carefully.

"You have been asleep for almost four moons, my prince." A pause. "We can only wait to see what effect the blow and your long slumber have had on your body."

The blow. The trial. Ashford. It comes back in pieces. Muddy fields. Knights who remembered their vows. Blood on steel. Blood against blood. And him. The fallen dragon.

All his dreams of the meadow had warned him of that moment. Nightmares, really. And you? You were never there. Just a shadow his mind had created to survive those months in the dark. A sudden pain tightens in his chest. Baelor releases a shaking breath.

"Rest, your grace," the maester says softly, misunderstanding the pain.” Your family will want to see you soon.”

The prince closes his eyes. Darkness envelopes him.

When he opens them again, morning has come. Slowly his eyesight adjusts to the light. He finds his mother kneeling at the side of his bed, gently holding his hand. The queen has been crying. A relieved smile crinkles the corners of her eyes. Behind her his father the king sits in a chair.

On the other side of the bed are his sons. Baelor smiles at Mataryss. Then looks at Valarr. The boy he remembered is gone, a man has taken its place. “Father…” The young man releases the breath he’s been holding.

I know my son.

Carefully Baelor reaches out, concealing how much pain and effort it takes him to lift his arm, and Valarr takes his hand. For now it’s enough.

After a short while the king ushers everyone from the room. “Rest son, your brothers, especially Maekar will want to see you, too.” They leave him with the promise of coming back soon. The prince stares up at the ceiling.

—※—

In the afternoon Maekar sits down in a chair beside his eldest brother’s bed. His fair brows drawn together in a familiar scowl, staring down at his own hands.

The silence in the room is tangible.

Baelor sits carefully perched up against a couple of large pillows. His body is very weak, aching all over. Still, against the maester’s wishes, he ordered the servants to help him up.

"Forgive me brother." Maekar suddenly breaks the silence. Something near to a tear escapes his eye. He notices it, and quickly wipes it away in embarrassment.

My brother. Always the soldier. Always strong.

"Don’t go soft on me now, Maekar," Baelor says weakly. The attempt at teasing is there, though his voice barely carries. His throat is still sore.

The younger prince huffs. "Never been accused of going soft in my entire life." A wry smile flickers across his face, gone almost immediately. Silence again. They sit in it for a while. Baelor studies his brother. There is relief in Maekar’s eyes. And something heavier beneath it. Something unspoken.

"You were protecting your son." Baelor tells him, at last. "You didn't know Ser Duncan would spare his life."

Maekar looks away. "Those little brats, the lot of them. Going around breaking girls fingers, lying to save their own sorry skins. Egg running away like that, twice." 

He inhales sharply. Shaking his head a little. "Dyanna would have known what to do with them. She always did.” A breath. “I was only ever good at making babes, not raising them." There is no humor in it. Only the truth. Maekar sighs.

Baelor says nothing. He simply reaches out and gently pats Maekar’s hand. A steadying gesture.

Maekar tenses. Then, slowly, covers Baelor’s hand with his own. The brothers stay like that for just a second. Both men withdraw, almost at the same time, as if the moment itself had been too exposed.

Maekar leans back in his chair with a strained grunt. "Fucking Ashford." He mutters under his breath.

Baelor raises an eyebrow.

"Some idiot yanked me off my saddle with a lance mid charge,” Maekar huffs, throwing his older brother a knowing look.

"Hmm. It tends to happen during a tourney, brother."

"Agreed. However, this fucker managed to do it while standing on the ground. I never saw it coming. Maesters say the angle cracked my ribs pretty bad."

"That is unfortunate. He sounds like a deft fighter."

"A fucking show-off more like."

"Good thing you knocked some sense into him."

Maekar stares at his brother in disbelief. Then scoffs.

A sudden laugh escapes Baelor. Too sharp. He winces, immediately regretting it.

"Too fucking soon brother." Maekar rumbles in response. Yet he can't help but laugh as well. Pressing a hand to his sore ribs.

"Look at us," Baelor murmurs. "What happened to Ser Duncan?"

"I let him take Egg as his squire. Wandering Westeros. Eating hard salt beef and sleeping in ditches. Don't look at me like that, the boy sends a raven sometimes.” A tired breath escapes him.

His mother and I named him after the conqueror but he wants to live like a bald beggar, squiring for a hedge knight. Might be good for him though."

"Ashford has changed you, Maekar."

I know it has changed me…

“Well, don’t tell anybody.”

“You have my word, brother.”

“You need your rest.” Maekar grunts as he stands up and makes for the door.

“Maeker,” Baelor calls after his brother hoarsely. “Let's try not to face each other in battle again."

"Let's fucking not!" The corner of his mouth lifts up slightly. Then he leaves.

Silence falls again, it is lighter now. A relief, if only for a moment.

Baelor leans back into his pillows. His gaze drifts to the window. To the daylight. To the world he has returned to. A gentle breeze comes in through the open window. Touching his face.

Wildflowers?

The prince thinks of you. And in that moment, Baelor understands, with a cold clarity settling into his bones, that this time he truly is awake. Yet, you will never be here. And there is nothing he can do about it.

—※—

The road to recovery proves longer and far more difficult than anyone around the prince seems willing to acknowledge. Still, he presses on. Slowly. Painfully.

The maesters call it remarkable. The realm calls it a miracle. Baelor calls it survival. He pours every ounce of frustration into the exercises prescribed by the maesters. Into rebuilding the strength of his limbs that no longer feel entirely like his own. Into sword drills until his muscles burn and his vision blurs. Into his duties as Hand of the King and heir to the Iron Throne. If he keeps moving, perhaps he will stop noticing that a part of him is missing. That something inside him is gone and left behind in the dreamworld, with you.

Still, the realm rejoices. The gods, they say, have spared a good man. A just man. A prince who stood for honor and for justice, defending a hedge knight, even against his own blood. Songs are sung of Baelor Targaryen at Ashford Meadow. Lords praise his courage. Smallfolk call his survival a miracle bestowed by the Seven themselves.

Baelor is less certain. He faced the Stranger. He remembers the cold. He remembers the light. And sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, he wonders whether some part of him never truly returned. Or perhaps something else returned in his place. Either way, he no longer feels at home within himself. He still carries out his duties with the same diligence he always has. Though his temper is shorter than it once was. His patience is thinner. He finds little cause for laughter these days.

His family notices, of course. How could they not? Yet what can they do? More than once, his sons enter his solar only to find their father staring into nothing. A scroll open beneath one hand, unread.

Once, Valarr finds his father standing at the window overlooking Blackwater Bay. Standing far too close to the edge. For a brief, terrible moment, his eldest son feels the urge to grab him. After that, for a while, someone is almost always nearby.

Valarr and Matarys find time to read quietly in the corner while Baelor works. Even Aerys and Rhaegel spend more time in his company than before. His mother brings her needlework. His father begins keeping him after council meetings, pouring them both a cup of wine and pretending there is still state business left to discuss.

Maekar visits often. More often than Baelor remembers him ever doing. Whenever the younger prince returns from Summerhall, he simply drags his brother to the training yard. "Only training swords today. No maces."

Baelor always huffs at the jest. Yet he goes.

They all mean well, so he lets them. They are trying to bring him back. And because the prince loves them, Baelor tries his best to pretend his family has succeeded. It only makes him feel more alone.

How can he explain it? How can he tell them that somewhere between life and death, he had found love? And then lost it again. How can he tell them that he mourns a woman who has never existed?

The echo of your voice lingers like mist across Blackwater Bay. Whenever the wind moves through the gardens, Baelor thinks of you. The memory of your face haunts him every waking moment. And at night, he dreams. Always the meadow. Always the dragon. And always you. He yearns for the moment he can shut his eyes and be close to you again.

In the beginning, you seem to know he is there. Whenever Baelor enters the dream, you look up. You smile. Sometimes you laugh softly, as though he has said something amusing. Sometimes you sit nestled safely between the dragon's great wings, reading a book whose words he can never quite make out. Sometimes you sing, your voice carrying across the meadow like a distant memory. And sometimes, you simply close your eyes and rest beneath the creature's sheltering wings.

The dragon is always there. No longer dead. No longer broken. It lies in the grass watching over you with its mismatched eyes, one blue and one a warm brown, its vast black wings keeping the cold mists at bay.

Baelor calls out to you every time. But you never answer. Perhaps you cannot hear him. And yet, he is convinced you know he is there.

