In as little as eight moons, your life had become carefully controlled and surveilled. The little things you had enjoyed doing before your condition were limited, such as going down to the city with a royal fleet for fresh pastries in the square, which your husband had frowned at and had told you was just “too risky,” especially considering the amount of crime there as of late.

For the first three moons, you could handle it. It was a fun challenge to find new things everyday to keep yourself preoccupied. By the eighth, you had exhausted all interests and were beginning to collapse in on yourself like a dying star.

That is why the opportunity of attending the tourney at Maidenpool was one you had to jump at if you wished to retain any amount of sanity by the end of your term. 

“I heard there will be a tourney in a fortnight,” you say softly to your husband over the breaking of fast in his chambers. You rub the forming bump beneath your gown as if to soothe the increasingly very active babe beating against your ribs.

Your husband sits across from you in a velvet-lined chair, his mismatched eyes sweeping across a pile of letters placed haphazardly across his desk. He drums his hand against his gold goblet in quiet contemplation.

“Yes, there will be one,” he replies curtly. His eyes flicker to yours.

You look down at your plate of food in order to escape your husband’s inquiring gaze, even though most of it you can’t even pretend to enjoy at the moment. Lately, the babe has been very picky and anything it deems unworthy it forces you to suffer for. Perhaps the picky appetites of dragons started as early as in the womb.

“What is it to celebrate again?” you ask coyly. You already knew–of course you did. Your ladies-in-waiting had been quick to inform you along with all the other little details. 

Your husband frowns as he peers down at a piece of parchment on his desk. “I believe it is the Lord Mooton’s son whose marriage is being celebrated.”

“Will Prince Daeron, Aerion, or Valarr be travelling to participate in the joust?”

“I’m not sure,” he replies, pausing to take a sip from his goblet. His eyes move from his plate to yours, focused and as sharp as a dragon’s.  “I suppose there is not any particular reason for your questions about the tourney?”

You startle a bit at the question. For a moment, you can scarcely believe that you had forgotten how easily it is that your husband can read you. The answer to his question hangs like sandpaper on your tongue. You debate how to phrase it, trying each version in your mind and weighing the potential risks.

“I’m sure our young dragon would be quite happy to get some fresh air,” you finally settle on saying, “it seems all it wants to do as of late is run.”

Your husband’s eyes dart to where your hand rests on your bump. A small smile curls on his lips before it flits away. He stands from his seat and draws over to where you sit. He leans against his desk and places a chaste kiss against your forehead. His dark beard scratches familiarly against your skin. 

Your heart sinks. You are quite certain now that rejection is forthcoming.

“I am not sure it would be a good idea,” Baelor replies, moving to stand beside you as he rubs your shoulder with one ringed hand, “Maidenpool is quite far and the roads may be treacherous due to the recent storms.”

“I would have you, wouldn’t I?” you say. You reach out to grab his arm as he goes to move, commanding his attention in the only way you know how, drawing his hand to rest upon your swollen stomach. “You would protect us. Just as you have so brilliantly thus far.”

You do not wish to add the other part wherein you have grown quite suffocated by his protections as of late, not if you do not have to.

A ghost of a smile flits across Baelor’s mouth as he begins to stroke the spot where the babe is currently kicking incessantly. “As much as I appreciate the compliment, I know you are not in earnest. You do not enjoy my hovering. Was it not just last week that you tried to run away from your guard?”

You pull away from his hand and frown as stubborn tears immediately spring to your eyes. You duck your head to try to avoid the shameful well springing forth from them. It is in vain, for your husband tilts your head to face his with a finger underneath your chin. 

“Why are you crying, my love?” he asks, his voice patient and gentle and with a loving tone just makes you all the more emotional. “Surely it is not just about this tourney. I did not know you even liked jousting.”

You shake your head as more tears fall. “You must have realized how bored I have become, my prince. I spend every day the same as the last”--you pause to sniffle–“I have not been outside the castle walls in five moons. I cannot even remember what the sweet pastries of the markets taste like.”

Baelor reaches forward to catch a tear as it streaks down your cheek. “You want pastries?” he tells you in reverence, “I will have them gotten for you, all you have to do is ask.”

“It is not…” you begin to say, voice defeated, “it is not the pastries. It is not the jousting or the hovering, even. I just want to experience some semblance of normalcy before the babe is here.” You swallow back a fresh wave of saltwater tide springing to your eyes. “Before I am no longer just a princess, but a mother, too.”

Prince Baelor has experienced more in his lifetime than any one man should. He fought in the infamous Blackfyre Rebellion and had the scars to prove it. He’s currently perhaps the most experienced man alive with diplomacy and negotiation. He’d fathered two sons and helped raise his copious nieces and nephews. But at the end of the day, Baelor is still a mortal man. And within every mortal man exists an inherent weakness when it comes to one’s wife.

