Yuyu

Your wedding to Prince Baelor was grander than you had ever imagined.

The celebration lasted three full days in the Red Keep: tables laden with roasted venison, eel pies, and Dornish wine flowing like water; musicians with harps and flutes filling the courtyards until well past midnight; laughter echoing off the reddish stone walls and dances that swept even the sternest lords into their rhythm.

But beneath all that splendor, you remained nervous for the entire three days. From the moment the Septon spoke the sacred words and declared you husband and wife, from the instant Baelor inclined his head and placed a chaste, cold kiss upon your forehead, a dull unease settled in your chest and refused to leave.

On your first night of marriage, you arrived together at his chambers. Your legs trembled beneath layers of silk, and each step you took behind him felt heavier than the last. You felt like a lost pup trailing at the heels of a dragon you did not entirely trust.

Baelor stopped before the unlit fireplace and removed his black cloak embroidered with silver dragons. He draped it carefully over the back of a chair, as though the gesture demanded concentration. You remained frozen several paces away, hands pressed against your stomach, bracing for the worst.

You knew it. It was a cruel necessity to avoid scandal: a marriage left unconsummated would be questioned, and the court adored its rumors. He would force you, of course. How could he not—

Then you saw him draw a dagger from the left side of his belt. The steel gleamed briefly in the candlelight. He climbed onto the bed on his knees, pulled back the white linen sheets with precise movement, and without hesitation made a thin but deep cut along his left forearm. Blood welled at once, bright and red, dripping onto the fabric in dark stains that spread like ink.

“Prince!”

Your voice came out sharper than you intended. You stepped toward him without thinking.

Baelor lifted his free hand to stop you, the gesture calm, almost bored.

“I would prefer you call me Baelor,” he said evenly, as though he had not just opened his own flesh before you.

You looked again at the crimson stain slowly spreading across the sheet. He shrugged lightly.

“For everyone else, we have just consummated the marriage. That is the end of it.”

You nodded, stunned. Relief washed over you like cold water, but it left a strange aftertaste.

He rose and walked to a copper basin, cleaning the wound with a cloth he had prepared beforehand. The bleeding slowed almost immediately; the cut was clean, deliberate. Meanwhile, you remained motionless in the center of the room, unsure where to put your hands or how to behave. Your heart still pounded, though it was no longer pure fear. It was… discomfort. A dense discomfort, as if the air between you had thickened.

“Make yourself comfortable. Sleep,” he continued while wrapping his arm with practiced movements. “We will have to sleep together from now on, but do not trouble yourself over me again. Simply ignore my presence.”

He walked to the balcony doors and opened them wide. The cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of salt from the Blackwater and the distant murmur of a city that never entirely slept. It stirred your loose hair and cooled the sweat at the nape of your neck.

You did not sleep that night.

You lay on the farthest side of the enormous canopy bed, wrapped in a nightgown that suddenly felt too thin. Baelor stretched out at the opposite end, removing nothing but his boots. He did not draw closer, did not even brush you with his gaze. He simply breathed slowly, steadily, until the rhythm became almost hypnotic. Even asleep he remained in his corner, rigid as a statue, as if he feared invading your space more than necessary.

The weeks that followed were nearly identical.

Each night he entered the room. He greeted you with a slight nod, sometimes a curt “Good evening”, and dismissed himself with the same gesture. He undressed down to his nightshirt, extinguished the candles one by one, and lay on his side of the bed. He never touched you. Never attempted conversation beyond the barest courtesies. In the mornings he rose before you, dressed in silence, and disappeared toward the throne room or the training yards.

At first, that silence comforted you. Then it began to weigh on you.

You realized that although he did not hurt you, he did not keep you company either. The court was a nest of vipers: ladies who smiled sweetly while whispering behind your back about your “Lannister coldness” or your “insufficient blood”; lords who regarded you with pity or calculation, wondering how long it would take the prince to tire of a wife who did not truly warm his bed. Audiences, banquets, hawking parties… everything became exhausting when you returned to your chambers and found the same emptiness.

One night, after an endless banquet in honor of envoys from Lys, you found yourself staring at the ceiling while Baelor already breathed deeply at your side. Boredom struck you like a slow but relentless wave.

It was not only the solitude in bed. It was solitude in everything. You were the wife of the heir to the Iron Throne, and yet you barely knew the man who slept three feet away from you. You knew nothing.

And the court did not forgive ignorance. Each day brought new reminders: a lady-in-waiting who “forgot” to deliver an important message, a councilor who asked with feigned innocence about the prince’s “family plans,” stifled giggles when you entered a hall and conversations paused a second too long.

You decided you could not continue like this.

●●●

The silence in your chambers had become as familiar as the thickness of the stone walls. Your ladies-in-waiting moved around you like courteous but distant shadows. Now… now you simply accepted it as another extension of the castle’s cold.

Without the option of going down into the city (a luxury forbidden by the lingering echoes of the last Blackfyre rebellion when it was said that their supporters saw any Targaryen as a legitimate target, and a distracted prince or princess would be far too tempting a trophy) your days had taken on a watery, monotonous quality. You wandered the fortress corridors, counting tiles without realizing it, or sat by the window in your private sitting room with embroidery in your hands. The needle slipped in and out of the fabric with mechanical precision while your gaze drifted to the garden below, a composition of carefully tended greens and colors shaped by other hands.

It was then, on one of those fog-laden days, that the idea came to you like a shaft of sunlight breaking through clouds: your nephews. The youngest ones, at least. Maekar’s children. They were the only ones in the vast and complicated web of the court who did not look at you like a piece of furniture—or worse, a rival. The only ones who did not laugh behind your back or simply ignore you.

Maekar’s three youngest possessed something the rest of the court had lost: innocence. Perhaps it was because they were still too young to grasp the complexities of rank and kinship, or because the loss of their mother, the gentle Lady Dyanna Dayne, who had died giving birth to little Rhae, had bound them together inside a fragile bubble of vulnerability. Whatever the reason, they welcomed you without reservation. Aegon, the eldest of the three, seven years old with a keen, curious gaze; Daella, six, with a sweetness almost painful in its purity; and little Rhae, three, who still crawled with more determination than steadiness and felt a dangerous fascination for anything that bore a flame.

That afternoon, you found them in the nursery, a round and warm chamber thanks to a large fireplace roaring in one corner. The floor was strewn with wooden toys and scraps of cloth.

“Do you like to draw, Aunt?” Daella asked in her melodic little voice, holding up a wrinkled piece of parchment. The word aunt always reached your heart. To them, you were not a consort princess from some distant land—only their aunt. Only family.

“Oh, I love drawing,” you replied, and your smile was genuine for the first time in days. You sat on the floor with them, feeling the warmth of the stone through your clothes. “When I was a child, I used to draw dragons all the time.”

“Dragons?” Aegon’s large blue eyes lit up as if you had mentioned hidden treasure.

You nodded, carried away by memory. “I loved our house’s sigil, the Targaryen,” you said, pointing to the vaulted ceiling, where a painted reproduction of the red-and-black banner hung unmoving. “I still do. It’s so… powerful.”

“Could you draw it?” Aegon’s voice trembled with excitement. “Then we could paint it, together, the three of us!” As he spoke, he stretched an arm around Rhae, gently guiding her away from the edge of the fireplace, toward which she had been creeping with fascination.

You let out a light, unrestrained laugh. Daella, smiling triumphantly, placed a thin piece of charcoal into your hand, likely stolen from some corner of the kitchens or her father’s solar. You leaned over a blank parchment Aegon had laid on the floor.

With the charcoal dancing between your fingers, you began to draw. First the shape of the dragon, sleek and fierce, its wings spread in eternal flight. Then the three heads, side by side, their necks entwined in a knot of power and fury. Your nephews watched you with complete attention, lips slightly parted and breath held, as though the slightest sound might shatter the spell you were weaving across the page.

The door creaked open like a dagger of ice against your spine.

You turned, and the bubble of warmth burst. There, framed against the dim corridor, stood Aerion. Your other nephew. The one who always sent an unexplainable chill through you. His presence seemed to drain the light from the room, leaving only the flickering glow of the flames to illuminate features that somehow always managed to look disdainful.

“Hello, Aunt,” he greeted, dragging the words out with a mockery as sharp as a blade. He approached at an unhurried pace, and you felt the calm of your younger nephews evaporate. Daella pressed closer to you, and Aegon’s shoulders stiffened.

You nodded in his direction, lowering your gaze to your drawing, hoping he would leave. But he did not. He stood before you, a tower of arrogance, studying the parchment and your charcoal-stained fingers.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, making the word sound like an insult. “I didn’t know you were such a talented artist, dear Aunt.”

You forced a smile that ached in your jaw. “Thank you.”

Then, with the elegance of a serpent, he dropped down beside you and snatched the drawing from your hands. Aegon lunged to retrieve it, but Aerion sidestepped him without even looking, quick and dismissive.

“Dragons,” he said, tracing a ringed finger along your lines. “I adore dragons. My family used to have one for each of us, you know.” He glanced at you sideways, and there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Isn’t that unfair? Why did the gods decide to take from us what was ours by right?”

You shrugged, uncomfortable, repeating only what your septa had once taught you. “They disappeared after the Dance of the Dragons,” you said, not lifting your eyes from his hands holding your drawing. “My septa said it was a punishment from the gods for fighting among their own family.”

A heavy silence fell. Aerion stared at you with a challenge that made you feel small. He did not like your answer.