Though the prince does not know your name, in his thoughts he begins calling you something else.

My wildflower.

At first, Baelor tells himself it is enough simply to see you. To hear your laughter carried across the meadow. To watch you reading beneath the dragon's wing, or sleeping peacefully beside the great black beast.

It is not enough.

Once, in that strange place between life and death, Baelor had touched you. He remembers the warmth of your skin. The softness of your body pressed against his own. The way you had clung to his hand when he thought he was dying.

Now, whenever the prince tries to reach you, the mist rises. It curls around his legs. His waist. His chest. He fights it. Every time. He reaches for the shape of you through the cold white fog. Sometimes he thinks he sees you reaching back. Then everything disappears. When he wakes, he finds himself cold and alone. And every morning feels like another loss.

As the months pass, the dreams become less frequent. Less clear. Sometimes the meadow does not come at all. Sometimes he hears only a distant voice. Sometimes he wakes unable to remember your face. Those mornings are the worst. 

In desperation, the prince orders the royal gardeners to fill the gardens with wildflowers. Beds upon beds of them. They look strangely out of place among the carefully shaped hedges and imported roses. Many fail to take root. Some wither within days. Baelor just orders them replanted. Again. And again. And again. Each wilted flower feels like a small betrayal. A reminder of a voice he has never truly heard. Of lips he has never truly kissed. Of a life that has never truly been his. You were never more than a ghost.

Eventually, he stops visiting the gardens altogether.

Duty and honour prevent him from doing anything truly drastic. Yet the heavy feeling of hopelessness is constricting itself around his heart like a vine. And the more the dreams of you start to fade, the more it pulls tight. Squeezing the life out of him.

Perhaps I am the ghost now?

For the first time in Baelor’s life, oblivion holds a certain appeal.

—※—

More than a year has passed since the trial at Ashford. Baelor stares at the painted map spread across the council table. He does not truly see it.

King Daeron and the lords of the small council are discussing trade. The sickness that had plagued the Free Cities appears to be waning. Ships are returning to their usual routes. Coin is flowing once more.

"He will remain in Lys," Maekar is saying. "The outbreak seems contained, but I will not risk bringing it back to Westeros. They assure me the prince is safe enough. Let Aerion contemplate his own insignificance a little longer."

A few muted chuckles circle the table. One stern look from Maekar silences them.

Baelor contributes when expected. Nods when required. Years at court have made him skilled at appearing attentive. Beyond the open windows, King's Landing murmurs below.

A sudden gust of wind sweeps through the chamber. Parchments scatter. Several lords curse as pages slide across the floor. One small sheet is carried all the way across the room, landing at the feet of a lord who has only just entered. Yet Baelor notices none of it. Because he hears your voice.

"Hold fast, my dragon."

Soft. Close. As though you stand beside him. His head turns before he can stop himself. For a heartbeat, Baelor almost expects to see you there. But, all he sees is the newly arrived lord, placing the small piece of parchment on the table.

The king is speaking again.

“My lords, settle down. The crisis has been averted. The windows will be closed.” The king nods at one of the servants. “Let us continue. The infrastructure of the city.”

A new Master of Works is appointed. The lord who just entered bows. Baelor doesn’t catch his name, although he has read it many times. The prince forces himself to focus. What does he remember?

A respectable house. Loyal. Prosperous through trade. Something about effectively improving the infrastructure around his lands. The council has appointed him to oversee the drafting of the architectural plans and developing structural solutions for the older parts of the city. His lady wife and some of his children will accompany him to King's Landing. The king speaks of introductions at court.

The lord thanks the king and the Hand with a deep bow and withdraws.

Baelor only nods.

By evening the prince has forgotten the lord’s name again. Yet your voice still resonates inside his mind.

—※—

The next morning, the throne room is crowded with petitioners, courtiers, and visiting nobles. The king sits upon the Iron Throne, listening with the patience of a man who has spent most of his life hearing other people's problems.

Queen Myriah sits below the throne amongst her ladies, occupied with their own soft conversation. Only looking up whenever something particularly interesting catches her attention.

Baelor stands at his father's side. Present. Attentive. At least, that is how he appears.

The newly appointed Master of Works approaches the dais with his family. His wife rests one hand lightly upon his arm. Both bow deeply.

"Your graces," the lord says.

"Rise," king Daeron replies pleasantly. "And welcome to King's Landing."

"May I present my wife, your grace."

A handsome woman, perhaps past her youth, though age has treated her kindly. She curtsies gracefully.

"And our two youngest children." She beckons them forward.

The king smiles. "Seven children, if I recall correctly?"

"Yes, your grace,” the Master of Works confirms. “Six sons and one daughter."

King Daeron chuckles kindly. "A productive marriage indeed."

A ripple of laughter moves through the hall.

The lord beams. "My youngest son is eager to train, your grace. He will make a fine knight one day." A proud youth steps forward and bows. "Perhaps even a place amongst the Kingsguard," the Master of Works continues. The boy's ears redden.

The king laughs warmly. "A noble ambition."

Baelor hears the words but he scarcely registers them.

"And, of course, our only daughter."

A breeze moves through the hall. Gentle and unexpected. There are no open windows. The scent of wildflowers drift past him and Baelor’s heart stumbles. For the briefest of moments he is back in the meadow. Mist curling through the grass. Your laughter. The dragon, ever watchful.

Slowly, Baelor lifts his gaze. A young woman steps forward. Head bowed. Hands folded before her.

There you are.

"My king and queen. Your grace."

Your voice reaches a part of the prince that Ashford had left broken. Everything else disappears. The courtiers. The throne. The noise of the hall. All gone. You lift your head. One cheek dimples slightly as you smile at him. The exact same smile he remembers.

Seven save me.

Baelor's breath catches. You are here. Not in the meadow. Not beyond the mist. Not in a dream. But here. Real and alive. For one terrible moment, he wonders whether he has truly lost his mind.

The queen is speaking now. Baelor tries to focus. He forces himself to listen. "I can see why your parents brought you to court, my dear," queen Myriah says warmly. "A beautiful flower such as yourself should not be hidden away."

Your cheeks colour slightly at the queen's praise.

"And not yet married, I understand?" His mother continues, inquisitive, not unkind. A few amused smiles appear amongst the courtiers.

You lower your gaze modestly. "No, my queen."

"Remarkable," king Daeron muses. "Surely at least half the eligible men in your father's lands must have tried for your hand." Gentle laughter and murmurs of agreement rise from the hall at the king’s words.

Your father smiles proudly, though a little sad. "Our daughter has had little opportunity to encourage such pursuits of late, my king."

The queen tilts her head. "Oh?"

Your lady mother’s expression softens immediately as she looks at you. "Our daughter was gravely ill last year. A fever unlike any the maesters could explain." Her hand finds yours. "We thought we were going to lose her."

The words send a chill through Baelor. You had been dying. Just as he had. The realization strikes him so suddenly he nearly forgets where he is.

"We thank the gods our daughter made a remarkable recovery," your mother continues. "But we felt we could not part with her just yet."

"I can hardly blame you," the queen says kindly. Satisfied with the answer. She briefly glances at her eldest son.

All this time, Baelor remains frozen. He knows he is staring but he is unable to look away. He knows you.

Gods. You exist.

That smile. The little dimple in your cheek. The sound of your voice. Bealor remembers all of it. And far more intimate things besides. Your soft lips pressed against his. The way you feel underneath him, the sounds you make when he loves you. Heat rises to his face. Embarrassed by his thoughts, the prince looks away, briefly. Trying to collect himself. Trying very hard not to look like a man who has seen a ghost.

"My eldest son seems quite enraptured, young lady."

The king's amused voice snaps Baelor back to reality. A wave of laughter moves through the hall. Apparently his father had asked him something. Baelor closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them he is his composed self again.

"Your grace," he says smoothly, though he feels like a complete idiot.

King Daeron's grin only widens for a moment, but he decides to spare his son further blushes and changes the subject. Directing the conversation to the marvelous infrastructure of your family’s homeland.

After a while Baelor risks another glance. He finds you're looking directly at him. Not boldly. Not quite. There is something else in your gaze. Something searching. A question in your eyes. Recognition even. As though you know him too.

But that cannot be. It cannot. Can it?