Your husband closes his eyes and tilts his head back for a brief moment. You dry your eyes with a nearby handkerchief as you watch him.

“I fear you will be the death of me by the year’s end,” he says quietly, a small, fond smile on his lips. 

He turns to face you, his face growing serious. “I will consider making some arrangements for the Targaryens to attend the tourney if”—he puts a heavy emphasis on the word as he notices your jump in excitement—“if you agree to stay near your kingsguard at all times. It will not be a negotiation. You will not sneak away or scheme or wander. It is for your safety as well as the babe’s. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course I understand,” you reply giddily. You can’t help a huge smile from taking over your features.

“Thank you, my love.” you say, standing to give him a soft kiss. He smiles into it as you pull away. You keep a hand on his cheek as you speak, narrowing your eyes to convey your seriousness, “I will do everything I can to keep our dragon safe. I would never intentionally put them in harm’s way.”

“Good,” he replies, “and yourself?”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Myself?”

“Will you do everything you can to keep yourself safe?”

“Oh,” you say with a light laugh as if the notion itself is ridiculous, “of course, my prince.”

As you take your first steps outside the carriage, you speak to the little dragon resting against your ribs. Your two kingsguards follow closely behind you as you begin to walk.

“And this is Maidenpool,” you tell it, your own eyes alight at the new scenery around you. Colorful pavilions signal each house’s presence and you begin to list them off as you pass them. “There’s House Baratheon, House Fossoway, House Beesbury…”

You perk up when you hear the sound of clomping hooves against the cobble paths, but you do not turn your head. “House Tully with the fish, of course…”

“Getting our dragon acquainted with his lords?” you hear your husband’s voice come from beside you. You turn your head toward him and grin at the handsome figure riding slowly up on his black stallion.

“It is very important for a little prince or princess to know their history,” you inform, face entirely serious but voice in jest. “How else will they be prepared to answer all the maester’s serious, intellectual questions?”

Prince Baelor grins, but it quickly fades when he notices your slow movements. “Why have you exited from the carriage so soon? The castle of Maidenpool is still quite a bit away. Surely your feet will grow tired.”

You smile up at him. “Getting some fresh air, remember?”

Your husband simply shakes his head at your sarcasm. He goes to say something else when his brother sides up next to him on his own horse. They begin to speak in hushed whispers and so you tune them out.

Your eyes stretch across the tourney grounds with wonder. Perhaps you are too easily impressed, but you think it is more likely that you had forgotten the beauty of the Seven Kingdoms in your time hidden away. People mill around you in a way that would never happen in King’s Landing. In King’s Landing, you stand out like a sore thumb. There are still a few people watching the Targaryen fleet, but most go about their own lives. 

“It’s the princess!” you hear a small voice from one of the people gathered.

You turn your head to see a young girl that could hardly be more than nine, her eyes wide as she stares straight at you. You give her a smile and a sly wink. She giggles with delight.

By the time the Maidenpool castle is within reach, you observe with mild annoyance that your husband has been entirely correct in his estimations. Your feet hurt like they never have before. Your back, too, but you would never admit it for it was exactly in line with what the maesters had told you about physical activity.

Your husband has retaken his spot at your side as you are welcomed into the castle by the Mooton house and led inside. He wraps an arm around your waist and you accept it to alleviate some of the weight you are carrying, leaning into his warm side.

The Lord Mooton begins to explain the historical significance of the castle in great detail as he walks toward the dining hall, and you notice Baelor’s arm tightens as the time goes on without any purposeful progress being made.

“Perhaps,” Prince Maekar cuts in. You look over with surprise. “We could be shown to our rooms before your riveting tour. Your lord hand’s lady wife has been on her feet all afternoon.”

You give your brother-in-law a small smile of appreciation, to which he nods curtly. Prince Maekar, the big softy.

“O-Oh, of course, My Grace,” the shrewd man stutters out. He gestures to a few stewards standing by. “Show them to their rooms.”

The stewards nod and the Targaryen family begins to follow them through the halls. As you walk beside your husband, your eye gets caught on your step-son, Prince Valarr, talking with his youngest cousin, Prince Aegon “Egg.”

“I hear there will be a puppet show in town tomorrow,” Prince Valarr tells the young boy with a small smile. “It will be a retelling of Jonquil and Florian the Fool and their meeting in Maidenpool.”

Your attention perks at that. A puppet show? Had you ever seen one of those before? You could not recall. Surely it would be the most amazing thing to see.

“I’m much too old for puppet shows,” replies Egg, his wispy white hair falling into his eyes.

Prince Valarr grins at his youngest cousin’s attempt at playing older. “Truly? Well, I was planning on going…”

Egg’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline at that. You stifle a laugh at the admiration clear on his face for his older cousin. 

You meet Baelor’s gaze and squeeze his arm. You nod toward the interaction occurring between Egg and Valarr. “I hope our child looks up to their siblings and cousins just as much,” you tell him softly.