“Don’t you think we deserve them?” he asked, his voice a venomous whisper. “No one in our generation harms their own.” He lifted his chin toward his younger brother. “Isn’t that right, Egg?”

Aegon shot to his feet, instinctively placing himself between his sisters and the conflict. “Don’t call me that!” he shouted, his childish voice cracking with fury.

“Aemon calls you that all the time.”

Aegon planted himself in front of Aerion, fists clenched at his sides. “Aemon can. You cannot.” And without waiting for a response, he ran from the chamber, leaving the door wide open.

Aerion huffed, an amused smirk on his lips, and turned his attention back to you. He watched you fidget nervously with the charcoal, staining your fingers further. He reached out and took it from you—but instead of letting go, his fingers closed around yours and held them there. The contact was dry, deliberate. Your heart pounded in your chest, pure discomfort.

He held your hands for what felt like an eternity, then rose in one fluid motion and, without breaking eye contact, snapped the charcoal in two with a cold ease.

“You shouldn’t spend so much time with children, Aunt.” His voice was falsely kind now. “The court laughs at you, you know. They think you’re a glorified nursemaid. If you spend more time with them instead of… creating your own, you may never manage to have any. And I must say, the court is especially cruel to women who fail to fulfill their… purpose.”

The words struck like a bucket of ice water. You did not lift your gaze. A sharp, real stab of worry pierced you. You rose slowly, turning your back to him to form a barrier between him and the little girls, who stared wide-eyed without understanding.

“Or is it that my uncle can no longer…?” Aerion let the insinuation hang in the air, barely audible, yet enough to make your blood boil. You turned toward him, frowning for the first time.

“You should leave,” you said. Your voice trembled, but it was firm.

He smiled, a smile that never reached his eyes. He stepped closer, ignoring the curious glances of his younger sisters. He was so near you could smell his perfume, leather and something bitter.

“I will always be willing to help you, if you need it, Aunt.” And after dropping the words like a stone into still water, he turned and left with the same measured calm with which he had arrived.

You spent the rest of the day with a knot in your stomach that would not let you eat or sew. It was a mixture of disgust at Aerion’s insinuation and deep concern over his words. Because as much as you hated to admit it, he was right. You knew that once the honeymoon glow of your marriage faded, the court would begin to expect. They would wait to see your belly swell, for you to give another heir, then a spare for the spare… and then you would live beneath their murmurs and their looks of pity or contempt if you failed.

You wanted to believe that when Baelor ascended the Iron Throne, things would be different. That being queen would grant you a respect now denied. But perhaps the problem was not your position—it was that they did not know you. Perhaps you had to stop being a shadow. Insert yourself into conversations, show interest in the history of the house that was now yours, prove you were worth more than your womb.

That night, you had retreated to your small sofa, legs tucked beneath a red velvet cushion. A book lay open in your lap, one you had found in the tower’s private library. It was titled Dreams of Blood and Fire: The Prophecies of Daenys the Dreamer. You skimmed it intently, ignoring the passing hours. The yellow, trembling candlelight cast dancing shadows over the words.

The door opened without warning. You turned your head, startled, and found your husband standing in the doorway. Baelor studied you for a moment before entering with his usual serene bearing. His hair was loose, and faint lines of fatigue marked the corners of his eyes.

“Are you not in bed yet?” he asked. It was the first direct question he had addressed to you in days.

Your eyes widened in surprise, and you nodded, closing the book over your fingers to mark the page. He read the title, and a genuine smile—one that did not show teeth but illuminated his face—appeared on his lips.

“It is a good read,” he said, gesturing toward the book as he removed his black coat and laid it on the bed. Then he approached and, with a gentleness that disarmed you, took the book from your hands to flip through it himself. “I read it when I was fourteen. I remember well, because my father had punished me for sneaking into the city at dawn with some squires.”

Your eyes drifted from his face to his hands, large and deft, turning the pages carefully. The rings of his house glimmered in the candlelight, clinking softly together.

“I imagine the city was dangerous then as well,” you murmured, watching him.

Baelor closed the book and sighed, his nostalgic smile lingering. “Not as much as it is now,” he assured, turning his back to place the book on a small table. “But my father always believed that temptations corrupt a man. I agree to a point, but he exaggerated. I suppose he still does.”

You smiled faintly and let out a soft, almost unconscious laugh as he moved to the wardrobe to retrieve his nightshirt. The sound seemed to please him, for he cast you a quick glance over his shoulder.

“I’m glad to see you reading something like that,” he commented while unfastening his doublet. “Surely the company of my young nephews must exhaust you.”

The mention made you straighten. “Have they told you?”

Baelor nodded calmly. “Aerion mentioned it during our Small Council meeting this afternoon. He said he had found you drawing with them.”

Damn Aerion. You lowered your gaze so Baelor would not see the flicker of irritation in your eyes. He had surely not mentioned the rest—the poisonous insinuations, the invasive touch.

“Your nephews do not exhaust me at all,” you said, your tone sharper than intended. “In fact, their company is the most pleasant I have these days. They are the only ones in this court who ask me interesting questions and look at me as if I were a person, not a piece of furniture.”

Baelor sat on the edge of the bed, never taking his eyes off you. There was no reproach in them, only thoughtful calm. He nodded slowly.

“I can imagine,” he said gently. “I do not blame you. Court can be cruel to those who did not grow up within it. And my family… well, they lead complicated lives.”

He said nothing more, but his silence was not uncomfortable. It was as though he were offering you space to say more, if you wished.

You did not. Instead, you rose from the sofa and walked to your side of the bed. “I will extinguish the candles myself.”

Baelor sighed, as if he wished to add something, but the words never formed. He watched you as you moved through the room, snuffing out the candles one by one, plunging the chamber into an orange gloom broken only by the dying glow of the hearth.

He finished changing into his nightshirt and slipped into bed. You did the same a few minutes later, sliding beneath the covers on your side, leaving a strip of cold sheets between you.

Darkness enveloped you both. In the silence, only the distant crackle of the hearth and Baelor’s steady breathing could be heard.

But you could not sleep. Again.

●●●

"You haven't consummated your marriage, have you?" Maekar asked his older brother as he watched Baelor seated behind the desk, bent over open parchments and books.

Baelor sighed without looking up, the sound heavy and weary.

"I don't have to share my private matters with you."

"Oh, but you already have," Maekar replied with a sharp half-smile. "If you don't want to tell me now, then I take it you haven't touched her."

Baelor finally raised his gaze, his mismatched eyes narrowing.

"Have you been spying on us? The maids said there was blood, didn't they?"

"Don't play the fool with me, brother."

Baelor shrugged—a small gesture, but one loaded with deliberate indifference. He leaned back slightly in the carved chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

Maekar stared at him in disbelief for a moment before sitting down across from him, resting his elbows on the table and rubbing his forehead with two fingers.

"If our father finds out your marriage is… failed, he will be furious. And not just him. The entire court will use it as a weapon."

"That's why he won't find out," Baelor answered with a sarcastic smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And if he does, I'll say it was my decision. End of story."

Maekar let out an exasperated snort.

"Just have one more son and they'll leave you alone forever."

"I already have two sons. I won't have another."

Maekar leaned forward, his voice low but firm.

"This isn't just about heirs, Baelor. We need to solidify the alliance with the Lannisters. Do you really think they'll stand by with folded arms while the King of the Seven Kingdoms doesn't have a single child with Lannister blood? Do you think they won't look for any excuse to break the pact and hand us the Blackfyre bastards on a silver platter?"

Baelor turned his gaze back to the open books in front of him. His fingers brushed the edge of a parchment without really reading it. The silence stretched for several seconds, broken only by the distant crackle of the fire in the hearth.

"Stop meddling," he said at last, his voice flat. "Better take care of your own. Tell Aerion to stop getting too close to my wife."

Maekar frowned, visibly puzzled.

"What?"

Baelor nodded slowly, and a sarcastic smile curved his lips.

"The maids informed me that Aerion has been… trying to get close to her. Physically. I don't put him in his place because he's your son, but talk to him before I forget that I'm his uncle. And that she is my wife."

Maekar's expression hardened instantly. The muscles in his jaw clenched. Without another word, he stood up—the back of the chair scraping against the stone floor—and left the room with quick, furious steps. The door closed with a sharp thud that echoed down the hallway.

Baelor let out a long sigh. He leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes, and ran a hand through his black hair, as if trying to erase the entire conversation from his mind.

Meanwhile, you were in the gardens of the Red Keep. The afternoon sun fell warm over the trimmed hedges and the roses climbing the iron trellises. The sweet, heavy scent of the flowers mingled with that of freshly turned earth. In the distance, you saw Kiera of Tyrosh, your stepson Valarr's wife, bent awkwardly over a flower bed.

She wore a simple dark-green linen dress, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and gardening gloves stained with dirt. Her already prominent belly forced her to move carefully; every time she tried to bend lower, one of the maids steadied her by the arm so she wouldn't lose her balance.

You hesitated. You always hesitated before approaching her… or Valarr. Both of them avoided you with icy courtesy, as though your mere presence were an awkward conversation no one wanted to have. As though you were the living reminder of something they preferred to ignore.

Even so, you quickened your pace. Your lady-in-waiting followed two steps behind, hands clasped in front of her apron. You stopped a few meters away and cleared your throat softly to announce your arrival.

Kiera turned slowly. Her forehead was beaded with sweat, a pink strand stuck to her temple, and her gloves covered in black soil. Her eyes traveled over you from head to toe before she lowered her gaze in the barest of curtsies.