Eventually the audience comes to an end. Your family bows and withdraws. Another lord steps forward towards the dais prepared to make his petition. You trail behind your parents and brother. Just before you leave the great hall you look over your shoulder and meet the bicolored gaze of the prince again. Baelor notices you press your lips together before you're unable to repress a smile.

You disappear through the great doors. Baelor's gaze lingers upon the empty space you have left behind. Unable to look away. Unable to think of anything else.

—※—

As the day unfolds Baelor isn’t quite sure what to do. He finds himself unable to do anything at all. He has dismissed a meeting concerning the grain reserves. Vaguely recalling apologizing to the lord responsible for arranging it. There had been some excuses about fatigue.

Fatigue…

As if exhaustion was the reason his hands still trembled.

You exist.

The thought returns again and again. Baelor’s entire being burns with the desire to go to you. To run, not walk. Yet he cannot simply seek you out. He is a stranger to you. The mere thought alone is absurd. And yet… The way you had looked at him.

The prince realizes only after several moments that he has wandered to one of the entrances of the royal gardens. He stands beneath the shade of an archway, staring at the sunlit flowers beyond. Unable to move.

A group of ladies emerge from the gardens, their laughter fades as they notice the crown prince. They curtsy quickly and pass him. One of them stops. His mother. 

Queen Myriah studies her eldest son for a moment. There is no alarm in her face. Only concern. "How are you, my son?"

The question catches him entirely off guard. Baelor opens his mouth. Then closes it again. "I..." he begins. He does not know how to answer.

The queen slips her arm through his. “Walk with me for a moment.” It is not a command. Not a question either. Baelor obeys. They walk in silence. The afternoon sun is bright but pleasant. Somewhere nearby, water trickles from a fountain. The sound is somewhat soothing to him. A soft breeze stirs the leaves overhead.

"You frightened me," the queen says at last.

Baelor glances at her. "In the throne room?"

She smiles faintly. "No. Long before that."

He says nothing.

"Your injury…” His mother continues. “After they finally brought you home, they told me there was little hope of you ever waking up again.” A heavy pause as she breaths in deeply.

“But then you opened your eyes. You came back to us. Yet, you have looked at everything this past year as though it belonged to someone else's life." She pats his hand gently. "Today, for the first time since you woke up after Ashford, you looked at something as though it mattered."

A thousand responses crowd his mind. None of them can be spoken. How can he explain that he has spent more than a year mourning a woman he has met in a dream.

"I am well, Mother."

The queen's expression tells him she does not believe him. Fortunately, she is spared the opportunity to say so. As they round the bend in the path, the Master of Works and his wife stand among the flowerbeds. They bow deeply.

"Your graces," the lord says pleasantly. "A lovely afternoon for a stroll."

"Indeed," queen Myriah replies as her face lights up.

Baelor scarcely hears them. Because you are standing behind your parents. And you are looking at him, a little startled but curious. As though you, too, are trying to understand something impossible.

"The gardens are extraordinary," you offer softly. "The wide array of wildflowers especially."

The queen's eyes flick briefly toward her son. "Indeed," she agrees. "They are particularly beautiful this time of day."

Baelor remains silent. He seems to be frozen to the ground again.

"The scent is lovely," you continue with a gentle smile directed at the queen. Yet, you carefully glance at the prince.

The queen gently pinches his arm. "My son knows these gardens better than anyone."

Baelor blinks as he tries not to stare.

His mother looks up at him and then at you. Observing something with a twinkle in her eyes. "I am certain he would be delighted to show them to you."

Your father immediately shakes his head with a respectful smile. "His grace is undoubtedly occupied with matters of state. My daughter would never wish to take up so much of the prince's valuable time."

"It would be my pleasure." The words leave Baelor's mouth so quickly that everyone stares at him. Heat rises to his face. He sounds like a green boy asking for his first dance.

Steady yourself!

He clears his throat. "That is... if the lady would do me the honor."

You look up at him. There is no mockery in your eyes. Only warmth. And something else. Something familiar.

"I would like that very much, your grace."

Baelor's heart pounds. "If your parents permit it, of course."

"Oh, they do." Queen Myriah says smoothly before anyone else can answer.

Your parents look momentarily bewildered.

His mother unhooks her arm from Baelor's and gives him a look he has not seen since he was a child. "Enjoy your walk, my son. Good day to you all." Then she departs, her guard in tow.

For a moment Baelor watches his mother go. He is almost certain she is smiling. Then he looks back at you and clears his throat. "This way," he says, gesturing toward one of the winding garden paths.

You smile and step away from your parents.

Behind you, Baelor vaguely registers the Master of Works and his Lady exchanging a rather baffled look before falling back. Keeping a respectful distance.

For a while, the two of you walk in silence. The prince has negotiated with lords, settled disputes between lands, and addressed the realm in his fathers name. Now, walking beside you, he finds himself unable to think of a single thing to say. Still, the silence is not uncomfortable.

The afternoon sun warms the stone beneath your feet. Bees and butterflies drift lazily among the flowers. Somewhere nearby, he hears the sound of the waves.

Baelor glances toward the flowerbeds. He is amazed to see that the wildflowers have taken surprisingly well. After all the times he had ordered them replanted.

"I love wildflowers," you say softly.

Baelor almost smiles. I know... The words rise so naturally that he nearly speaks them aloud. Instead, he clasps his hands behind his back. "I am glad," is all he manages.

You continue walking. A breeze stirs the flowers around you. Their scent fills the air. At the edge of the gardens, the land falls away toward Blackwater Bay. The afternoon sun reflects on the waves. Turning the water to silver.

You rest your hands lightly upon the stone wall and look out over the sea. "I have only ever dreamed of seeing the sea this close," you tell him quietly.

Baelor stops. The wind shifts. For a moment he sees you wading through the shallows, collecting shells, as the waves crash against the cliffs of Dragonstone. He joins you at the wall. "Dreams can feel very real," he says carefully. Almost to himself.

You look up at him. Then you look back out over the water. "As we both know, your grace." There is no challenge in your voice. No accusation. Only understanding. The breath catches in Baelor’s throat. Neither of you speaks. A gull cries somewhere overhead.

Then you look up at him again and smile. Not the courteous smile one gives a prince. No, your smile. The one with the slight dimple in your cheek. The one Baelor has seen in his dreams so many times before.

You turn away from the wall and begin walking back through the flowers. Baelor follows. He tells himself not to stare. He fails. You are exactly as he remembers. The way you move. The way the wind catches your hair. Even that same loose strand. You tuck it back absentmindedly.

He has spent more than a year being convinced that none of it was real. That all of it had been a dream. And it had been a dream. Yet, here you are.

Without quite deciding to do so, Baelor takes a step towards you and reaches for your hand. The moment his fingers close around yours, something in his chest loosens. Your hand feels warm. Real. Exactly as he remembers.

You stop and look down at your joined hands. Then back up at him, somewhat hesitant. Yet, you do not pull away. "Your grace?" Your voice sounds a little breathy.

For the first time since Ashford, Baelor smiles without forcing himself to. You lower your gaze for a moment. Though you do not let go of his hand. "To be honest," you admit quietly, looking around you, "this is all rather intimidating."

"The gardens?" Baelor asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

A soft chuckle escapes you. "The court. King's Landing. You." You look up into his eyes, raising your eyebrows slightly.

The prince blinks. "Me?" Sounding amused.

"You are... well." You gesture vaguely toward him with your free hand. "You."

Despite himself, Baelor laughs. An actual laugh. "I see."

You smile again, a little nervous. "But being here with you..." You hesitate. "It feels right."

The words settle somewhere deep inside him. This cannot be explained. Not to your parents, who are no doubt watching from a distance and wondering why the prince of Dragonstone is holding their daughter's hand. Not to the court or his family. He can't even explain it to himself. And yet, standing here in the gardens, with you, Baelor realizes that he does not care.

He smiles again, softer this time. He should say something wise. Something princely. Instead, he hears himself tell you: "Then perhaps let us begin anew."

You tilt your head. A little confused.

"I believe that this is the part where two people properly introduce themselves."Baelor straightens slightly, adopting the formal expression that has served him so well all his life, though there is warmth in his eyes. He inclines his head in a small bow without letting go of your hand. "My name is Baelor."

You press your lips together as your smile slowly grows.

"I have developed a great fondness of wildflowers," he continues with mock gravity. "My youngest brother occasionally accuses me of being a show-off. I also happen to be the crown prince of Westeros, though I do not believe that fact entirely defines me."

A soft giggle escapes you.