Prince Baelor hides his grin by ducking his head. He leans over to place a kiss upon your cheek. “I’m sure their family will teach them everything they know,” he pauses, mulling over his words, “a frightening notion.”

You stifle your laughter with your hand.

“Prince Baelor and his lady wife will stay here,” one of the stewards says, gesturing to the closest door to them. “Prince Maekar across the hall…”

You tune the rest of the sleeping arrangements out as you break from the group and go inside the room. It is not the most grand place you have ever stayed. Actually, it is quite homely. You think you spy a leak in the corner of the room. The bed is narrow, but the quilt looks sufficiently warm.

You look over at your husband, whose eyes sweep over the room with a slight frown. He turns to you, drawing close.

“Will these arrangements be suited to you, my love?” he says, eyebrows furrowed, “perhaps the Lord Mooton has more comfortable quarters…”

“It is just fine, my prince,” you reply with a soft smile. “It actually quite reminds me of the chambers I grew up in.”

“Hm,” Baelor says as his eyes rove over the cobwebs in the corner of the room, “I must talk to your lord father about that.”

You let out a soft laugh. “I assure you, husband, it was not a problem then nor is it now. When it is all you know, it is actually quite comfortable.”

Your husband closes the door softly behind him as he steps inside. He drags his hand across one of the tables in the room and it comes away covered in dust. He shakes his head, but does not utter a word. That is just how your husband is. He does not express his contemptuous thoughts if he does not see that you share them. 

You slide off your heavy coat and hang it on one of the bedposts. You go to remove your gloves and shoes, but your husband stops you with a hand on your wrist.

“Are you not planning on joining us for dinner?” he asks, stroking the lace of your glove with a single thumb.

You give him a soft smile. “Of course,” you reply, “I just need to relax for a little while. The babe has been restless today.”

“You are growing a dragon,” Baelor says with a grin, “they can be quite fiery.”

You continue to smile as you slip out of your shoes and gloves, placing them in a neat pile by the bed. You sit on the blanket, then swing your legs up to rest on it. You can’t help letting out a soft sigh at the instant relief of the pressure gone off your feet. Resting your hand upon your belly you look up at Baelor, who watches you with a softened expression.

He turns his back and begins to stride toward the door.

“Perhaps…” you say, your voice testing the waters before sinking in. Baelor’s head turns in your direction. “Perhaps arrangements could be made for me and the babe to see the puppet show on the morrow.”

You notice your husband’s jaw clench underneath his salt and pepper beard, a muscle jumping underneath his skin. “I do not think…”

“Then perhaps if not that, I could go see some of the things being offered at the stalls,” you offer, inflection hopeful. “I saw an ironwork stall that had the most beautiful necklaces…”

He strides toward your side of the bed and you fall silent as you watch him. His eyes do not meet yours until he takes a seat at the end of it. He reaches forward to grasp your ankle.

“How about you rest now,” he says, “and then we will talk about it on the morrow.”

You swallow thickly. A part of you knows what the answer will be, but you decide you will not give your husband any more undue worries. You nod curtly and your husband excuses himself from the room.

You look down at your bump and at the baby who seems to have finally calmed down and you release a heavy sigh.

“You are a lot of trouble, you know that?” you whisper to it, “I think your father is going to die of stress the way you have been running him ragged and you are not even here yet.”

The baby punctuates your statement with a sharp kick to your ribs as if to say: it’s not me stressing him out, it’s you.

By the time the light begins to break over the hills and bathe the tourney in swaths of amber rays, you are already awake. You stare at the tiny people milling about below, going from their tents to the market to the stables, each moving with a purpose unbeknownst to you. You clutch the fabric of your shift within your hand, trying to prevent yourself from doing anything hasty.

You listen to the soft snores of your husband beside you and mull on the consequences of sneaking away. It could be so easy to escape for just a few hours. Your husband will not wake until the horns blow at the crest of the morrow, and you could leave and be back before he’d ever wake. You know that the kingsguard will be changing shifts soon, which means that you could theoretically slip out without anyone knowing.

As you sit there for a moment longer, counting your husband’s shallow breaths, you think of what you promised before the tourney. That you would not try to escape to the market, that you would not try to undermine your husband’s word. But you also wonder, what is the point of attending a tourney if you are going to spend it locked inside?

You continue to stare out the window even though you know deep down that your mind has already been made up. Now it is just about the follow through.

You are able to get out of the castle much easier than you had been expecting. Most of those inside are still sleeping, and those that are awake are indentured to service to the Mooton house and therefore are not within their rights to ask you where you are headed. The cloak you put on over your head also dissuades a lot of stares and conversation as most do not care to look at you long enough to decide which Targaryen you are. 

The only slight resistance you face is when Egg turns the corner right as you begin to make it to the door. You pull the hood closer to your face, but the damage has already been done.