"Blessed day," you greeted, inclining your head slightly.

"Princess," she replied in a neutral voice, and drove the small trowel back into the earth.

She said nothing more. The rules of courtesy demanded that the hostess—or in this case, the daughter-in-law—continue the conversation, but Kiera simply went on working, turning the soil around a young rosebush as though no one else were there.

You swallowed.

"May I help you?" you asked at last, gesturing toward the rosebush.

She looked up again, assessing you. Her belly brushed the handle of the tool every time she leaned forward.

"Do you know about roses?"

"My mother loved them. I know a little. But I learn quickly."

Kiera hesitated. She glanced at the rosebush, then at the maid waiting nearby with a basket of tools, and finally back at you.

"As you wish," she said with an almost imperceptible shrug. "But don't get your dress dirty. I don't want them saying I forced the crown princess to kneel in the mud."

You knelt carefully beside her, ignoring the warning. You took the gloves the maid offered and began removing the dry leaves from the lower stems. The earthy smell enveloped you, comforting.

For several minutes there was only the snip of shears, the rustle of soil, and the distant song of a bird. Kiera pruned with precise but slow movements, the pregnancy slowing her down. You tried to imitate her, but your hands—more accustomed to holding quills and books than gardening shears—trembled slightly.

"That stem is too high," she murmured suddenly, nodding toward it. "If you don't cut it back, the flower will snap in the first strong wind."

You nodded and cut. The stem fell with a clean snap.

"Thank you," you said softly.

Kiera didn't reply. She kept working.

The silence settled again, heavier. You felt her sideways glance every few seconds, as though waiting for you to say something wrong. You, for your part, didn't know how to break the ice without sounding false.

"Does it hurt?" you asked at last, vaguely gesturing toward her belly.

She stopped. The shears hung suspended in the air.

"What?"

"The pregnancy. Walking, bending… everything."

Kiera let out a short, dry laugh. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of dirt on her skin.

"Yes, I'm afraid it hurts all of it," she answered without quite looking at you. "The back, the legs, even the teeth if you're not careful. But…" She shrugged with resignation . "I don't mind, really. I just want this one to be born healthy."

You leaned a little closer, resting one hand on the low wooden fence.

"I'm sure he will be," you said, trying to sound convinced. "You and Valarr are young. Strong. Why wouldn't your child be just as strong and healthy?"

Kiera stopped pruning the lavender sprig she held between her fingers. Very slowly, she turned her face toward you.

Her eyes were no longer the same.

There was something dark in them—something beyond mere exhaustion. It was a deep, ancient well, from which rose a cold that brushed the back of your neck even though the sun still beat down fiercely on both of you.

She didn't answer right away.

Instead, she opened her fingers. The pruning shears fell with a dull thud onto the damp earth, next to the small rake and the half-full basket of cut stems. The sound was louder than it should have been, as though the ground itself had decided to swallow them in anger.

She turned her back to you.

The grayish linen dress clung to her back with sweat, outlining the pronounced curve of her belly. Her shoulders were rigid, as though bearing an invisible yoke.

You frowned, genuinely confused.

You mentally reviewed your words, searching for the mistake, the clumsy phrase. You found nothing.

"Lady Tyrosh…?" you insisted, softening your voice.

She stopped abruptly halfway down the gravel path. She didn't turn.

But when she spoke, her voice came clear, low, sharp as the shears she had just dropped.

"I hope you never live what I have lived, princess. May your mockery never come back to you. "

And she walked on.

More slowly than usual, as though each step cost her an effort different from the pregnancy itself. The gravel crunched under her worn shoes. She didn't look back.

You remained there, hand still resting on the fence, feeling the warm wood burn your palm.

Behind you, your lady-in-waiting said nothing either. Only her soft, held breath could be heard, as though she too had felt the blow without fully understanding it.

The silence stretched.

Heavy. Uncomfortable.

At least until you returned to the castle and a septa explained to you that Kiera and Valarr had already lost three babies before.

●●●

It seemed that none of your attempts had worked after what happened with Kiera.

Not the careful smiles you rehearsed in front of the mirror before descending to the throne room, not the measured phrases you prepared to sound interested in court affairs, not even those brief political comments you dropped like someone tossing a pebble into water, hoping not to splash too much. Everything unraveled with the same ease that courtesy smiles dissolved when you turned your head.

You realized, with a clarity that hurt, that you knew almost nothing. Not about alliances, not about crossed bloodlines, not about the old grudges that still bled beneath the surface of courtesies. You were a piece on the board, but you didn’t understand the real rules of the game.

And then you stopped trying.

You were no longer—or perhaps you had never been, according to the whispers—a good wife. Nor a tolerable stepmother, an acceptable daughter-in-law, a pleasant sister-in-law, a woman worthy of admiration… not even a convincing princess. The title clung to your name like a poorly sewn label; the wedding ring still weighed on your finger. But none of that was enough to fill the silence that had settled inside you.

King’s Landing had become suffocating.

The smell of saltpeter and rotting fish rising from the Blackwater, the constant smoke from the torches, the echo of hurried footsteps through the stone corridors… everything pressed down on you a little more each day. You no longer went down to the yard to watch the knights train, nor sat in the gardens pretending to read. You simply stopped appearing.

Baelor noticed long before you thought he would.

He didn’t say anything, of course. He never said anything that wasn’t strictly necessary. But for weeks he had been hearing you cry—two nights in a row at first, then three, then almost every night. You cried with your face buried in the pillow, trying to muffle the sound against the feathers, but the mattress creaked under your trembling body and that was enough to wake him. He lay still, staring at the canopy of the bed in the darkness, listening to your breath hitch until you finally fell asleep exhausted.

By day you were a ghost. You appeared at court just long enough not to be considered rude, offered the barest nod of greeting, and withdrew as soon as you could. You stopped approaching your nephews; every time one of the Targaryen children saw you coming, their shoulders tensed and they found excuses to slip away. You didn’t blame them. You had probably seemed cold to them, or sad, or simply… someone had likely taught them to avoid you too.

And Baelor, without meaning to, also began to keep his distance.

You hardly shared the bed in any real sense anymore.

He arrived late, when you were already asleep, and lay down on the far opposite edge, as though an invisible line ran down the middle that neither of you crossed. In the mornings he left before you opened your eyes. You were little more than a pale silhouette on the other side of the mattress, a soft breath that barely disturbed the silence.

One night, beside the crackling fire in the princes’ private solar, Rhaegel brought up the subject with his usual lack of tact.

"Great. Another depressed future queen." He leaned back in his chair, idly swirling a goblet of red wine. "Who do you think will be worse? The Lannister girl or poor Jaehaera Targaryen?"

His laugh rang out for a moment before crashing against his brothers’ blank faces.

Baelor and Maekar turned toward him at the same time, identical in their lack of expression.

Rhaegel looked at them, blinked, and let the laugh die in his throat.

"Well. If there’s no sense of humor, then there’s nothing, dear brothers."

"Does other people’s suffering amuse you, Rhaegel?" Baelor asked in a low, very calm voice.

The youngest shrugged, attacked the apple tart in front of him again, and spoke with his mouth half full.

"Don’t ask me. Better ask yourself." He chewed loudly, swallowed, and went on: "You’re the one who can change your wife’s luck… and you don’t do it. You don’t do it because of your very selective values. You’re not doing her any favors by keeping her a virgin and miserable."

Baelor clenched his jaw.

"Are you suggesting that if I sleep with her I’ll change her luck?"

Rhaegel lifted his gaze, eyes bright from the fire and the wine.

"All women have a purpose, brother." He turned fully toward him. "Give her a child and you’ll keep her occupied. Her head will fill with baby cries, wet nurses, and sleepless nights. She’ll be happy… or at least she’ll stop crying into the pillow. Try convincing her it’s for the best. For the alliance. For you. For her."

Maekar, who until then had remained silent, slowly turned his head toward Baelor. He said nothing, but the look was enough.

Baelor searched inside himself for some argument to dismantle those cruel, practical words. He found none.

"You don’t want to make an innocent woman suffer. I understand. But she’s going to suffer anyway, brother." He lowered his voice. "They say she’s good with children. Having one would do her good… even if it’s not just for the realm."

That night Baelor barely slept.

Nor the nights that followed.

Sometimes, in the middle of the darkness, he turned toward your side of the bed. There you were: on your side, hair spilled across the pillow, your young face still beautiful despite the shadows settling beneath your eyes. You slept with your lips slightly parted and a small crease of worry between your brows, as though even in dreams you couldn’t fully rest.

At family dinners you became just another piece of furniture. You didn’t speak. You barely lifted your eyes from the plate. The children no longer even looked at you; their older siblings preferred to pretend you weren’t there. Even the servants seemed to walk faster when they passed near you, as though afraid of catching your sadness.

You weren’t like the other Lannisters. No golden pride, no sharp smiles or biting remarks. Just a young girl who had come to a strange city, a strange family, a strange marriage… and who was quietly withering.

Baelor began to realize—too late—that he had contributed to it.

He couldn’t simply walk up to you one morning and say: “I’m going to give you a child so you stop being sad.” Things didn’t work that way. Not with someone who barely met his eyes.

So he started to truly observe you.

He noticed how you bit the inside of your cheek when you were nervous. How your fingers played with the edges of your sleeves when you felt watched.

How you always left half the food on your plate, even when it was your favorite dish. How, some afternoons, you stared out the window for so long that the sun eventually drew a red line across your cheek.

And he began to wonder things he had never before allowed himself to wonder.