Gods… He would know that sound anywhere.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady."

You laugh then. Not politely. Not because he is a prince. Because you are happy. You squeeze his hand gently. Then, you take a step, closing the small distance that has remained between the two of you. Looking up into his beautiful mismatched eyes. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Baelor has heard your name spoken in the throne room this morning. And yet, somehow, that does not feel like enough. He wants to hear you say it. He wants this moment. His thumb brushes absentmindedly over your hand.

Your expression softens. "The pleasure is all mine, Baelor." You draw a breath.

"My name is..."

—※—

Your dream always begins the same.

A pale grey light washes over the meadow, draining the world of color. Wisps of mist curl around your bare feet as you walk through the familiar silence. The dark forest still surrounds the clearing, ancient and impenetrable, its shadows keeping watch.

This time, however, something is different. The dragon is very much awake.

As you approach, the great black beast slowly rises from where it had lain for so long. Massive wings unfurl with a sound like distant thunder, stretching as though after a long and weary sleep.

A soft breeze stirs the mist.

The dragon lowers its great head to regard you. One eye shines bright blue. The other, a warm golden brown. Beautiful and full of life.

A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it.

"There you are, my dragon," you greet him.

The great beast huffs softly, warm breath stirring your hair. You reach out without fear. The scales beneath your fingertips are smooth and warm. Gently, you press your forehead against the dragon's snout.

For a moment, neither of you move. Then the dragon makes a sound deep in its chest. Not a roar. Something softer. Something almost affectionate. A soft laugh escapes you. "I missed you too."

The dragon blinks slowly. One great winged claw lowers to the ground, offering you a view of his back. Then, with surprising care for such a mighty creature, he lowers himself further. An invitation. You smile. "Thank you."

Climbing onto his back feels as natural as breathing. As though you have done this a thousand times before. As though you were always meant to. You settle yourself between the great horns, your hands finding grip amongst the dark scales. The dragon turns his head slightly, as if to ensure you are ready.

You lean forward. "Go," you whisper.

The dragon roars. The sound shakes the meadow. The force of his wings sends the mist scattering in every direction. For the first time, you see the meadow as it truly is. Not grey. Not cold. Alive. Wildflowers stretch as far as the eye can see, covering the grass in brilliant colors. Dancing in the morning light.

The dragon launches into the air with the force of a hurricane. A shriek escapes you. Not from fear. From joy. The wind rushes around you as the ground falls away beneath your feet. The meadow and the dark forest grows smaller and smaller until it disappears entirely.

Ahead, the sun rises. You do not look back. Neither does your dragon. Together, you leave the cold mist behind and soar into the sky, as the golden light of the new day embraces you both as one.

—※—

If you made it to the end thank you for reading. Love to know what you think💕

You believed you had figured out your husband by the time your marriage ceremony had finally occurred. You had spent a rather long time in the betrothal stage, likely longer than either your father or mother had hoped. They had become agitated by the end, desperate to see you in the Sept, draped in the Targaryen colours and finally out of their house. Not for any sinister reason of course, they loved you dearly and only wanted the best for you, but the best only came from marrying a prince, and the longer it dallied, the more they worried that the temperamental prince would change his mind. 

You had all been surprised when the raven arrived proclaiming that Prince Maekar, fourth son of King Daeron the Good, wished to marry you. Though you had later found out the truth of the matter from your dear husband, at the time you had frozen with shock. You had only met the man once before, at a rather lovely feast thrown in the gardens at Summerhall when much of the royal family had made their way there for the latest occurring summer months, bringing the hubbub of court with them. 

Your parents had rejoiced of course, though not without commentary at how odd it was that it was this particular prince. They did not wish to demean you by any means with this comment, but only to suggest that he had already gained a reputation for being surly and grumpy, that no one thought he would remarry after the death of his first wife, and that he already had a brood of children and an heir, so he did not necessarily require a wife of your age to provide him with more. If anything, they thought perhaps one of his sons would be the one coming for a look, but neither ones of age had even a sniff in your direction. Instead their father won the lot. 

You and your family were all invited to stay at Summerhall during the length of your betrothal, and that you would only be given leave once the wedding had occurred. You had been giddy with excitement, remembering how lovely it had been the last time, remembering the luscious gardens and pools and surrounding nature, remembering the lovely decor - unique tiles and mosaics and tapestries and everything so full of colour. You had already begun planning the wedding in your head, wondering if it would be possible to request that you be married in the gardens rather than in the Sept. It was not tradition, but why waste such a lovely space? 

You and your entourage arrived to be greeted by the King and Queen, the Crown Prince and his wife, Maekar’s other brothers and wives, his sons and daughters, and of course, the man himself. You had felt instantly intimidated, heart spiking in your chest, but kept on, hoping the tremble in your hands was not too obvious. To each you curtsied, spoke well wishes, smiled as best you could, and then moved on while they still smiled in return. When you finally ended up in front of your betrothed, you had beamed at him, offering your trembling hand for him to kiss and blinking like a lovesick fool. 

He was handsome. You had known this already, remembered from your last meeting, but it struck you again in his presence. You longed to feel his beard yourself, to touch his hair and cheeks and lips. At the time it had made you hot with bashfulness, but now filled you with immense fondness. You had simply been excited that once you were married, you could do as you pleased in that regard. 

He had lifted your hand, bent his head, and pressed a fleeting kiss to your knuckles, barely there. His second son had snorted, an amused yet cruel sound, but he paid him no mind. You could not precisely tell what had been going through your betrothed’s mind at the time. His face was blank, if a little frowning, and you had not come to know the microexpressions of his just yet. 

Maekar had grumbled a “my lady”, then turned away to follow after his father and brothers as they led you all into Summerhall and to your chambers. You had been a little taken aback at his gruffness, a little downtrodden, but you had not let it deter you. Perhaps he was simply shy, you had thought, or unaccustomed to wooing a woman after so much time alone. You would not let it get to you, you had decided.

On each day after that, you had been adamant to spend as much time in his company as you could. He would not even have the option to ignore you, you had made sure of it. You invited him to walks in the gardens in front of people so he would feel too guilty to deny you, begged him to show you around the palace in front of his daughters so that they might egg him on as well, seated yourself near him when everyone took time in the afternoon to recline in a solar or simply conversed with him at the dinner table, poking and prodding him for topics that would interest him. 

And you could see him softening. It was wonderful to watch. You could see the way his eyes began to soften when you hurried up to him, just shy of running, clasping his arm and begging him for another walk to the lovely flower garden you could never figure out how to find on your own. You could see the way his lips twitched when you laughed at a joke, full and unabashed, glancing back to him to see if he found it funny as well. You saw the way he reached for you when you tripped in your enthusiasm or the way he already bent his elbow, ready for you to thread your arm through before you had even reached him. 

It was when this began that a wedding date was finally set, two weeks from when it was announced. Seamstresses hurried, cooks rushed, and though you still held the initial ceremony in the Sept, the reception afterwards was situated in the gardens, exactly as you had wanted. It was perfect. No, more than perfect. It was everything you could have wanted. 

It was later that his truths were revealed to you. That the King and Queen, in their ever-present worry that he was lonely, that a woman was required to run his house and mother his young children, had pressed him into finally agreeing to remarry. They had told him he could choose, that whoever he wished to marry, they would accept, be it a commoner or a queen from another land, just as long as he was finally married, and the only tolerable person that came to mind was you. 

He had remembered you from that feast the year before, you and your pretty smiles and kind words, the way you had danced jovially with Daella and Rhae despite not being an acquaintance, despite having no responsibility to keep the children company when you could have been off drinking and gossiping with your gaggle of ladies. He had remembered your bright smile when he had come to break up your little trio, telling the girls that if they did not go up to bed right that minute then he would tell the cooks to never buy even an ounce of sugar again and that their beloved lemon cakes would disappear for the rest of their lives. 

What had truly endeared you to him though had been the gasp you let out at the news, the way your eyes had widened and you had acted so terribly frightened for them, the way you had aided his mission by telling them that it was too serious a threat to be ignored. And though the girls had giggled (for even at his most serious moments they never took him or his threats of punishment seriously) they had ultimately listened, if only to ease you of your overdramatic worry, promising you that they would go to ease your mind and to appease their father. He had grumbled a rough thanks once they were back in the arms of their maids, and you had simply laughed and smiled brightly, telling him that it was rather good fun for you. 