“Princess?” he says quietly, his violet eyes wide. The boy, only seven years, looks so much younger standing there in the foyer, enveloped by large shadows of the light coming from the windows.

You put on your most believable smile as you turn to face the young boy, your hands shaking beneath your long cloak. “Egg, what are you doing up so early?” 

The boy lifts his hand, where a pastry filled with jam covers his fingers. “Eating.”

Despite your nerves, you cannot help a small smile from curling up on your lips at the innocent answer. You tilt your head toward the door out of the castle and know that you must leave now or the whole plan will be ruined.

“I will be out for a little while,” you tell him, “so if anyone asks, you tell them I will be right back, okay?”

Egg’s light eyebrows furrow. “Uncle Baelor does not know you are leaving?”

The lie slips through your lips before you can properly process it. “Your Uncle Baelor is still sleeping. No need to wake him for this.”

Egg’s young visage looks conflicted, but he knows better than to argue with adults. “Are you going to see the puppet show of Florian the Fool and Jonquil?” His face is filled with delight as he recalls the tales his older cousin had spun of the performance.

You smile gently at the boy. “Perhaps,” you reply, “I am sure your cousin Valarr would be happy to take you to see it later. We will have to discuss it once I return.”

The boy nods excitedly before he darts off, apparently having forgotten the unease at which he felt at seeing you sneak away.

And so you continue out the door and down the hill to the tourney without any more delay. Despite the slow start in the castle, the tourney is wide awake. You are able to fit in with the crowd easily, either that or people are too kind to say anything, and you are able to joyfully appraise markets selling handmade wares and street performers that vie for your time.

The dragon begins to stir underneath your breasts when you feel a jolt of excitement like a child as you come close to a beautiful stall stocked to the brim with elaborate cakes and breads. You gasp when you spot a perfectly cooked slice of your favorite.

“See somethin’ you like, dear?” an older woman asks, her footsteps hobbling toward you.

You point at which baked good had caught your eye with a giddy grin. “Oh, how much is a slice of this? I used to have it so often in my youth…” 

You begin to rifle through your change purse when the older woman places a wrinkled hand on yours. You look up, startled.

“Dearie, don’t you know not to show how much money you are carrying?” she asks, her milky eyes wide, “not everyone is as nice as me here… I would hate to see a lady like you taken advantage of.”

You feel your skin crawl underneath your cloak. You had not thought of that. You pull a couple of silvers out of your coin purse and tuck the rest away. You look around at the faces around you, but do not feel anything immediately wrong.

You place two silvers in her outstretched hands. Her eyes widen at the coins, but she does not correct your estimation of the cost.

You grab your sweet treat with a smile and tuck it into your satchel. The older woman waves you away with a huge, appreciative grin.

You spend the better part of the morning strolling around the market, bouncing from stall to stall collecting goods with eager hands. 

You do not realize how much time has passed until you notice a band of kingsguard passing by, their swords clanging against their sides and their heads on a swivel. One near you stops a young man and talks to him in soft whispers.

Your heart drops to your feet. Your little dragon gives you a kick as if to say: I told you so. 

The Kingsguard begin to head your way and you duck into a small alleyway to get out of their path. You lean against the cobble wall, trying to calm your breaths. You tell yourself that there is still a chance they did not know you were missing, but even you had seen how high the sun was in the sky. Your husband was surely up by now, how had you missed the morning horns?

You stand there for a moment longer before you go to leave. Before you can exit back into the light, a figure jumps in front of you. You go to let out a surprised scream when the assailant claps his hand over your mouth. Your satchel drops to the ground with a clatter and your hood falls from your face in the struggle.

You fight against him, but he is a large man with wild eyes that makes your blood run cold. When you almost escape, a knife is placed at the base of your throat. Your eyes go wide and you instinctively clutch at the wrist holding it.

“I haaave watched you,” the man’s hot breath slides across the side of your face and it smells distinctly like cheap ale. He’s drunk, you realize, but with your condition, he would still be difficult to overpower. You recoil, but that only brings you closer to the man behind you so it does not exactly help the situation. “You… are a Targaryen.”

Your breathing quickens. Your stilled movements must give you away for he chuckles.

“Everyone can tell,” he says, “they are juss too polite.” He pauses. The blunt of his blade catches your skin. “Unfortunately for you, I am not.”

“Please,” you manage to say, “please let me go. I… you will not be arrested. I vow to you.”

“Your family has been the bane of my exis…existence for years,” he continues, words slurred and nearly indistinguishable as common tongue, “after the rebellion, I lost my family, my home… I do not see reason why I should let you roam free.”

“I… I am with child,” you plea, “you would be committing two murders in the eyes of the sept and for that the only result would be execution.”

You are surprised at your ability to negotiate even under the circumstances. However, despite your words, the man does not let up.