Where were you when you weren’t in the room? What did you do during the hours he spent locked in meetings? Who did you talk to… if you talked to anyone at all?

Guilt seeped into him like dampness into stone walls.

One morning, after a particularly long and tense session of the small council, he made a decision.

He was not going to keep avoiding you.

He opened the door to the chambers more carefully than usual, almost expecting to find you seated by the window with an open book you weren’t reading, or embroidering something you would never finish.

But you weren’t seated.

You were standing.

In your shift, barefoot, hair loose and falling down your back like a pale cascade. Leaning against the frame of the open window, looking down. Too close to the edge. Too still.

The cold wind from the bay came in and barely stirred the thin fabric against your legs.

Baelor felt the air catch in his throat.

He didn’t shout your name. He didn’t run toward you.

He only took one very slow step forward, heart hammering against his ribs, and spoke:

"What are you doing?"

a/n: I apologize for the delay ;(

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“With a Lannister?”

His brow, normally smooth, folded into a frown as his violet-brown eyes searched for his father’s. King Daeron II, seated in the main chair with the serene dignity that characterized him, held his gaze without a single muscle in his face stirring. At his side, his counselors watched the scene with the attention of spectators at a tournament, waiting to see who would strike the next blow.

Daeron shrugged with an indifference he did not feel.

“They will send her in the afternoon, with an escort of one hundred men,” King Daeron explained, interlacing his fingers on the table. “The wedding will take place three days after her arrival. Enough time for her to settle into her new chambers and prepare.”

Baelor let his head fall back, resting it against the back of the chair, and sighed as he stared at the vaulted ceiling. The candles of the great iron chandelier danced above him, casting shifting shadows.

“I thought they would choose the Tyrell widow,” he murmured, more to himself than to those present. “Lady Jeyne is a sensible woman, of suitable age… The Lannister girl is… she is too young.”

King Daeron shifted his gaze toward his other son, Maekar, who remained standing beside the fireplace, watching the flames with unusual intensity. Baelor followed the direction of his father’s gaze and found that his brother was also shrugging, though on him the gesture appeared more rigid.

“The Tyrell widow has two children from her first marriage and many years behind her,” Maekar pointed out without taking his eyes off the fire. “Do you not think it is better to fully secure your lineage, brother? The gods are capricious, and having only two sons…”

“Valarr will inherit the Iron Throne,” Baelor interrupted, straightening suddenly. His voice lost all trace of indolence and became sharp. “And Matarys will be his Hand. I do not need more heirs, and you know that perfectly well.”

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips, a strange sound in a man known for his balanced temperament. The master-at-arms cleared his throat before daring to speak.

“A wife does not mean heirs alone, my prince. A wife means alliances, it means stability, it means—”

“She is a child,” Baelor repeated with emphasis, lightly tapping the armrest of the chair with his fingertips.

“Baelor.” King Daeron’s voice cut through the chamber like a silk whip. “Son, she is not a child.”

The prince wished to reply, but his father raised a hand, asking for patience.

“We chose her not only for being Lord Damon’s daughter, though that is a factor we cannot ignore. The Lannisters are… complicated. Dangerous vipers when they feel slighted. But she… she is not as young as the other candidates we considered. We knew you would not accept someone too young, but the young Lannister…”

The king sighed, and for an instant, the weight of the crown seemed visible upon his shoulders. He looked directly into his firstborn’s eyes again.

“She will be your queen, Baelor. She is not only a wife. She is the woman who will share your life, your throne, your burdens. And we need the Lannisters on our side. With rumors of new uprisings, with the Blackfyres moving their pieces on the board… we cannot afford to leave Casterly Rock in the hands of anyone who might offer them more.”

The word queen weighed more than any other Daeron had spoken that afternoon. It weighed upon Baelor’s shoulders, upon his chest, upon his soul. He remained silent, feeling defeat seep into his bones like dampness. There was no argument possible. Not with his father and King.

At last, he stood. The chair scraped against the stone floor with a groan.

Without a word, without looking back, Baelor left the room. His footsteps echoed in the corridor, each one heavier than the last, carrying him toward a fate he had not chosen.

●●●

Miles away, deep within Casterly Rock, you too awaited your fate.

The last night in your chamber passed with the slowness of moments you wish would never end. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, absently caressing the linen sheets that had accompanied you since childhood. The dim light of a single candle danced across the stone walls, barely illuminating the tapestries with rampant lions that you had seen all your life.

Tomorrow, this room would belong to someone else. Your younger sister, perhaps, or some cousin arriving from Lannisport. The thought tightened your chest with unexpected force.

Your hands, cold despite the fire crackling in the hearth, rubbed against each other in search of a warmth that would not come. A warmth you might never find again.

Your nerves had taken your appetite during dinner. Your mother had looked at you with that mixture of pride and concern you knew so well, while your father toasted repeatedly to “the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” The invited lords laughed, drank, congratulated you. And you smiled. You always smiled. That was what they had taught you.

The creak of the door opening startled you so much you nearly fell from the bed. You straightened, your heart galloping, as your lady-in-waiting—the one who had seen you grow up—peeked her head in with a cautious expression.

“Lord Damon and his wife wish to bid you farewell before the wedding, my lady,” she announced softly, as if afraid of breaking some spell.

You blinked, trying to process her words. You only managed to nod, an awkward movement that bore no resemblance to the grace instilled in you through years of instruction. You stood, nervously smoothing your blue wool dress, the simplest one you had, the one you wore while in your chambers.

You walked trembling behind the hunched figure. Each step you took toward the great hall felt like a step toward the gallows. You did not want to leave. You did not want to abandon the only walls you had ever known, the only home you had ever had.

And yet, there you went. Like a lamb led to slaughter.

In the great hall, the torches burned stronger than ever, illuminating the gold of the walls, the marble of the columns, the imposing main table carved from ancient oak. And there, waiting for you, they stood.

Your father, Lord Damon Lannister, stepped forward with firm strides. His smile was the widest you had seen in years, a triumphant expression that contrasted violently with the knot in your stomach. He took you by the shoulders with a force bordering on painful, pulling you toward him as if you were a newly conquered trophy.

“The hour has come, my daughter,” he announced in a resonant voice, so all present could hear. “It is time for you to show the Seven Kingdoms everything you have learned. We have waited years for this moment. Years preparing you, educating you. And at last… at last the man we were waiting for has arrived.”

He kissed your forehead with a coldness that froze you to the bone. Behind him, your mother sobbed silently, pressing an embroidered handkerchief against her lips. Her green eyes looked at you with a mixture of pride, fear, and resignation.

You did not move. You did not speak. You remained upright, as they had taught you, your gaze fixed on an indefinite point beyond your father’s shoulder.

That was what they had taught you.

“A Lannister as queen of the Seven Kingdoms!” your father proclaimed, turning toward the lords and ladies who filled the hall. “At last, a Lannister will share the Iron Throne!”

Applause and cheers burst around you like waves crashing against rock. Your father stepped away, walking back to his seat with the satisfaction of duty fulfilled. Before sitting, he cast one final glance in your direction.

“We will see each other at the wedding, daughter. May the Seven protect you on your journey. Good luck, dear daughter.”

Dear daughter. The words echoed in your head long after the hall was behind you, long after your lady helped you prepare for your departure, long after you lay down without being able to sleep.

Hours later, when the first ray of dawn began to stain the sky pink and gold, you crossed the gates of Casterly Rock never to see them again. The bridal procession stretched behind you like a serpent of silk and steel: ladies-in-waiting, guards, servants, chests with your dowry, horses harnessed in your house’s colors.

And at the center of it all, you.

You, seated in a cushioned litter. You, your gaze lost on the horizon, toward the east, toward King’s Landing, toward an uncertain future.

You did not want to be queen. You had never wanted it.

Your wish was to live quietly. To marry some lesser lord, to have children you could watch grow, to grow old among green hills and golden sunsets.

But the gods laugh when mortals make plans.

Prince Baelor Targaryen was ten years older than you. Thirty-five years old. A fully grown man, with children, with a past you did not know, with a reputation as a temperamental and proud warrior. How was he supposed to treat you?

In truth, how could a man of his position treat an imposed wife? He could ignore you, despise you, lock you in some tower while he continued with his life. He could treat you like human trash if he wished. Who could stop him? He would be the king. You would be only his queen, another piece on the board, interchangeable, expendable.

The rattling of the wheels against the dirt road rocked you like a macabre lullaby as your thoughts galloped without control. You remembered the stories you had heard about the Targaryens: that they were mad, that the blood of ancient Valyria ran hot and dangerous through their veins. You had heard of the rebellion of the Blackfyre bastards, of the deaths it had caused, of the madness that had plagued that family for generations.

The wind slipped through the curtain, making you shiver. You wrapped yourself in your wool cloak, the same one you had worn through so many winters in Casterly Rock, and rested your head against the padding.

I only ask for mercy, you thought, directing your pleas to the Seven, to the old gods of the north, to any deity willing to hear you. I only ask that he not be cruel.

The caravan continued forward. Behind you, Casterly Rock grew smaller and smaller on the horizon, a golden silhouette against the cliff. Ahead, the road vanished between hills and forests, toward a fate that terrified and intrigued you in equal measure.

There was no turning back.

You were a Lannister. And the Lannisters always pay their debts.

Though this debt, this cursed debt of being the piece that sealed an alliance, you were paying with your entire life.