So it was this moment, seemingly small, that had sealed your fate in his heart. He had not forgotten it, and when it had finally come time for him to remarry, he could only think of you. The letter was written, the raven flown, and the rest was history. But you had prodded him even then (physically too, your finger digging into his ribs as he huffed and twitched with annoyance), asking him why he delayed the wedding so long, why the betrothal carried on if he was so sure of you. 

His answer rather broke your heart. He did not look at you as he said it, his arm tightening over your shoulder where he had been holding you close in bed, and his eyes had fallen almost closed. He told you that he had been giving you time. He said that he had wanted you to be sure as well, that he had believed that, if he delayed long enough, you might finally realise that you did not love him, or that you were far too good to be trapped into such a marriage, or that even if you did somehow manage to love him, that you would not want all the other weight that he came with. He had simply thought that if he gave you enough time, you would rescind your acceptance and fly your way out of his life, as he still sometimes thought you ought to have done. 

You had stared at him with a serious frown, sitting up and extricating yourself from his arm. You had leaned over him, cupping his cheek firmly and making sure that he was looking you right in the eye as you told him what utter nonsense that was. You loved him, most thoroughly, most ardently, and to even think that you would wish for any other life was to commit blasphemy. He had huffed a laugh at that, but the amused pinch of his lips had disappeared when you had stared at him with the utmost seriousness. 

He had kissed you then, a hand speedily placing itself at the back of your neck and yanking you down until your lips met his. He had devoured your mouth, kissing hurriedly, sticking his tongue into your mouth, moaning and groaning in such a way that your legs trembled at it. He had urged you onto him with his hands at your waist, pressing and supporting until you were straddling him, palms shoved under the pillow that he laid his head on, heels of your hands digging into the mattress to keep you upright. Neither of you bothered much at all, he had scrabbled his breeches down just enough to pull his cock out, gathered your shift onto your hips, and you had done the work from there. 

And so a marriage of love, of care and utter devotion, was born at Summerhall, left to flourish most beautifully. 

There was a knock at the door to his study, answered only by a grunt and the continual scratching of a quill on parchment as he attempted to answer a distant lord’s query on the Crown’s tax on grain. He did not enjoy such work, but every so often, the lot did end up falling to him, and he was happy to lift some of the burden from Baelor where he could. 

The door opened and you entered, the sounds of your sweeping skirts following you in, and he glanced up to see you smiling, a plate in hand as you made your way over to his desk with a small hum of greeting. You placed it down just in front of where he worked, within arm’s reach still, then rounded the desk to stand just beside him. 

“How does the work go, husband?” You asked him, draping one hand gently on his shoulder and using the other to touch his chin and gently tilt his head in your direction. He sighed, long and low, and slumped back into his chair, eyes fluttering shut as you scratched lightly at his beard and moved your hand upward to begin caressing his hair. 

“It remains unending,” he grumbled to you, wrapping his arm around your waist and tugging you closer to the side of the chair until he could lean his head against your stomach. Another sigh worked from him, more contented this time, and you slowly ran your fingers through his hair, cradling his head to you and simply humming in response. 

“You have been sequestered here a rather long while,” your voice was quiet, just above a whisper, and he only made an ‘mm’ sound in acknowledgement. “I know you have not eaten, for I have made sure to ask if anything has been brought to you other than ale or wine and the resounding answer has been that you would ‘think about such nonsense later’.” You raised an eyebrow, tilting your chin down to look at him, but he did not open his eyes or make any attempt to look up at your face, huffing once and nothing more. 

You only sighed after that, caressing his forehead, tracing the lines where his wrinkles deepened when he frowned (as he so often did). He allowed you to do this a while, your fingers stroking through his hair, over his cheeks and beard, until you bent down and carefully pressed kisses to his lips, soft little things so full of love that they made his chest warm and tight. When you finally pulled away, you were smiling once more and stood to your full height, placing the plate of roast and bread and stewed vegetables in front of him, luckily still steaming. 

“Eat please, before you worry me more,” you told him, nudging your head in the direction of the food before moving to stand behind his chair and placing your hands on his shoulders. You massaged him there, along the back of his neck too, and he moaned quietly (though you weren’t sure if it was because of your ministrations or because of the food he was now inhaling). 

He grunted once before he finally said, swallowing down a mouthful, “you need not care for me so closely you know. I have lived long enough by my own hand.” But you only scoffed, tugging on a strand of his hair in reprimand before bending and kissing the top of his head. 

“Perhaps I do not need to, but I wish to do so. It makes me happy, gives me purpose to care for you. Someone ought to. You deserve love and diligent care, same as the rest of us, my prince.” You said it so seriously too, as if it was irrefutable, a simple truth. He only grunted in response, continued pressing meat and bread into his mouth (because he truly had not realised how hungry he actually was) but that pulsing warmth in his chest became stronger, flowed out into the rest of his body, filling him up in a way he had not known he was capable of. 

Your fingernails dug into his shoulders, at the base of his neck, clinging him ever closer. He was draped over you, his weight pressed into you, nothing separating you. You could feel his coarse chest hair against your nipples, sparking through you as he pumped his hips back and forth, sending those sparks into you, through you, right up your core and into your mouth and mind. The slap of it, the force, not too hard but not soft, permanent, a feeling to last for a long while after the coupling ended. 

One arm was wrapped around your back, clutching you tight to him, as the other gripped your hip, steadied you against the mattress so he could continue his motions. He grunted into your neck, sounds from deep in his throat, animalistic, true testaments to the pleasure he took from you. He kissed and bit at your neck, down onto your chest and over the swells of your breasts. 

“Feels so good, my love,” you moaned, eyes shut, face turned up to the ceiling, voice breathy and uncontrolled. “You’re making me feel so good!” You panted, eyes screwing even tighter as the pleasure coiled, and you could almost feel his own face pinching with it. His grunts became interspersed with moans, his arm around you tightened, his hand following suit. 

The heat of it was everywhere, in your core between your thighs, in your stomach and chest, in the sweat on your skin and his breath against you. You felt alight with it. “Yes, Maekar, yes!” Your leg twitched, your core tightened, your entire body seemed to throb with it. “Please, my love, it feels so good,” you panted, “kiss me, please,” and he obliged, pushing up at the last minute as the pleasure hit, pressing his mouth to yours, moaning there, tongues intertwined. 

The two of you writhed against each other, riding the waves together until your bodies collapsed against the sheets with finality. He rested his weight over you, just as you loved him to do after such activities. You told him it was like having your own personal hearth laid over you, a soft yet muscular hearth at the perfect weight in temperature. And he enjoyed the closeness too, did not wish to leave your warmth either. 

You caressed the back of his head, dragging your nails over the back of his neck and the planes of his shoulders as your body settled, as you went weak all over and melted into the mattress. He simply breathed, heavy washes of it over your neck and chest. You hummed, just a sound for the sake of it, before you tilted your head just enough and pressed a kiss at his temple. 

“I did not see much of you today,” you mumbled, eyes fluttering closed though the warm oranges and yellows of the candlelight and fire still played over your eyelids. 

“Mm,” was his answer, “not a moment’s rest.” You hummed as well, kissing the side of his head again, running your fingers through his hair. He rumbled, almost purring like a cat, his entire body vibrating with it, and you continued what you were doing. 

“How was it then?” You asked, wanting his voice a little longer still, and he finally shifted in your grasp, lifting his head up just enough to smirk at you before dipping down to press a kiss to your breast, just above your nipple where it still sparked with pleasure. 

“Would have fared far better if I had only been allowed to rest like so, just here, in my favourite spot,” and then he lay his head down on your chest again, using your breast as a cushion to his cheek, mouthing gently at the skin, kissing just around your nipple in a way that made you shiver. You laughed breathily, shaking your head before settling even further into the pillows and sheets of your bed, kissing at his temple and forehead. 

“Mm, and I would not object to you staying right here if you so pleased. You keep me sufficiently warm during these cold nights.” You felt his smile against you, heard the barest huff of a chuckle before he gently bit at the nipple he had just kissed, rolling it lightly between his teeth as you twitched and made a noise of surprise, slapping at his back as he continued to laugh. 

“Do you love me?” He asked, and you felt your entire body pause, stiffen, visceral in its reaction. 

“What?” You breathed out, eyebrows gaining a furrow, hands trembling. 