“Do not give me even more reason to end your life, whore,” he grits out. “Every child born to you white-haired bastards is a stain upon the Seven Kingdoms. I would be doing the realm a favor.”

You realize then that you have only added fuel to the flame. What should have sparked empathy, only stoked malice. You close your eyes as a tear escapes, protective hands clutching your belly. Just as you begin to think it is the end, you hear a stampede of hooves clattering against the ground in your direction. 

The man behind you freezes, as if the impropriety of his actions were just catching up to him.

“She went that way,” you hear a familiar voice call. As the horses break through the darkness of the alley, you realize it is the old woman from earlier. She gives you a wink and slips away. Your chin wobbles as more tears leak from your eyes, a rush of shame and gratefulness and fear mixed into them.

The kingsguard that halt in front of you part to make way for a familiar black stallion at the lead. You can see your husband’s face as clearly as you remember it from this morning, even through the darkness, and the slight tremble to his hands as he takes in your position.

Baelor slides off his steed and begins to walk toward you.

“O-o-one more step and I-I’ll slit this whore’s throat,” the man behind you calls out. 

More tears escape your eyes, a sob building in your throat.

“Are you injured, my love?” Baelor calls out, his voice powerful but undercut by a deep concern. 

“No,” you can barely manage to say through your tears.

“She will be,” the man says, “if you do not give me enough silver and a horse to leave this damned tourney unscathed.”

You do not think the man, in his altered perception, realizes there will be no situation wherein he is allowed to walk free. 

“You will let go of the princess before we give you anything,” Baelor says, his once-gentle voice now deadly. He takes a step forward.

The man’s grip on you tightens and you let out a whimper. From behind you, you think you hear the sound of soft footsteps landing against cobble, but you do not dare to look and confirm in case it is.

“I want to see it,” the man says, “I want to see the horse and the money.”

“I have money in my bag,” you say, voice tremulous and weak. The footsteps inch closer. You are sure someone is behind you now. 

“And the horse?” he says.

“You may have my horse,” Baelor says, pulling the reins of his beautiful black stallion toward the man. “Just let go of her.”

The man, in that instance, makes a choice. His grip on your waist wavers as he decides. 

At the same moment the knife clatters to the ground and the man steps away from you with an inebriated stumble, a sword pierces through his back to his chest and he lets out a gasp that turns into a gurgle as blood spills from his mouth. Prince Maekar pulls the blade from your assailant’s back and he crumbles to the ground.

You feel a rush of relief mixed with anguish at the sight. You nearly drop to the ground when your husband’s hands dart out to catch you. You turn your face into your husband’s chest and let out a sob. His ringed hands stroke over your hair, his other curled around your waist so tightly that you think he might never let you go again.

You pull your head back enough just to look in his eyes. Tears obstruct your view of his face in its entirety until all you can see is his soft gaze. “I-I’m so sorry,” you manage to say, “I’m so sorry.”

Your husband’s face softens as he reaches his hand up to wipe away the wetness clinging to your cheeks. “It is okay, my love,” he whispers. He bends his head to reach your ear as he continues: “but never again.” 

The ride back to the Wooten Castle is cloaked in a heavy silence broken only by your soft tears. Despite the fact that the altercation is far resolved, your hands still tremble and the tears keep coming. Your husband keeps his arms around you from behind like a wrought iron cage, his eyes fixated on the castle ahead.

He does not move to comfort you in the way you expected he might when he helps you off his horse. You continue to wipe the tears away with your thick cloak, a well of shame and fear harbored in your chest.

“Do you need anything else, brother?” Maekar says as he gets off his own horse and thrusts the reins into a wide-eyed stable boy nearby.

Baelor’s mismatched eyes dart to his brother’s violet ones. He shakes his head.

Maekar’s eyes dart to look at you and a flash of pity rips across his face before he nods at his brother and turns his back. 

Your husband begins to walk away from you and toward the castle, but he does not take two steps before looking back over his shoulder to ensure you are following behind. You swallow thickly and nervously thread your hands in the tight fibers of your cloak as you follow behind him. 

The inside of the castle is dark as you step inside. Near the entrance, Egg stands wide-eyed, peaking around a door. He looks incredibly frightened and small standing against the cobble walls. Your heart skips a beat and a rush of shame steals your breath. You had caused that. 

His father notices him and grabs the back of his tunic, gently leading him away from the commotion. 

You take careful steps up to your room. The entire castle feels like it is trying to swallow you whole. The baby has been quiet through the whole ordeal, as if even it realized the gravity of the situation.

Baelor moves to the door of your shared chambers and opens it for you. You bite your lip when he avoids your gaze and step on through.

The door shuts behind Baelor as he drags himself behind you. He takes a seat on the side of the bed and stares silently out the window.