●●●

The Red Keep rose before you like a sleeping beast of stone and shadow, its towers clawing at a sky that seemed to shrink beside it. It was so immense that your eyes ached trying to take it all in. You had been here once, when you were barely a baby, but your mother and you had never returned after that day. Now fate brought you back, though everything in this place felt as foreign as the face of a stranger.

You pressed your lips together as you felt the weight of a gloved hand close firmly around your forearm. The touch was an anchor, but also a cage. Your lady-in-waiting kept you tethered to reality while your thoughts threatened to scatter like straw in the wind.

The creak of the castle’s main gate preceded the figure that emerged from the shadows. A knight in white armor, immaculate, almost blinding under the light of the setting sun, walked toward you with measured steps. His cloak, the same spotless white, billowed behind him. The Kingsguard. The king’s very watchdog presented himself before you.

“My Lady, welcome to King’s Landing,” his voice echoed, deep and without inflection, as he inclined his head slightly in a bow that demanded one in return.

You did not move.

Your lady’s fingers tightened on your arm, a small warning pinch you could barely feel through the torrent of nerves running through you.

The knight, unperturbed, continued: “You are informed that you may settle into your new chamber. It will be temporary, at least until the wedding. Later tonight, your presence has been requested at a dinner held by the King in honor of your engagement to Prince Baelor.”

You swallowed. The knot in your throat felt the size of a fist. You nodded quickly and awkwardly, not daring to meet his gaze. You could not. You must not. Your septa had repeated it endlessly since you could remember: looking men directly in the eyes was a provocation, a flame that could ignite passions or, worse, violence. So you lowered your eyes, like a good daughter, like a good future wife.

And then, you crossed the threshold.

The castle’s interior struck you with a force you had not expected. If it was imposing from the outside, inside it was overwhelming. The great hall bustled with a life entirely unknown to you. Maids in starched aprons moved from side to side like ants in their hill, some carrying trays, others adjusting draperies, all deliberately ignoring you while, at the same time, studying you from the corners of their eyes. They were now at your service, at your command, but their furtive glances reminded you that, for now, you were the intruder in their world.

You could not tear your gaze from the castle’s depths. Every corner was a spectacle in itself. The Targaryen banners, with their blood-red three-headed dragon on black field, hung solemnly along the corridors, their folds motionless as if time itself had paused to admire them. Chandeliers of solid gold hung from the towering vaults, their outstretched arms holding hundreds of candles that flickered with hypnotic warmth, casting dancing shadows upon the stone walls.

Your eyes shone. Despite the fear, despite the uncertainty, you could not help feeling a pang of wonder. It was all so immense, so luxurious, so… far removed from everything you had known.

The chamber assigned to you, the temporary one, was already three times larger than your room in Casterly Rock. The canopy bed, carved from dark wood and draped in silks, seemed a throne in itself. The tall windows offered a view of the sea that looked like a hand-painted picture. And to think that the one you would share with your future husband would be even larger made you hold your breath.

Your future husband. The word echoed in your mind like a funeral bell. A shiver ran down your spine, raising the hairs at the nape of your neck. But you decided, with fierce and slightly naive determination, that for a few hours you would not think about it. You would not think about Prince Baelor, nor the dinner, nor the servants’ glances, nor the entire city that, without knowing it, had already set its eyes on you.

You would focus on the immediate: on the softness of the sheets the maidens were preparing, on the hot water they promised for your bath, on the dress already hanging in the wardrobe, ready for the night. You would prepare yourself. You would arm yourself with courage, layer upon layer, as if it were armor. And then, when the sun had fully set beyond the Narrow Sea, when candles were the sole masters of the light, you would descend the stairs and, at last, meet him.

●●●

Baelor stood before the fireplace, one hand resting on the marble mantel and his gaze lost in the flames that danced hungrily behind their metal guard. The fire cast restless shadows across his features, accentuating the lines of weariness that years and losses had carved into his face. His expression—or rather, the absence of one—made it abundantly clear that he did not wish to be there. His shoulders, barely tense beneath the thick fabric of his black doublet, spoke of a resignation so deep it bordered on indifference. He knew he had to marry; he had known it since his first wife left this world, leaving behind a void no royal decree could fill. But why torment both himself and you with this farce of an engagement dinner? Would it not have been enough to sign a few parchments and share a bed one night to fulfill what the crown demanded?

His family was there. Or at least, the members who truly cared about this, which were not many.

His father, King Daeron, occupied the head of the table. He drank wine with deliberation, observing his descendants with a tired gaze. His brother Maekar, on the other hand, seemed carved from the same granite as the fortresses he defended: rigid, severe, uncomfortable in his own skin whenever he was not holding a sword. Beside him, his teenage sons, Valarr and Matarys, had already taken their seats at the table. They whispered to each other with their heads inclined, their pale hair gleaming in the candlelight as they exchanged comments he would probably prefer not to hear.

Aerion, Aemon, and little Daella, his nephews and niece, were there as well, sharing the table. Aerion, Maekar’s eldest, bore that gleam in his eyes that revealed equal parts intelligence and poorly concealed arrogance. Aemon, more reserved, stared into the distance with the serene gaze of someone who already dreamed of parchments and messenger ravens. And Daella, barely a child, absentmindedly toyed with the edge of the tablecloth while her small feet dangled from a chair far too large for her.

Then the door opened.

The sound of the hinges, faint as it was, seemed amplified in the silence that followed. Two white-cloaked guards flanked the threshold, their immaculate presence enough to draw the attention of everyone present. Everyone except Baelor, who merely sighed without turning, his fingers drumming once against the marble of the hearth before growing still again.

“Your Majesty.” The guard’s voice rang clear and ceremonial. “Lady Lannister is here.”

No further introduction was needed. Everyone knew who you were, where you came from, and, most importantly, what you had come to do.

Baelor finally turned.

The movement was slow, almost indolent, but when his eyes met yours, time seemed to pause for a moment. He watched as you bowed before his father with the rehearsed curtsy your septa had made you repeat a hundred times. He saw the way your fingers clutched the skirts of your gown, the barely perceptible tremor of your lashes as you lowered your gaze. Then you straightened, and unintentionally—unable to prevent it—your eyes collided with his.

He was the prince.

That man with short hair, darker than his brothers’ and streaked with gray at the temples, was not the monster your imagination, fed by whispered fears in sleepless nights, had painted. He had no horns nor fangs, nor the cruel expression you had expected to find in a man who had lost a wife and now had to receive another. But there was something about him—a stillness, a depth in his pale eyes—that made you feel too small, too observed, too present in a place where you were not yet certain you wished to be.

Baelor observed you with the same silent scrutiny. His gaze traveled across your face with the deliberation of someone studying a map. You looked exactly your age: young, yes—so young it almost hurt to see. Beautiful, as the reports and rumors that always travel faster than people had described. Perhaps even more so.

He stepped forward.

Each footstep echoed in the silence of the chamber, bringing him closer with a gentleness that seemed almost incongruous in a man of his size and station. When he was near enough, he inclined his head slightly, and his voice, warmer than you expected, broke the spell.

“Would you like to sit, my lady?”

You nodded. A timid movement, barely a dip and lift of your chin, while you felt the weight of all those Targaryen gazes fixed upon you. They made you feel smaller than you already did, more foreign, more aware of every gesture, every breath.

Your eyes darted, almost as if searching for a lifeline, toward the King and Prince Maekar, who were also watching you without blinking. The former with a nearly paternal curiosity, the latter with a slight furrow in his brow, as if assessing merchandise before closing a bargain.

“What a beautiful young lady.” King Daeron’s voice broke the silence with a warmth that bordered on amusement, as if the situation, at heart, seemed to him a tasteful jest. His smile, however, was genuine.

Baelor, meanwhile, had moved with automatic yet efficient courtesy. His hands grasped the back of the chair, drawing it out gently so you could sit, then pushing it in carefully to ensure you were at the proper distance from the table. From your seat, you could smell him: a scent of wood, of fireplace smoke, of something clean and masculine you could not quite identify but that surrounded you.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Your voice emerged firmer than you expected, though the words stumbled slightly. “It is a… great honor.”

“It is no honor; it is the truth.” The King laughed, a deep and sincere sound that shook his belly beneath his robes. From his place, Daeron cast a glance at his son, who was already turning to sit opposite his betrothed. Baelor took his seat beside his sons, those young men who now regarded you with poorly concealed wariness.

And who could blame them.

They missed their mother. They missed her with that wrenching intensity only children who have lost someone too soon can feel. And you, a stranger from the western lands with your different accent and well-bred maiden’s manners, were to take her place. You were to sit in their mother’s chair, to share their father’s bed, to bear the title she had borne. They did not expect to like you. Nor did they expect to hate you. But the wariness was there—in the way Matarys pressed his lips together, in the way Valarr lowered his gaze to his plate.

“I agree with my grandfather.” Aerion’s voice rang clear and confident, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled. You turned toward him, finding the blond-haired youth with the easy smile. Too easy, perhaps. Too certain for someone his age.

Beneath the table, Maekar’s foot found his son’s with precise accuracy. Aerion stifled a grimace, straightening in his seat while casting his father a look that mingled physical pain with warning. Before the dinner, Maekar had threatened him plainly: one misplaced word, an inappropriate jest, a comment that might discomfort his uncle’s betrothed, and he would face the consequences. Aerion, who knew his father’s temper well, decided wine was better company than reprimand.

“I hope your journey was not too unpleasant.” Baelor’s question reached you like a lifeline, an opportunity to focus on something other than the weight of all those gazes. You lowered your eyes once more to your plate, still empty, still gleaming beneath the candlelight.