“Do you love me?” He asked again, voice low, grumbling as always, but this felt more trembling than anything. A man who had only the barest control left on his emotions. A man so utterly overwhelmed, shaken from the inside, attempting to be vulnerable in the only way he knew how. 

“Has that ever been in doubt?” You asked quietly, lashes fluttering, the sudden burn of tears, the welling of them at your lashline. He did not say anything, looked away instead, a harsh swallow bobbing at his throat. He hummed, neither a yes or a no. Your lips trembled and you stepped forward quickly, reaching out for him in desperation. Your hands landed on his chest, smoothing out over his tunic before clenching into it, dragging yourself as close as possible, until the warmth of you both was intertwined. As it was meant to be. 

“If it has been in doubt, then it is entirely my own fault. And it is an injustice I have committed.” Your voice trembled. “For I love you so much that it rather terrifies me. I love you so much that even the thought of separation from you brings me to tears, brings a tremble to my hands and I must sit a long while or find your company to make the corrosive pain run from me. I love you so much that just the sight of your face can right all wrongs in my heart.” The words dribbled out of you so quickly now, hurried as if you were desperate for him to know the truth of the matter. “I love you so much that your pain is my pain, your love is my balm, your word my truth. I did not think it possible to love a person so, but here we are. I love you…” and your words trailed off as he pressed his mouth to yours. 

The kiss was salty with your tears, and though he did not cry, when he pulled back, his eyes were red limned and shined like glass. He kissed you like you were intertwined things, meant to be attached at the lips. His mouth was soft, wet, squished to yours, and you splayed both your hands along the sides of his neck, laced your fingers at the nape, pulled him in until his tongue too ventured past your lips and tasted all the love you carried. 

His arm curled around your waist, dragged you closer up against him, into the firmness of his chest and the warmth of his body, and you made a muffled sound into his mouth that he swallowed like wine. The tears on your cheeks smeared onto his, his other hand threaded into the hair at the back of your neck, cradled your skull and kept you that final bit closer. You wished to breathe him in entirely, and he wished the same of you. 

You did not know what had caused this reaction. You did not know what had caused him to ask, what rotten thing had appeared and nestled in his heart to make him feel so, but you knew that you would do everything in your power and then some, would do what must be done, whatever that may be, to make sure that he finally felt all the love that he deserved to feel. 

For Maekar was no one’s shadow, not a spare nor an afterthought, nor any other cruel name the court gave him for the crime of being born fourth. He was yours, and you were his, and that was what mattered most of all.

—a shadow loomed closer, the subtle shifting as a voice barked beside you.

“Don't look back,” Rodrik murmured beside you, eyes squinted in barely restrained displeasure, “it is unbefitting of a Stark to look back.”

Of course you'd say that, you blasted idiot, you are not the one expected to leave everything you have ever known behind, travel halfway across the fucking realm to marry someone who's possibly two decades older than you, and let's not forget the fact that he's a Prince?

“You are the last person who can speak to me of what it means to be a Stark,” you muttered beneath your breath, “there's a reason why everyone calls you the Wandering Wolf.”

Rodrik glared at you from beneath raven dark hair, eyes narrowing in disdain, but he possessed enough restraint not to remain silent—

allowing you a brief moment to take in the landscape of a world you never once thought you'd leave, blinking briefly as tears threatened to spill, “I never wanted this,” you muttered as an afterthought, “but father wanted this, and what father wants, he gets.”

Rodrik remained quiet for a moment longer, grunting in affirmation as he took in the small retinue father had sent to accompany them to King's Landing, “Bunch of piss poor bastards, father could have at least sent competent men for this journey,” you rose an eyebrow and turned your attention back towards your brother, “at this pace we'll be lucky to reach the Red Keep before winter settles into Winterfell.”

You scoffed, “You didn't have to come with, because if I have to suffer from your constant bickering and complaints for another week, I'll die before we even make it there.”

“You are so fucking funny,” Rodrik replied, “that I actually forgot to laugh. Come on, what sane woman doesn't want to marry a Prince?”

The road stretched endlessly before you, winding south beneath pale grey skies, the towers of Winterfell growing smaller and smaller with every hoofbeat.

Soon they were little more than dark shapes against the horizon, swallowed by distance and mist.

You hated it, hated the way your chest ached every time you glanced back and most of all, you hated the way your throat tightened when you thought of your father's solar, of the godswood, of the warm kitchens where Old Nan told stories beside the fire.

Your departure had not been filled with warmth, your father had barely looked at you, knowing how much it took for him to let you go; as if he hadn't just signed away your life through ink and parchment.

Lord Beron Stark had spoken and when your father spoke, the North obeyed.

Including his youngest daughter.

“Don't think too much on it,” Rodrik muttered as he glanced at you, “father did his best to make sure you'd have a better future than most of us.”

You pulled your fur cloak tighter around yourself, fingers gripping the reins until your knuckles whitened.

“A Prince,” you muttered bitterly.

Rodrik snorted. “As I just fucking said, it's still sounds better than marrying some fat northern lord who smells like sheep.”

You shot him a murderous look. “I hope your horse throws you into a ditch.”

“I hope your Prince has all his teeth.”

You barked a laugh despite yourself.

Gods curse him.

Rodrik always knew exactly how to pull you from your misery, and your heart clenched in guilt—

because here you were, the epitome of ungratefulness and your brother doing his best to lift your mood. For a few moments, silence settled between you once more.

The sounds of the journey filled the air—

the creaking of saddles, the clink of steel, the distant cries of ravens overhead, and then another sound reached your ears.

A heavy rustling.

A low chuff.

You smiled immediately and the tension melted from your shoulders as you turned your head briefly towards the side, Rodrik grumbling in displeasure. “There you are.”

A massive white shape emerged from the treeline beside the road; several horses shied nervously, one of the guards nearly reached for his sword before thinking better of it.

Fenrir paid them no mind.

The direwolf moved like a shadow through the snow-dusted undergrowth, enormous paws carrying him effortlessly across the uneven ground. His thick white coat blended almost perfectly with the winter landscape, while pale amber eyes fixed immediately upon you.

The great beast trotted alongside your horse, brushing against its flank. Your mare huffed in annoyance, Fenrir ignored her with another chuff as you leaned down from the saddle, scratching behind one enormous ear.

“There you are, my sweet boy.”

The direwolf rumbled happily, a sound that would have terrified most men, but to you, it was comforting.

Rodrik rolled his eyes. “Gods, you spoil him.”

Fenrir immediately bared his teeth at your brother. “See?” Rodrik pointed accusingly. “That beast hates me.”

You turned in your saddle and this time you pointed a finger at your brother, “Need I remind you of that one time you stepped on his tail when he was a pup.”

“He was the size of a horse when he was a pup.”

You smiled down at Fenrir, “He remembers.“ Fenrir gave a pleased huff, as if agreeing.

Rodrik muttered several creative curses beneath his breath and for the first time, the laugh that tumbled from your lips was a genuine, one that eased the knot that had formed in your chest.

Fenrir did indeed remember everything—

he remembered when you cried after falling from your first horse, the time when your elder sisters left; their tears mingling with your own.

Berena had threatened you with empty threats should you go a week without sending her updates on Fenrir, though despite the tears, you knew she was concerned for you, as you were the youngest amongst them.

Alysanne, sweet beautiful Alysanne, she had refused to let you go, despite the many attempts mother had to take to pull her from you—you missed them, and now the haunting realisation that you might never see them again made your heart ache.

Both of your sisters had left Winterfell for marriages of their own.

The only one constant presence in your life that remained was the direwolf trotting beside you, as it was Fenrir who had found you when you hid in the godswood after learning your fate had been decided for you.

The massive direwolf had curled himself beside you, a silent, steady presence that refused to leave your side, as though he understood.

Direwolves were intelligent creatures, so it did not surprise you that he might have understood—strange, old creatures, Northern creatures.

Like the Starks themselves.

Fenrir glanced back toward the distant silhouette of Winterfell and then looked forward, as if sensing the impending change that would inevitably take place.

The great wolf pressed closer against your horse, as if to remind you that wherever this road ended—

You would not walk it alone.

You swallowed hard and buried your fingers in the thick fur around his neck. “Seven save me, just stop with the fucking waterworks,” Rodrik snapped from beside you, pinching the bridge of his nose and then pointed at Fenrir, who had growled in warning at the sudden change in tone, “I was not talking to you, you overgrown mutt.”