Inside the room, you carefully shrug off the cloak, finally revealing the bump you had so carefully hidden from the rest of the world’s prying eyes. You put the fabric down on the back of a nearby chair and remove the slice of the dessert from one of the pockets. It is nothing but crumbs now. Smushed against your side in the struggle for your life. You expect tears to come, but none do. You put the ruined slice onto a nearby table.

You flinch when your husband’s voice comes out in a low, rasping tone. “Was it worth it?”

You follow his eyes to the sweet you had bought and you feel your hands tremble.

“I’m sorry?” you croak. 

“The sweet bread,” he repeats calmly, slowly, “was it worth it?”

Your throat bobs as you attempt to swallow past the saltwater forming in your throat. “I did not… I did not intend for…”

“--And what did you intend?” your husband interrupts. Your eyes jump to his as they narrow. “Because it seems to me that you went out to get yourself killed for a slice of sweet bread.”

“Please,” you plead, “I am exhausted.”

The bed lets out a loud creak as your husband stands up from it. His footfalls reverberate in your skull as he draws nearer. You close your eyes and duck your head, trying to escape his disapproving gaze.

“I told you,” he says, “I told you that you will not run away. You will not put yourself into danger. And what do you do?”

You shake your head. 

“You are not a young girl anymore,” he continues, unperturbed by your silence, “you are a princess. And you are carrying an heir to this realm. You cannot…” he trails off, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips.

Your eyes go to meet his. You startle at the sight of his eyes beading with tears. He drags a hand over his face, trying to hide from you. You reach forward, grasping his cheek before he can.

His mismatched eyes dart between yours as if searching for some kind of regret, some kind of understanding. A single tear trails down his cheek and you catch it with your thumb.

“You are my heart,” he says, his voice now quieter, “can’t you see that I cannot live without you?”

“I am…” you start, “so sorry, my love.” You sniffle, a similar pressure building behind your own eyes. “I was foolish. I am foolish. My father always said so, but I can see it clearly now.”

A few wrinkles form in between Baelor’s dark brows. A frown tugs at his lips. “You are not foolish,” he says, “but you are incredibly stubborn and you must listen when I warn of these things.”

“I know,” you tell him, “I knew it was wrong. I did it anyway.”

“Why?” his voice is weak when that word floats off his lips. “Have I not given you everything you have desired and then some?”

“You have,” you reply softly, “you have. I just…” you frown, trying to parse together the sentence that sits on the end of your tongue. “Have you ever been on a royal hunt before?”

Your husband shakes his head at the abrupt change of topic, but he obliges. “Yes, of course.”

“When I am within the walls of King’s Landing, doing my embroidery and my painting and strolling the gardens not some days but every single day and I look around and I see nobles vying for my attention and wishing they were in my shoes, I sometimes feel like a fox cornered between hounds. Like wherever I look I am being hunted, I am trapped and I cannot escape.” 

Your husband suddenly looks incredibly regretful, so you continue. “And I know it is probably difficult for someone like you to understand this, someone that has much more stressful duties as the Lord Hand than I and that I am quite foolish for wanting something new, but I…”

“Do not…” he starts, lifting your chin up so you will look him in the eyes. “Do not apologise for this. I… admit I did not fully understand the gravity of the situation…”

“But that does not mean I can just… run away,” you tell him, “I was incredibly foolish. I almost died. I could have died. Our child…” you avert your eyes, tears welling up again.

“Yes, you could have.”

“Or I could have been robbed or injured…”

“Yes, that too.”

“I’m so very sorry,” you say again, because you have to do something to make up for this grievance. “I will never do this again.”

“You will not,” he agrees.

A silence lapses between you. Your husband’s eyes trace across your face as if trying to memorize the slight contours of your face. He blinks several times and looks up to the ceiling.

His voice is a deep rumble as he speaks next. “We will leave on the morrow,” he tells you simply.

Your heart drops even though you knew logically that it was the only option given the circumstances.

“But… I shall be more lenient to your requests from now on,” he continues. Your eyes dart to meet his, wide and startled by the admission. He is quick to continue, “as long as they are within reason, of course.”

“Of course.” 

His eyes soften as he looks over your face. “You nearly died today,” he says, “do you know how devastated I would have been?”

Tears leap to your eyes. 

Your husband softly strokes your cheek. “I love you so much,” he says, his other hand reaching to stroke your bump. “I am sorry I have kept such tight reins on you as of late.”

“...Kiss me,” you whisper in response.

Baelor’s lips quirk up without his conscious approval. “You are ridiculous,” he says, “I am trying to be serious.”

“I’m sorry I cannot focus when you are this close to my face,” you say with a teasing grin. 

He rolls his eyes but his lips stay in the same position. He leans forward and you close the distance, reaching forward to gently cup the back of his neck.

Your husband continues to kiss you, drawing circles across your cheek and a hand warm around your waist, when you break away with a sharp gasp. You reach forward to grab your stomach and your husband’s eyes follow the moment.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head with furrowed brows. “Just felt a pain–”

Suddenly, you feel a strange sensation between your thighs. Liquid. Your hands dart down to clasp at your dress, frantically feeling for the moisture. Your hands come away coated in a clear liquid.