“Not at all, my prince.” You made an effort to keep your voice steady, not to let shyness color every syllable. “The change of air did me good.” The words sounded more confident than you felt, and so you clung to them like a talisman.

Baelor nodded, a slight but perceptible inclination of the head, as he brought a goblet of wine to his lips. He drank slowly, his pale eyes fixed on an indistinct point on the table, though you could not help feeling that, somehow, he was still watching you.

The servants then entered with the first courses. Steaming platters of roasted meats, pickled vegetables, freshly baked breads that released a homely aroma contrasting sharply with how little at home you felt in that place.

“Lady Lannister,” Maekar interjected, his voice deep and measured, “how did you find the roads? I have heard the rains have dealt harshly with the Gold Road.”

The unexpectedly practical question caught you off guard. You blinked once before answering, searching your memory for the details of the journey. “There were some muddy stretches, my prince, but nothing our escort could not manage. The captain of the guard knew the terrain well, and they were able to avoid the worst areas.”

Maekar nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. Beside him, Valarr and Matarys exchanged a glance you could not decipher, while little Daella, entirely oblivious to adult tensions, had begun to play with a piece of bread, shaping it between her small fingers.

“And what do you think of King’s Landing?” Aemon then asked, the quietest of Maekar’s sons, with a genuine curiosity that contrasted with his brothers’ wariness. “It must be very different from Casterly Rock.”

The question caught you unprepared. What did you truly think of that immense, bustling city, reeking in equal measure of sea, excrement, and spices?

“It is… very large,” you replied, and a small ripple of laughter moved around the table. Even Baelor curved something that might have been the beginning of a smile. “I have not had time to see much, in truth. But what little I have seen… is impressive.”

“Impressive and foul-smelling in equal measure,” Aerion remarked, and this time Maekar could not entirely suppress a grimace before his son shrugged innocently. “It is true, Father. I only speak the truth.”

“The truth can be spoken with more tact, Aerion,” King Daeron intervened, though his tone was more indulgent than one might expect. He took a sip of wine, and his pale violet eyes, now faded by years, settled on you with a warmth that surprised you. “Do not fear, dear. Here we all say what we think, for better or worse. You will grow accustomed to it.”

You did not know whether that was comfort or warning.

The dinner progressed amid courteous questions and measured answers. They asked about your family, your education, your tastes. You asked, timidly in turn, about the court, its customs, what would be expected of you. And as words flowed, as platters emptied and servants cleared the dishes, an awareness grew within you, uncomfortable and inevitable.

Baelor was watching you.

It was not a fixed stare, the kind obvious to all. It was subtler, more elusive. His pale eyes found yours when you believed no one was looking, lingered on your hands as you drank, on the curve of your neck when you turned to answer someone. And then, when you raised your gaze, he had already looked away—toward the wine, toward the fire, toward his sons.

But you felt it. You felt it in every fiber of your being, in that new and terrifying awareness that this man, your future husband, was evaluating you, yes—but also something more. Something you did not yet know how to name.

And he, for his part, could not stop wondering what it was in your eyes that made it so difficult to look away. You were not the first beautiful woman he had known, nor the first young bride destined to share his bed. But there was something in the way you lowered your gaze when he looked at you, in the tremor of your fingers around the goblet, in that mixture of fear and dignity with which you endured his presence, that stirred something he had believed buried alongside his first wife.

He did not want to expect anything. But there you were, small and luminous in your silk gown, and he could not stop looking at you.

●●●

You did not see your betrothed again during the following two days.

They were forty-eight hours that stretched beneath the sun, each minute lengthening until it became almost unbearable. The walls of your temporary chamber, which at first had seemed so elegant and spacious, began to feel like those of a gilded cage from which you could not escape. You spent that time submerged in a whirlwind of wedding preparations that offered no respite, a vortex of silks, lace, and stitching that threatened to swallow you whole.

The septas assigned to you were three older women, the sort who seem to have been born already wrinkled and knowing everything about life. The chief among them, a sharp-featured septa named Agnes, took your measurements for the gown with an efficiency bordering on brusque, while her companions fluttered about her like gray little birds. When they noticed the tremor in your hands as you held a goblet of wine during the fitting, they exchanged glances they did not bother to conceal.

“Girl,” Agnes let out with a dry laugh that seemed to scrape the air, “at twenty-five years of age and still so nervous over a marriage. At your age, I would have already borne three children and been expecting the fourth.”

The other two septas laughed as well, though with less enthusiasm, as if aware that mocking a future queen was not the wisest choice. But Agnes did not seem concerned with such subtleties. She drew from her wooden pipe, exhaling the smoke with deliberation, and continued:

“You should be on your knees thanking the Seven. There are noble maidens who spend their entire youth locked in towers waiting for a decent offer, and you are to wed the heir to the Throne. At your age. It is an honor many would kill to have.”

You could not argue with her. She was right, of course she was. But reason did little against the knot that had lodged itself in your stomach since you first set foot in this city.

Even so, they explained again what you already knew.

They seated you before the fire and, as though you were a child hearing life’s mysteries for the first time, detailed with bluntness what would happen on your wedding night. Agnes did not soften her words: the consummation, the blood on the sheets, the pain that “only lasts a while, woman, do not be delicate.” And then what would follow. Giving him children. As many as your body could endure. Further securing the Targaryen line—what every man wants, they declared in unison, as though reciting a mantra.

You listened in silence, nodding when required, lowering your gaze when the words became too explicit. But inside, the fear remained, embedded like a thorn you could not pull free.

And then night came.

The eve of the wedding.

At last you had managed to escape the septas, the maidens, all those hands that would not cease touching you, adjusting you, combing your hair, dressing you. You were alone in your chamber, or so you believed. The door closed, the bolt drawn, the silence broken only by the distant crackle of a fireplace in neighboring rooms.

You approached the balcony.

The night air struck your face, cool and briny, laden with those scents of King’s Landing you had not yet fully grown accustomed to. From above, the city stretched before you like a sleeping beast, thousands of flickering lights marking the pulse of a place that never fully rested. Beyond, Blackwater Bay disappeared into darkness.

You rested your hands on the stone railing, feeling the chill seep into your bones despite the silk robe that covered you. The fabric was fine, nearly translucent in the light, yet modest enough that you did not feel exposed. You inhaled deeply, trying to calm the nerves twisting in your stomach.

Tomorrow would be your wedding.

Tomorrow you would be the wife of the heir to the throne.

Tomorrow—

The sound of the door opening froze your blood.

You spun around, your heart leaping in your chest like a trapped bird. Instinct moved faster than thought: your hands flew to the bed sheets, still rumpled from your brief afternoon rest, and you clutched them to yourself as though they were a shield, as though that thin fabric could protect you from what was to come.

But it was not a maid.

It was him.

Baelor stood in the doorway of your chamber, the door closed behind him and an expression upon his face you could not decipher. Candlelight cast uneasy shadows across his features, accentuating the lines of fatigue, the premature gray at his temples, the few days’ beard he had not bothered to shave. He wore a simple dark tunic, unadorned, nothing like the princely garments of the dinner days before.

You were so startled you felt the blood drain from your face. You must have looked as pale as candle wax, as white as the marble floors. You covered yourself more securely with the sheets, pressing them against your chest with fingers that trembled despite yourself. You were not naked—the silk robe covered you well enough—but it did not matter. He was there. Your future husband was there, in your chamber, the night before the wedding, and all the septas’ warnings about what men expect, about what men take, struck you like a crashing wave.

Every movement of his frightened you. Every breath. Every blink.

But he did not even lower his gaze from your face.

His pale eyes—those same eyes that had watched you so intently at dinner—remained fixed upon yours. They did not drift to your neckline, did not trace the curves the silk suggested, did none of the things you expected, the things you feared. Instead, he crossed his arms, leaned a shoulder against the bedpost, and smiled at you.

It was not a lascivious smile. Not a triumphant one. It was tired, yes—but also warm. Reassuring.

“I know you are very frightened,” he said at last, and his words startled you as much as his presence.

You blinked, confused. The sheet was still clutched against you, but your arms began to relax, just a fraction. “My prince?”

“I did not intend to frighten you with my presence,” he continued, as though he had not noticed your alarm—though he surely had noticed everything. “But I would not wish for you to be trembling tomorrow as you were the first day I saw you.”

You fell silent, unsure how to respond. His words did not align with anything you had expected. They did not align with the septas’ warnings, nor with tales of frightened maidens, nor with stories of princes who claimed their rights on the wedding night.

Baelor straightened slightly, stepping away from the bedpost, and took a single step toward you. Only one—enough to shorten the distance without invading your space. “I know what they have explained to you about marriage,” he said frankly. “I suppose you have expectations of me and believe I have them of you. But let me tell you something: it is not my wish that we be husband and wife in body or soul. We may simply be so in companionship—a necessary alliance.”

It took you several seconds to process his words.

You understood them, yes. Each one held a clear meaning. But together they formed an idea that refused to settle in your mind.

No consummation.

No night of blood and pain such as the septas had described in every detail.

No need to share his bed, his body, his intimacy.

Thus you would not truly be husband and wife. You would be… what? Companions? Allies? Two people sharing a title and nothing more?

“Would you truly do that?” you whispered, and your voice sounded so small, so fragile, that you nearly felt ashamed of it.