“Fenrir is not a mutt,” you snapped in return, voice coming out sharper than you intended, you swallowed hard and buried your fingers deeper into the thick fur around Fenrir's neck.

The direwolf leaned into the touch, amber eyes never leaving Rodrik, a low rumble still vibrating in his chest and your brother merely rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath about cursed wolves and cursed women before turning away.

Silence settled between you, a silence that made your stomach churn and guilt gnaw at the forefront of your mind.

Rodrik did not deserve your scorn, but you couldn't form an apology, not when your heart was clearly adamant at waging war against your mind.

You exhaled slowly, your anger bleeding away with the breath as your fingers continued to comb through Fenrir's impossibly thick coat.

His ears twitched, the growl fading into nothing as he accepted your reassurance. “I know,” you whispered to him, though perhaps you were speaking more to yourself than to the wolf.

Marriage.

The word had become a chain around your throat, tightening with every mile that stretched onward.

Your father had spoken of it often enough these past moons, though never once had he asked what you thought of it. Your opinion had never entered the conversation.

“You should consider yourself fortunate,” he'd said one evening before the fire, swirling wine in his cup as though discussing the weather rather than your future. “There are few men in Westeros worthy of respect. Fewer still worthy of admiration.”

You had remained silent then, as you always did, because you knew the kind of man your father was.

Lord Beron Stark did not mince his words when he spoke of those he deemed worthy of his admiration. “Prince Maekar Targaryen is one of them.”

To you, it was only a name spoken with unexpected reverence. “The realm calls him the Anvil for good reason. He is hard where others bend, steadfast where others falter. He is no smiling courtier with honeyed words or silk upon his tongue. He is iron.”

Your father had almost smiled. “A man who understands duty before desire and that is the sort of husband a daughter should pray for.”

Pray.

As though the match had been forged by the Seven rather than by ambitious lords.

You had heard the stories long before your father's announcement.

The younger son of King Daeron II and Queen Myriah Martell, a fearsome warrior, a man who was said too laugh little and judge quickly, a commander whose men followed him without question.

The Anvil.

A man said to break enemies the way a blacksmith broke steel beneath his mace, the tales the realm had painted of him was unyielding, disciplined, almost frightening in his resolve.

But you knew, you knew stories were strange things as they made monsters of men and saints of butchers.

You knew nothing of Prince Maekar himself, but knew enough that he had loved his wife, Dyanna Dayne with a passion that could not be dulled with songs and poems.

You did not know whether he smiled when no one watched, whether he preferred the sound of rain against castle walls or the silence of snow.

He was a Prince.

He was a husband.

He was a father with six children and had no need to marry again, and yet here you were, marching towards the unknown and not knowing whether kindness had ever found a place beneath that iron reputation.

Only that somewhere beyond the horizon walked a man you had never met and the realm expected you to become his wife.

Fenrir nudged your shoulder with his enormous head, dragging you from your thoughts. His wet nose bumped against your cheek insistently until an unwilling smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

“You always know when my thoughts wander too far,” you murmured.

The direwolf huffed proudly, as though agreeing.

Rodrik glanced back over his shoulder, catching the faint smile before it vanished. He nodded in delight, shifting in his saddle as he turned to face you.

“There," he grunted beneath his breath, rubbing a tired hand across his face, “that's better.”

You shifted, straightened your spine and then raised a brow. “What?”

“You look less like you're marching to your own execution.”

Your gaze drifted toward the distant road stretching beyond the hills and glanced at your hands, your fingers tightening on the reins, “I don't know,” you admitted quietly, “perhaps I am.”

But one thing remained clear.

You were a Stark and you had every intention of bringing winter with you.

.✦ ݁˖ — sintaera, 2026.

taglist; @witch-of-letters @noone1233nobody @baelorswhore @mitth-eli-vanto @white-olive @thesecretdiaryofnoah @ferchu1990 @thorins-queen-of-erebor @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @dulcebloodhnd @lemonpiesposts @meowingtotheoldies @curlie-frys @avior-starlight @kyvillasstuff @eowyns-fantasy

It wasn’t necessarily something he was insecure about but after marrying you, a sweet young woman whos face heated uncontrollably when he looked at you for too long, he was worried about overwhelming you. But you were insistent.

You wanted to please him.

And he assured you that you already did, but you had read a book that had mention of ways to please a man that you hadnt tried with Baelor her and your curiosity was peaked. So now here you were kneeled between his legs on your shared bed, you in just a sheer nightgown and him bare with just the sheets covering his lower half. You could see the outline of his hard cock beneath the fabric, jumping ever so slightly when your hand grazed his thigh.

“You do not have to do it, my love.” He says softly. A large hand cups your face and makes you look at him and he notes the hesitation in your eyes.

“No, I want to. I just… dont want it to be bad. I dont want to disappoint you.” You say as you nuzzle into his palm, the warmth radiating from him soothing your nerves slightly.

“You will not I assure you.” He shifts on the mattress to get more comfortable. “Take your time, and just your hands tonight. You can try using your mouth another time.”

You pouted but understood his reasoning. You stared at his covered cock once again and carefully pull the silken sheets away, revealing the skin of his lower stomach inch by inch at an antagonisingly slow pace. The sheets fell away and left your husband’s muscular body bare before you and the sight made your mouth water. Your hand crawled up his hairy thigh until it rested just inches away from his throbbing dick, taking a moment before wrapping your hand around him softly causing him to let out a hiss.

“Good, thats good. Move your hand up and down, not too fast.” You follow his guidance perfectly, beginning to stroke over the length of him, the skin near his tip making it easier to move your hand fluidly. “Gods, like that.” He groans through his teeth.

He moans when your thumb brushes over the red head and you make note of that in your mind. You keep going, him offering you occasional advice as he tries to refrain from squirming against the mattress. He warns you when he gets close, mismatched eyes meeting yours as he breathes heavily. With a few more strokes his orgasm hits- ropes of thick white cum shooting from his cock and running down your knuckles but you keep your hand moving. He keeps cumming, a sizeable pool of it collecting in the dark curls that surround his cock and some landing higher painting his torso. It lasts for a while. Longer than you had expected. Watching him come undone unlocked a deep primal desire in you to milk everything from him and each time you thought he was finished more cum leaked from him and dripped down his shaft.

“Wow.” You say, eyes locked on the sticky mess covering you both.

“Im sorry,” He pants. “Let me clean you up.”

"—and then Tansy said I was being dramatic," Daeron was saying, "which, first of all, I was not being dramatic, and second of all—"

"You were being dramatic," you said, without turning around.

"I was being expressive," Daeron said, "there's a difference, and you of all people should know that, you've got that same mole on your right underb—"

He stopped. The kitchen went very quiet. You turned around slowly.

Daeron was holding his toast halfway to his mouth with the expression of a man watching a grenade he'd thrown himself arc through the air in slow motion, completely powerless to recall it.

You looked at Maekar. Maekar was looking at the newspaper.

He was holding it. His eyes were on it. But he had not moved, not turned a page, not lifted his coffee, not made any of the small continuous micro-movements that characterized a man reading, in approximately five seconds, which for Maekar was a geological epoch when reading the newspaper.

"The same mole as Tanselle," Daeron said, at a speed that suggested he was building the sentence as fast as he could and hoping it would hold. "That's what I was going to say. Tansy has the exact same—"

"Daeron," you said.

"—placement, very common placement actually, statistically—"

"Daeron."

He stopped talking.

Maekar's jaw worked once. Just once. And then it stopped, and the stillness returned, and it was somehow more alarming than anything that had preceded it because this was not Maekar's thinking stillness or his considering stillness or even his annoyed stillness. This was something new. Something with a very specific quality to it, like a pressure system building before a storm that hasn't decided yet what kind it's going to be.

"Dad," Daeron tried.

"Mm," Maekar murmured as an answer.

Not a word. Not even a sound, really. More like the noise a man made when he was allocating all available cognitive resources to not saying the thing he was currently thinking and had nothing left over for actual language.

"I'm going to—" Daeron began, sliding off the counter.

"Sit the fuck down again, Daeron," Maekar said.

Daeron sat down. The paper turned one page. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a man demonstrating to himself that he was capable of performing a normal action and finding it required more effort than it should.

"You were talking," Maekar said, to the paper, "about the mole on her right underboob."

The flatness of his voice was doing something specific. Not the usual flat — that one was comfortable, familiar, Maekar's default register. This one had something underneath it that was being held down with visible effort, like something large pressing against a door from the other side.