“Oh gods,” you say. 

“Is that…”

“The baby’s coming.”

You had told him, of course, that such splendor was unnecessary, that a small supper with the family would have more than sufficed. Yet Baelor delighted in spoiling you, for you were the finest blessing he had been granted in a lot of time.

Whenever Ser Duncan the Tall found himself in your presence, he devoted most of his time to watch you from afar—seeing you laugh beside Baelor, play with Egg, or even speak comfortably with Prince Aerion. Your presence was nothing short of glorious, a magnet for eyes and devotion wherever you went. Your nature was exquisite—kind, gentle, and so unbearably sweet that at times Dunk thought you could scarce be of the same blood as the rest of them. 

And your beauty… that was another matter entirely. You were the loveliest sight the humble eyes of a hedge knight had ever beheld. Your form was wondrous, your face celestial, your long hair falling over your shoulders like a silken cascade, and your smile... it stole the very breath from his chest every time. Each time you entered his sight, a sigh would just escape out of him, soft and helpless, like a boy hopelessly in love.

“Do not even think it, Dunk,” Egg warns him, as he had more than once before, quick to notice the besotted look upon his big friend’s face as they sat together at the table. “That's out of your power to reach, Ser.”

But Dunk does not answer. He is far too intent upon you as you appear in the great hall’s doorway. 

Today you wear a gown of red, dazzling, adorned with pearls and white embroidery that spreads across your bodice, climbs your shoulders, and trails down the length of your spine, where darker crimson stitching forms the likeness of dragon scales. Your hair lies loose down your back, softly waved, gleaming in the candlelight.

All rise at your entrance.

Dunk is the last. He nearly stumbles over his chair in his haste, its legs scraping loudly against the stone floor as he shoves it back. That alone—and you—turn him red as a summer apple.

Valarr, seated at his other side, watches his brutish motion with poorly hidden amusement.

“My love,” Baelor calls first, his face gentle as drifting clouds, fondness curving his lips as he comes to greet you properly. “Happy name day.”

You accept his embrace, smiling as he presses a tender kiss to your hair.

After him, the others come in turn, forming a line to offer their wishes, their thanks, their gifts—small tokens and letters placed into your hands.

Egg flings himself into your arms, making you laugh and sway back a step beneath the force of him. Baelor, standing close at your side, smiles at the sight. Ever tender are you with the younglings, and for that, he loves you all the more. You shower his children with a devotion so maternal and steadfast that one would never guess they did not spring from your own womb.

“Thank you, my sweet Aegon,” you tell him, stroking the fine, pale silver-gold hair already sprouting upon his head. The boy had even brought you a flower—one of those you cherished most, a silent token of his affection.

Duncan feels painfully out of place when his turn comes. Standing empty-handed while his stomach twists into a tight, miserable knot.

He is already flushed when you lift your gaze to him, your eyes sparkling with amusement at the familiar effect you have upon him—his trembling hands, his stammer, his shy smiles. He's so cute!

“Ser Duncan. I hope you would be here,” you greet him warmly, you know well the bond he shares with Aegon; to have him present is a comfort to your heart. “Aegon speaks wonders of you. It does not surprise me to see you have become each other's shadow.”

“My lady,” Dunk answers you, his voice no louder than a mouse’s squeak. His gaze, much against his better judgment, betrays him, making a swift, helpless journey over the length of your body.

And Baelor notices, of course; his smile fades, slow and certain, as he watches the knight’s every movement like a hawk perched upon your shoulder. A single brow lifts slightly, and a deep, thoughtful furrow begins to cloud his brow.

Duncan clears his throat and casts your husband an apologetic glance before daring to look at you again. “I— I beg your pardon. I would not wish to be an intrusion upon your name day. Your father was kind enough to grant me to attend.”

The hall falls into sepulchral silence. The small conversations that bloom among the Targaryens die at once when Dunk’s words echo through the great chamber, their meaning plain, their offense unmistakable and unashamed. Even the youngest cease their play, and the servants stand frozen right where they are.

All turn to stare at Duncan now, and they look upon him with mortified eyes, as though none dare breathe.

Somewhere, someone fails to smother a laugh—most likely Aerion.

Egg’s mouth falls open in mortification. He looks up at his friend, his expression stricken, willing him to understand—to see—that what he has just said is wrong. Very wrong.

Duncan looks down at him when his small squire gives his shin a furtive kick, meant to draw his notice without the others seeing. He frowns, bewildered, not understanding what offense he has given now to deserve such a blow.

And when he looks back to the grown folk, he finds you watching him with an expression poised in perfect balance between horror and amusement. There is even the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of your lips, one you must press away when you turn your head toward your prince.