Baelor nodded naturally, as if discussing the weather or taxes. “I do not need heirs. I already have them.” He ran a hand over his beard, a gesture that seemed habitual, almost unconscious. “I have already done my duty to the realm. I gave children, secured the line, fulfilled my obligation. You need only marry me, and in doing so you will have fulfilled yours. You will not have to do anything more.”

Your arms relaxed entirely. The sheet slipped slightly, though you barely noticed. Your fingers ceased clutching the fabric as though your life depended on it.

You looked into his eyes. Those pale eyes that at dinner had seemed so cold, so appraising, so distant. Now they were filled with a certainty that made you feel something strange. It was not exactly relief, though that was part of it. It was something deeper. Something you could not name but that enveloped you like an embrace.

Safety.

For the first time since arriving in King’s Landing, since learning you would wed a widower with children, a man ten years your senior, a prince you did not know at all… for the first time, you felt that perhaps, just perhaps, things might not be so terrible.

“But,” your voice wavered, searching for cracks in his proposal, dangers your fears insisted upon, “if the King and his men were to find out…”

“I will see that they do not.” His smile widened, sincere, and for an instant he seemed ten years younger. He stepped back, withdrawing, respecting the space you had not known you needed. “I will not trouble you further, my lady. Rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

He turned.

And you wanted to say something more.

The words crowded your throat—a thank you, perhaps. A question. Anything to prolong the moment, to keep looking at him, keep hearing him, keep confirming that no, he was not a monster.

But you could not.

You remained silent, watching as he crossed the chamber with firm yet unhurried steps, as he opened the door, paused a moment at the threshold without turning, and finally disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.

The door closed with a soft click.

And then you collapsed.

Not literally—your legs held you—but it was as though all the air you had been holding during those interminable minutes rushed out at once. You sank onto the edge of the bed, hands still trembling, mind still spinning like a runaway carousel.

You could not believe it.

Your betrothed was not a monster.

Or at least, he did not seem to be. But could he be deceiving you? Was there some trick in his words, some trap you failed to see? Was it part of those Targaryen games people whispered about, that madness said to run through their veins like dragon’s blood?

You pressed a hand to your chest, feeling your racing heartbeat against your palm.

Or had his eyes lied to you?

Because his eyes… his eyes had spoken to you with a truth you did not think you had seen before. A truth that could not be feigned, could not be rehearsed, that was there, naked and simple, in the way he looked at you without lowering his gaze, in the way he smiled without hidden intent, in the way he stepped away without expecting anything in return.

Your heart beat even faster.

And then, without quite knowing why, without understanding what moved you, a smile began to spread across your face. Small at first, shy, almost embarrassed. Then wider, brighter, freer.

You fell back onto the bed, arms outstretched, your hair spilling across the pillows. The silk of your robe wrinkled beneath you, the sheets tangled around your legs, but you did not care. You stared at the ceiling, at the stone carvings, at the shadows cast by candlelight—and you smiled.

You smiled like a fool.

Like a little girl who had just been given the most beautiful toy in the world.

Tomorrow would be your wedding.

And tomorrow, when you knelt before the altar and spoke the words that would bind you to that man, you would do so without fear. Or with less fear, at least. With the certainty that, whatever happened, he would not hurt you. He would not demand anything you did not wish to give.

You brought your hands to your face, covering your eyes, and laughed softly. A nervous, liberating laugh that echoed in the silence of the chamber like a small declaration of hope.

Note: This one-shot was originally written by me in Spanish, so I used a translator. Sorry if there are any mistakes.

"The prince Baelor has passed away, Your Grace."

Your eyes turned toward your lady. She kept her head bowed, fists clenched at the sides of her skirt, gaze fixed on the floor as though the weight of the words pinned her there.

"He passed during the afternoon of yesterday. In the Trial of the Seven he received a mortal blow to the head. The damage was irreparable. Your brother, Prince Maekar, has sent a letter for you."

Your gaze drifted to the baby resting in your arms. Her eyelids closed, her breathing calm, oblivious to the way your heart pounded wildly, slamming against your ribs as the woman’s voice echoed again and again in your mind.

"Thank you. You may go."

Your lady raised her head. She found you standing, carefully placing your daughter back into the arms of the wet nurse who waited beside the cradle.

"You may both go."

The wet nurse exchanged a quick glance with the lady. Both looked at you, hesitant.

"But, Your Grace…"

"Both of you. Out. Now."

The wet nurse rose in hurried steps, almost stumbling in her haste to follow your lady out of the room. When the door closed with a soft click, you let out a trembling sigh. Your hands fell to the edge of the cradle, sliding along the polished wood as though searching for something solid amid the vertigo.

Tears gathered in your eyes, burning, but you did not let them fall. Not yet. Part of you still waited to wake up, convinced this was a cruel dream from which you would soon emerge.

But it did not happen.

Your brother’s funeral was held days later, after the cremation at Ashford, where the Targaryens returned to the fire of their ancestors. Dragonstone had always been your favorite place: there you played as children, imagining you rode the dragons spoken of in the ancient books—those that never hatched for you, as though your blood were less worthy than that of your forebears.

Baelor and you were more than siblings: you were best friends. You, his younger sister, whom he swore to protect from the day he first knew you. He promised he would care for you always, even when both of you were old and frail, with white hair and trembling hands.

But he could not protect you from the distance imposed by your marriage to the Prince of Dorne.

Daeron did not wish his children to wed one another. He called it a dangerous tradition. You knew Baelor had never been content with your union, just as you had never been content with his.

He accompanied you to Dorne. For most of the journey you kept silence, as though afraid that meeting each other’s eyes would release words that should never be spoken, truths best left buried.

When the climate changed and the searing heat of Dorne enveloped you both, he turned to you. His face still young then, without wrinkles or silver in his hair, traced your features with care, as if he wished to etch them into his memory forever.

“If ever you need anything, just write to me and I will come, no matter what happens,” he said, eyes shining.

You smiled at him, touched.

“Do you think it would have worked?” you asked as he frowned slightly. You nodded toward the horizon. “If we had fled to Dragonstone when we left the castle in King’s Landing.”

He gave a short laugh, tinged with bitterness.

“I don’t know, sweet sister. The gods want us apart for some reason. Can we truly oppose what they have decided for us?”

He wept on the day of your wedding. He watched you dance with your husband while he danced with Jena Dondarrion. On the last day of his stay in Sunspear, Prince Maekar distracted the guards so the siblings could see each other one final time in private.

“We will see each other again,” he swore as he kissed your hand.

“Perhaps when you are King.”

Now you saw him burning in the flames of your mind. His silhouette dissolving beneath the ash, consumed by Valyrian fire.

You never saw him again. You never saw him crowned king.

You watched his son Valarr shed silent tears. You saw your eldest daughter place a comforting hand on his forearm.

The two of them were the perfect reflection of what you and Baelor had once been.

And in that moment you chose to believe that, somehow, they were you.

That at last you had found each other again.

And that this time nothing would ever part you.

●●●

Johnny reveled in the idea of never being afraid of anything.

He had never once trembled when fighting an enemy: from Galactus to the Mole Man, he was always there—steady, defiant, with that trademark grin and unshakable confidence. Johnny Storm always knew what to do. Always ready, always fast, always willing to throw himself into the chaos before anyone else.

But from the very first moment he heard his daughter’s cry in that delivery room…

Something inside him changed.

That sound—so fragile, and yet so powerful—cut through him in a way nothing and no one ever had before. When he finally held his daughter in his arms, Johnny didn’t look like the same man who had faced monsters without blinking. He was trembling, his hands sweaty, his eyes wide as if terrified of holding her the wrong way, as if the smallest movement might hurt her. She was so tiny, so light, that he was almost afraid to breathe too hard.

You watched him from your hospital bed, exhausted but unable to stop smiling at the sight. You had never seen him so focused on anything that wasn’t a battle, a joke, or his own reflection in the mirror.

Johnny spent long minutes just staring at her in silence, rocking her gently in his arms with that sweet clumsiness of someone who wants to do everything right but isn’t sure how. From time to time, his gaze grew cloudy, and though he tried to hide it, you could see how his eyes started to glisten.

"Are you okay, Johnny?" you asked, breaking the silence with a soft laugh as he lifted his gaze to you for a moment before dropping it quickly back down.

"Yeah…" he murmured, sniffing, his voice slightly unsteady. "It’s just that she’s… she’s…"

He didn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t. But you understood immediately.

"I know," you replied softly, your eyes following your daughter’s tiny head from the bed. Her little golden tufts glowed under the light of the room, so much like her father’s that it was impossible not to smile. "She’s beautiful."

Johnny nodded slowly. Finally, a genuine smile crossed his face, and his tense shoulders began to ease.

"Yeah… but she’s so small," he whispered, lowering his voice even further, as if afraid to wake her. "The truth is… I’m a little nervous right now." He let out a shaky laugh, tilting his head as he watched her sleep.

You frowned, curious.

It was the first time you had ever heard him say something like that. The man who joked even in the most dangerous situations, who never showed fear, was admitting something you never thought he would. And yet, seeing him like this didn’t make him seem weaker in your eyes—if anything, it made him even stronger.

●●●

But that was only the beginning of your torment.

Johnny had become unbearable because of his little girl.

Even though they had filled the entire building with all kinds of baby-proof measures, nothing was enough for Johnny. Your daughter couldn’t even crawl yet, and he had already fortified the entire floor: all the rooms secured, doors with special locks, furniture corners padded, and even the outlets covered with triple protection. Back then, it still seemed normal to you, even kind of cute, because you thought it would pass with time.