"How," he said, "would he know about that."

"Dad—"

"I'm talking to her," Maekar said, still to the paper.

You set the coffee down. "It was years ago. Before I knew you. Before I even knew you existed. We were at university, we were drunk, it happened once and the next morning we agreed it was a mistake and it never happened again."

Maekar turned a page.

"Daeron and I have been best friends since before either of us knew what we were doing," you said. "It was one night and it was—"

"Don't," Maekar said, still quiet, "tell me it didn't mean anything."

"Why—"

"Because," he said, and something in his voice had shifted in a way that made you stop talking, "if you tell me it didn't mean anything I am going to have to sit here and be reasonable about the fact that my son—" he stopped. His hand, flat on the table beside the paper, pressed down hard against the surface. "My son has seen you."

The kitchen was very still.

"He's seen—" Maekar stopped again. Started again. The jaw was working continuously now. "He's had his hands on you. He has—" another stop, another press of his hand against the table, like he was using it as an anchor. "And now he sits at my table every Sunday and eats my food and I have to look at his face."

"Dad," Daeron said, very carefully, "I need you to remember that I'm your son and you love me."

"I'm acutely aware of who you are right now," Maekar said, with the specific tone of a man for whom this information was not currently as useful as it usually was.

"And that it was years ago and meant nothing—"

"I told her not to say that," Maekar said.

"—and that she didn't even know you yet—"

"Daeron." Maekar looked up from the paper for the first time. Looked at his son with an expression that was entirely controlled and also somehow made Daeron press slightly backward against the counter. "I need you to stop talking."

Daeron stopped talking. Maekar looked at you.

Whatever was happening behind his eyes had not finished happening. You could see him working through it in real time. The rational part, which knew perfectly well that your past had nothing to do with your present, losing ground steadily to the part of him that was fundamentally, constitutionally incapable of sharing, even retroactively, even with someone he loved, even with his own son especially with his own son—

"Excuse me," Maekar said, pushed his chair back, and left the kitchen.

You found followed him into the garage after a shared, knowing look with Daeron, who still was glued to his seat at the table.

Maekar was standing at his workbench with both hands braced against it, head down, in the posture of a man conducting an extremely serious internal negotiation with himself. He did not look up when you came in.

"How long," he just said.

"How long what."

"Did I not know about this."

"I first met you like two years ago," you said. "This happened on second year, so," you did the math, "approximately four years, give or take."

He made a sound that was not a word.

"Maekar—"

"Four years," he said, "of Daeron—" He pressed harder against the workbench. "Four years of him knowing. Looking at you. Knowing what you—" he stopped. "Knowing things about you that I didn't know yet when I met you. That I had to learn." His jaw was doing continuous, relentless work. "He already knew them."

"He had also forgotten," you said, brushing aside the feeling of this man is making no sense but he's hurting. "Until approximately ten seconds before he remembered it in front of you. That detail had not crossed his mind in years."

"That's not—" Maekar turned around, and the look on his face was something you hadn't quite seen before. Not anger exactly, more like a man trying very hard to contain something that kept pressing against the containment. "That's not the point. The point is that my son—"

"Your son is my best friend," you said. "He was that before I loved you and he'll remain being just that. One stupid drunk night four years ago has nothing to do with what you and I are."

"I know that," Maekar said, which came out frustrated rather than reassured, the voice of a man who had arrived at the correct rational conclusion and found it singularly unhelpful. "I know that. I know it didn't mean anything and I know it was before and I know—" he stopped, pushed off the workbench, crossed to the far wall and stood there with his back to you for a moment— "I know all of it. It doesn't help."

"Tell me what would help," you said, taking a step closer.

"Nothing would help," he answered, turning around. "Because no matter what you say, my son has seen the mole on your right underboob, and I have to live with that information and its consequences for the rest of my natural life, and there is nothing to be done about it."

You pressed your lips together very hard.

"Don't," he warned you.

"I'm not."

"You're about to laugh."

"I'm genuinely not," you said, which was becoming increasingly less true.

"He is," Maekar said, with the flat, aggrieved certainty of a man stating an irreversible fact about the universe, "my son. Who I see almost every day. Who butchers the coffee in my kitchen. Who borrowed my car just last Tuesday." He said it like each item was its own specific grievance. "Who has seen you and touched you and—"

"Maekar," you said, and crossed the garage toward him and took his face in your hands the way you'd done the night the I love you had slipped out, and made him look at you. "Listen to me."

He looked at you. Jaw tight. Eyes doing something complicated.

"It was four years ago," you said. "We were almost still horny teenagers. We laughed through the entire thing. It was so mutually, immediately, obviously wrong that we agreed by nine the next morning that we'd both forget it and have never revisited it. It was less a romantic encounter and more a very misguided sleepover that got briefly out of hand." You held his gaze. "Daeron has never been mine and I have never been his. Not like that. Not ever. You are the only man I have wanted to come back to. You are the only one I'll ever want to come back to. Do you understand me?"

He looked at you for a long moment.

"You say he laughed?" he asked.

"Constantly," you half-smiled. "We both did."

"Through all of it."

"Start to finish," you confirmed. "It was extremely unglamorous. He tripped and fell. There was a desk chair incident."

Something shifted in his expression. The thing pressing against the containment eased, fractionally.

"An incident," he said.

"It's not a story that reflects well on either of us," you laughed briefly. "I promise you, there is nothing there worth being this worked up about."

The jaw unclenched by one degree.

"He still knows about the mole," Maekar said.

"He had forgotten about the mole for approximately four years," you said. "He will now spend the next four trying to forget that he remembered it, because he has to live with your face across the table every other day and he knows exactly what he just did."

Maekar was quiet for a moment. Something worked behind his eyes.

"Good," he said, finally, with a flatness that had crossed back over into his usual register — not the contained, effortful version from the kitchen but the real one, ordinary and certain. "Good that he has to think about it."

"Maekar—"

"It's fine," he said. "It's fine. I know it's fine." He took your wrists, gently, where your hands were still on his face, and held them. "I just needed a minute."

"You needed more than a minute."

"Several minutes," he conceded.

"You kind of grounded your son and then disappeared from the room."

"I was removing myself from a situation," he said, with great dignity, "before I said or did something I couldn't take back."

"That was very mature of you," you teased.

"I'm a mature person," he said, and the almost-smile appeared, finally, fractional and deeply reluctant, like it had been waiting behind the jaw-working and the workbench-bracing and the several minutes of genuine barely-contained possessive fury for permission to exist. "I handled that well."

"You called your son's name like a threat twice and then left the kitchen," you repeated, in case he hadn't noticed.

"I didn't raise my voice," he shrugged, feeling victorious.

"That's a very low bar, Maekar."

"It's my bar," he said, "and I cleared it," and pulled you against his chest with both arms, solid and certain, his chin coming to rest on the top of your head, his heartbeat still slightly faster than usual beneath your ear.

You let him hold you for a moment.

"Mine," he said, into your hair. Quiet. Flat. The word that was never really about possession and always about certainty, about the specific fact of choosing and being chosen and not being willing to be ambiguous about either.

"Yours," you said. "Have been. Will be. Daeron notwithstanding."

A low sound in his chest. Not quite a laugh. Almost.

"I'm going to need," he said, "to be insufferable about this for a while."

"I know."

"Not to you," he said. "To him."

"Maekar—"

"Small things," he said. "Nothing dramatic. Just — he's going to know that I know, every time he walks in that door, for a significant period of time."

"Please don't terrorize your son."

"I'm not going to terrorize him," Maekar said, with the flat reasonableness of a man who had already decided what he was going to do and was now managing your expectations around it. "I'm just not going to let him forget."

"He already can't forget. He caused this."

"Good," Maekar said. "Then we're aligned."

From somewhere inside the house, distantly, Daeron's voice carried. "Are you two still in the garage? Can I come out of the kitchen? I've been sitting here for eleven minutes."

Maekar's arms tightened slightly around you.

"No," he almost barked back.

A pause. "Dad—"

"Five more minutes, Daeron."

Silence. Then, very quietly, "Be normal about it?"

Maekar closed his eyes briefly. He had to admit Daeron had an unreasonable humour that tended to surface on the worst scenarios.

"That," he said, into your hair, very quietly, "is the only reason he's still in my will."

You laughed against his chest, and after a moment he laughed too.