Bee

Filming a video with pornstar!Baelor, who, despite being the top performing artist in his company, is still sweet, and gentle, and mindful of everyone he records with.

Baelor, who started filming when he was a young man: fresh out of resigning from the family business, tired of holding the world on the palm of his hand, and wishing for a life that did not come with expectations. Who never settled down, never listened to the noise that came with the crashing of the waves he stirred, and was never shamed for living a life that was shaped by his hand alone.

Baelor, who chooses his partners and vetoes his scripts, and always films with his co-star's pleasure and comfort as a priority. Who never behaves in a manner that is not professional, setting firm, clear boundaries for himself and always respecting those of others.

Baelor, who believes in communication, and manners, and behaves like a gentleman even when he does not fuck like one.

Filming a video with pornstar!Baelor, who’s (finally) got you, the one performer he’s kept an eye on for months, with your legs bent tight against your chest, eyes closed shut and head thrown back in bliss as he fucks you silly in the meanest mating press.

"God, pretty girl, just like that," he whispers, softly, barely loud enough for his words to be picked up by the microphone that hangs above. "Gripping me so fucking tight. 'm I fucking you good?"

He keeps your arms locked above your head, holding them together with one big, veiny hand, while he uses the other to reach down and caress your clit. Leaning back, he opens his mouth, and lets a ribbon of spit fall directly over your swollen pearl before he circles it with his thumb again. He’s already made you cum twice: once with his fingers, once on his tongue; but the script calls for him to do it a third time, and so a third orgasm he will give you.

Baelor angles his hips as he thrusts into you again, gaze glued to where your pretty, puffy pussy lips stretch around his cock as he dives in and pulls out, repeating the motion with enough force to pull a whimper out of your mouth with every thrust. And when he gazes upwards, where the outline of his cock, painfully long and unbelievably thick, becomes visible at the bottom of your tummy? Oh, he all but has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from blowing his load forty minutes into what is meant to be an hour long video.

"This is how a real man's supposed to fuck this pretty pussy," he spits from between clenched teeth, voice low, rough, ragged. "You feel that? My cock's all the way up your belly, hm? Making this tight cunt gape so perfectly for me."

And you do not need to play it up for the cameras. You do not need to fake a moan, or force out a whine, or pretend to be submerged in the woes of pleasure. You’ve done it before; after all, one does not acquire the stats you have without being able to successfully sell an orgasm that does not always come.

But there is no need for that at the current moment—Not when Baelor's cock is stretching your tight cunt wide open, pounding into you hard, and deep, with his big, heavy balls slapping obscenely against the plump of your ass.

He’d read through the script and rehearsed his lines. He'd memorized his role, prepared as thoroughly as he did every time he filmed something new. The studio specifically asks him to be vocal whenever he films, but you’re moaning so beautifully, drooling at the corner of your mouth while you throw your head back against the mattress, and he swears his mind goes blank.

He doesn’t remember a fucking word—You’re supposed to be playing his, what? His best friend’s young, pretty daughter, or something of the sort? Yeah, he doesn’t have a clue.

Not when he can still taste your pussy on his lips. Not when he can still feel the sweetness of your nectar coating his tongue. Not when he makes you sees stars and your cunt, tight, and hot, and downright delicious, starts squirting out jets of clear, warm fluid all over his torso as you come undone around his length.

Not when he’s throwing his head back, breathing heavily, thrusting his throbbing cock into your perfect pussy. And God, you’re gripping him so fucking tight, walls clenching as you ride out the bliss of your orgasm, and he blocks out everything that is not you.

"Oh, I'm gonna cum—Gonna make me cum, hm?" He groans, punctuating his words with quick, sharp moves that have the edge of his happy trail slapping against your throbbing clit. "Squirting all over me like that? Good girl, gonna make me—mhm, gonna stuff you full of me."

Filming a video with Pornstar!Baelor, who blocks out the cameras, and the crew, and the lights, and lets himself think that he is not merely playing a false role in the middle of an artificial studio.

No. No, for a moment, he lets himself imagine. He moves, snapping his hips against yours as tears form at the corners of your eyes from how good it feels to be pounded into the mattress by him, and he lets himself think of a different world.

One where he’d fuck you after a first date, perhaps. One where he would have taken you to a nice restaurant, paid for your meal, and then scrunched your favorite dress up against your hips as he took you on the backseat of his car. He'd make you squirt then too, he thinks.

Or, maybe, in this other, perfect world, you'd already be his girlfriend. Maybe he'd be eating you out after coming home from work, with you spread out beautifully on a couch you'd both picked out when moving in together, and he'd be on his knees, thrusting against the linen cushions until he came in his pants.

He lets himself imagine of a world where you'd be his young, pretty wife, even. He would have cooked you dinner to celebrate your wedding anniversary, and it would have been your favorite, and he would have made a joke about how the dessert would be even tastier. He would have opened a bottle of wine that costed the same as a month's mortgage payment and gifted you some equally extravantly-priced piece of jewelry. And then, afterwards—After kissing you slow, and loving, and tender, he'd be taking you in your shared bed, cock stuffed deep inside your pussy, with a stunning rock of a ring adorning a finger on your left hand.

He imagines having the real thing, even if for a second: complicated, unpredictable, sharp. And so, so perfect. He lets himself feel all of it.

And, fuck, he cums like that.

He does not stop the moan that slips past his lips—rough, and raw, and unrepentant. He does not care about the cameras. He feels his cock explode with thick, hot ropes of cum, flooding your tight, pretty cunt with his seed, and he does not give a fuck about anything that is not that feeling. He does not care about anything that is not you.

He gives himself a moment. You're panting under him, a thin layer of sweat covering your body while you try to regain your breath, and he thrusts slowly, lazily, aware that the tape is still roling and the lens is zoomed in on where he's fucking his cum back inside your clenching hole. And then the cameras cut out.

Filming a video with pornstar!Baelor, who pulls out, cock spent and leaking a mixture of cum and squirt, and breaks character to press a soft, gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Will you have a coffee with me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good,” he replies, “and yourself?”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Myself?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stifle your laughter with your hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the horse?” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry?” you croak. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, you could have.”

“Or I could have been robbed or injured…”

“Yes, that too.”

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

“You will not,” he agrees.

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

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

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

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

“Of course.” 

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

Tears leap to your eyes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

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

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

“Oh gods,” you say. 

“Is that…”

“The baby’s coming.”