Even when you caught him at dawn, sitting in front of the crib, eyes red with sleep but body tense, making sure the baby was breathing well and that there was nothing nearby she could choke on. It made you laugh a little to see him fighting his own eyelids while murmuring, “Everything is under control,” as if he was in the middle of a mission.

But then the baby kept growing.

And with growth came new problems. First, she started crawling, fast like a little rocket escaping everywhere. Then, she began pulling herself up using the crib bars. And then, the worst: wanting to climb as if she was training for a competition.

That’s when your real headache began.

"Johnny, just decide on one of the two. There are only two options!" you raised your voice, tired, rocking your daughter in your arms.

He was standing in front of the two cribs in the store, striking a ridiculously solemn pose, one hand on his jaw and eyes narrowed, as if analyzing high-tech weapons.

"Hey, this is a tough decision, alright?" he replied without looking at you, turning his head from one crib to the other. "This little one is too clever to jump the barrier. We have to choose the safest option."

You rolled your eyes. "I already told you to pick the second one. The bars are higher, that will surely work until she’s four and we have to buy her a small bed."

Just imagining that in two and a half years you’d have to go through the same process made you sigh in frustration.

But Johnny seemed immune to your exhaustion. He glanced at his daughter, then at the crib, then back to the baby, several times, as if comparing invisible proportions. Finally, he stretched out his arms to take the baby from you with an almost triumphant smile.

"Let’s try with this one," he said, crouching and using that high-pitched voice he only used when talking to the baby. Carefully, he placed her in the second crib.

Your daughter looked at both of you with curiosity, first at you, then at her father, as if she understood this was an important test. Johnny began to coax her with gentle pats on the mattress. You crossed your arms, waiting to see what would happen.

The baby slowly stood up, resting her little hands on the bars and, as soon as she managed to stand, she tried to push herself up. Her tiny body seemed too small for so much determination, but there she was: pushing with her legs as if she was seriously going to climb.

Your mouth fell open in disbelief. "Johnny, she’s going to fall!" you exclaimed, stepping forward.

But he was already laughing, proud, and lifted her before she could make the next move. He hugged her tightly against his chest and planted a loud kiss on her forehead.

"See? It’s not an easy decision," he told you with a mischievous smile, never taking his eyes off you while stroking the baby. "That’s why our daughter is lucky... because daddy will build her a safe crib."

"What?" you blinked incredulously. "Johnny, we’re not going to build a crib from scratch!"

"Of course we are," he insisted, puffing his chest with pride. "Do you know anyone better than me to do it? I’ll make the safest crib, the strongest, the—"

"Fireproof?" you interrupted him sarcastically.

Johnny smiled even more, giving the baby a little kiss on the nose. "Exactly. Proof against everything. Because my daughter deserves the best."

●●●

"What is he doing?" murmured Ben behind you. Both of you were looking in the same direction, wearing the same mix of confusion and amusement on your faces.

"According to him… a crib," you answered, crossing your arms while your brow furrowed deeply.

Johnny was on the floor, surrounded by metal pieces, loose screws, and a couple of poorly folded blueprints. He had been struggling for quite a while with what was supposed to be the crib he had designed and welded himself, because, in his own words, “no one else was going to touch his baby’s crib.” And there he was, sweating, grumbling, and muttering curses under his breath while trying to fit two pieces together… only for them to fall onto each other with a loud metallic clang.

Ben couldn’t hold back a deep, rumbling laugh that echoed through the entire room, which made Johnny immediately turn around, face flushed red and a screwdriver in hand like it was a weapon. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing, though it was already too late—your eyes were sparkling with amusement.

Johnny looked at you both, offended, pointing at you with the tool.

"If you’re here just to make fun of me, you better leave," he threatened, while Ben doubled over with laughter.

You shrugged calmly.

"For someone who makes fun of everyone else, you sure ask for a lot, Jonathan Storm," you reminded him, raising an eyebrow.

He huffed, offended but keeping his hands on the crooked pieces.

"I joke about everything, but not about my little girl," he said seriously, turning back to his “masterpiece.”

"But you’re an idiot!" Ben burst out laughing, pointing at the mountain of parts that looked more like an impossible puzzle than a crib. "I doubt you’ll manage to build anything with that. Why didn’t you at least ask Reed to draw up the plans?"

"I don’t need Reed, or anyone else, got it?" Johnny snapped with that stubbornness that was so typical of him.

You rolled your eyes. You knew perfectly well this would end badly. Ben leaned toward you, still laughing.

"Don’t you think his overprotectiveness is going just a little too far?" he asked in a low, amused voice.

You patted his shoulder, shaking your head.

"Don’t even try, Ben. I already did and it didn’t work," you warned him, remembering the countless arguments you’d had with Johnny over the subject.

Meanwhile, Johnny seemed determined to prove to both of you that he could handle the challenge. He even used a small burst of flame at his fingertips to weld a piece that refused to fit. The result: a burnt chunk of metal and a strong smell of scorched iron.

"When you see how this crib turns out, you’re going to feel ashamed of doubting me," he declared, puffing out his chest as if he were about to march into an epic battle.

Ben let out another laugh.

"Sure, champ. The little Storm is going to sleep safe and sound… on that pile of junk?" he said, pointing at the mess of pieces.

You couldn’t hold back anymore, and laughter slipped past your lips, which only made Johnny glare at you even more indignantly. You tried to compose yourself, but the situation was far too ridiculous.

Minutes passed in failed attempts. Johnny knelt, lifted a piece, placed it in position, and within seconds, it collapsed, taking two others down with it. Dull thuds against the floor, screws rolling across the room, and Johnny’s constant swearing filled the air. Ben leaned against the wall, enjoying the spectacle as if it were the best comedy movie he had ever seen.

Finally, when Johnny managed to lift what looked like the side of the crib, it came crashing down immediately, collapsing the entire structure in seconds. The metallic noise was so loud that even Ben stopped laughing for a moment in surprise, and you had to cover your mouth to keep from bursting out with another, louder laugh.

Johnny stared at the wreckage, still holding the screwdriver, a blond strand of hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. He let out a defeated sigh.

"…Maybe… just maybe…" he murmured in a tired voice. "…Reed could give me a hand with this."

Ben couldn’t take it anymore and broke out in laughter, doubling over as if his stomach hurt from laughing so hard. You, on the other hand, walked over to Johnny and gently rubbed his back, offering a little comfort as you watched him surrender.

"That sounds much better," you told him softly, with a small smile.

Johnny huffed, letting the screwdriver drop.

"I don’t want him to think I can’t do it alone," he admitted in almost a whisper.

You pressed his back a little more firmly.

"No one said you had to do it alone," you replied calmly. "Besides, if it’s about your little girl, the important thing is that she’s safe, right?"

Johnny lifted his gaze toward you, defeated but with a spark of tenderness in his eyes. In the end, he nodded slowly, accepting that, for once, he couldn’t do it on his own.

●●●

"This crib is perfect," you murmured with shining eyes, gazing at it as if it were the most important piece in the entire room. The wood gleamed, the bars were tall—far too tall for your daughter to even dream of reaching—the mattress looked soft yet firm, and the painted details gave it a colorful touch that seemed made exactly for her.

Johnny turned toward you with a proud smile, puffing out his chest.

"And I built it all by myself," he emphasized, as if it were necessary to remind you for the umpteenth time.

You rolled your eyes affectionately and nodded, stepping closer to him.

"Yes, you did very well, babe" you replied before giving him a soft kiss on the lips. But the moment was interrupted by a sweet babble coming from Johnny’s arms, forcing you both to pull away with stifled laughter.

"Well…" your husband sighed, looking at her with excitement. "It’s the moment of truth."

He leaned down slowly and placed the baby onto the mattress. She blinked a couple of times, curious, and began moving her tiny hands as if she already wanted to explore. Both of you leaned over the crib, caressing her arms, encouraging her with soft words to try standing up. The little girl clung tightly to the bars and, after an adorable effort, managed to pull herself up, wobbling, though she was clearly nowhere near reaching the top.

Johnny raised his fist in victory, beaming with joy.

"See?! I told you, it’s perfect," he exclaimed triumphantly.

You couldn’t help laughing and clapping at his success.

"Alright, I admit it… you did a great job," you said, enjoying the enthusiasm lighting up his face.

"This is perfect!" Johnny shouted, still celebrating as if he had just saved the world all over again.

But then, a loud crack shattered the joy.

Both of you turned immediately to the crib. The sight froze you in place: the baby, with all the innocence in the world, was holding one of the bars in her tiny hands as if it were nothing more than a toy she had just yanked free.

Your eyes widened. In a second, you scooped her up quickly, pulling her away from the mattress and the piece of wood she was still clutching with delight.

"You didn’t secure the bars?!" you yelled at Johnny, frowning in indignation.

Still in shock, Johnny dropped to his knees in front of the crib, running his hands over the gap where the bar had been. He tried tugging on another, pulling with all the strength he had, but nothing moved. They were solid, firmly in place.

You exchanged a look of confusion. Johnny ran his hand along the edge of the empty slot and discovered small ridges in the wood, as if the pressure had given way at that exact point. It wasn’t a construction mistake. It was brute force.

You swallowed hard, slowly turning toward your daughter. She, completely oblivious to her parents’ panic, smiled brightly at you, rosy cheeks glowing and pure happiness shining in her eyes.

Johnny looked at the destroyed bar, then at the baby in your arms, then back at the empty gap in the crib. His pride in having built it crumbled in an instant.

"Keeping her safe is gonna be mission impossible, huh?".