Baelor does not look pleased as you do.

His face is uncommonly stern, his brow drawn tight, his lips pressed into a hard, unforgiving line, he is trying to gather every shred of his restraint to keep from striking the foolish knight upon your name day.

“She is my wife, Ser Duncan,” he clarifies, his patience stretched thin, drawn so taut it borders upon offense. His hand comes to curl around your waist as you lean into him, lifting one hand to his chest in quiet reassurance.

You are still trying to hide that treacherous, amused smile.

“Oh—Seven—” Dunk breathes, realization striking him at last. He drops at once to his knees, bowing his head in reverence and shame. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. I—I did not know. My manners are poor—you must understand, I never m–meant offense.”

“Of course not, Ser,” you reply kindly, looking down at him, still leaning against your husband’s chest. He lets out a soft sigh beneath your touch, your hand rising and falling with the steady motion of his breath.

Baelor makes a sharp, dismissive gesture for him to rise. “See that it does not happen again.”

“Of course!” Dunk scrambles to his feet at once, his face burning red with shame. “I only meant that she is so young and beautiful, and you—”

His frantic blue eyes fall upon Valarr, standing just behind his father. The prince shakes his head swiftly, his mismatched eyes widening in urgent warning, bidding him to hold his tongue.

Dunk obeys at once and his jaw snaps shut so hard it almost snaps apart.

“You witless boy,” Maekar rebukes him, his face twisted with disgust and disdain when the hedge knight dares glance his way, standing at your side like some old, ill-tempered hound. “That should cost you your fucking tongue.”

Your soft laughter breaks through the tension of the moment, and all turn to look at you, the heavy air easing when they all realize this offends you not half so deeply as it does them.

“I am certain Ser Duncan meant no malice, Maekar,” you say, seeking to soothe them—most of all your husband. “And I should not like to see any tongues torn out upon my name day, please.”

Baelor’s gaze remains fixed upon the mortified knight, his hand coming to rest upon the pommel of his sword—a blade he carries in quiet defiance of your pleas to remain unarmed this day. He thinks, perhaps, that he shall have a use for it against Ser Duncan.

“... shall we eat at last, then?” Comes Daeron’s unmistakable voice from somewhere within the hall. “I am hungry. And thirsty.”

“Of that, none have any doubt,” Maekar mutters, rolling his eyes as he returns to the table.

The others follow in his wake, granting you and your husband a moment alone.

Ser Duncan gives you another quick, apologetic bow before hastening out from beneath your husband’s gaze.

You cannot hold it any longer.

A breath of laughter escapes you, soft and bright, and you turn in Baelor’s arms to face him fully. 

He is still watching the place where Duncan stood, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid beneath your touch, as if the insult lingers in the air like a foul smell.

Your fingers curl more firmly into the front of his doublet to call for his attention.

“My prince,” you whisper with a smile when his two-toned eyes finally meet yours. “My heart...”

You rise onto your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, his beard tickling against your skin. His body noticeably softens beneath your warm affection.

Another kiss follows, softer still, at the corner of his mouth.

And one more, sweet and lingering, upon his lips.

“Peace,” you plead humorously against his mouth, your fingers toying idly with the Hand of the King’s badge on his chest. “You look as though you mean to challenge the poor knight to single combat over a slip of the tongue, my love.”

“I am not amused,” he manifests, his tone remarkably sullen, yet you press another loving kiss to his lips to chase away his pettish little pout.

“No?” You lean closer, your voice drops into something more playful and teasing, “is it because he thinks you're old, husband?”

His lips tremble at your words, holding back an ironic smile, and his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer against him.

Baelor clicks his tongue, and your gaze falls to his lips as he does. “I am not old.”

“Well, considering my own age... truthfully, you are a bit older,” you continue to tease him, biting back a small laugh at his startled reaction. “Should I begin calling you father now, hm?”

His beautiful eyes narrow.

You grin—and steal another quick kiss before he can protest.

“Do not push your luck, wife,” he warns all the same, a playful little smile curving his lips. His hand slides down to the small of your back before he delivers a sharp, scolding swat to your backside, making you jolt lightly against him.

His brow arches slightly. “You are the only one left breathless and trembling like some frail, ancient little thing. Or must I remind you how you clung to me the other night and begged me to—?”

Your hand flies to his mouth, covering it before he can utter another word.

“My prince,” you hiss under your breath, though laughter trembles in your voice, your eyes wide with scandalized amusement. “You grow bold. We are in a hall full of eyes, and your sons sit but a stone's throw away.”

His lips move against your palm, pressing a lingering, heated kiss there that sends a shiver down your spine. Baelor gently pulls your hand away, though he does not let go of your fingers, his thumb stroking your knuckles with a slow, possessive rhythm, grazing your betrothal ring.

“Let them look,” he dismisses, leaning into you to kiss your lips properly, claiming them. And claiming you.