We Hear The Wilderness And It Hears Us

There was no need for further specifics; the implications were clear enough. Your sister had already been married off to some ageing lord in the Reach. As the late-blooming spare that had been left behind, you were the one he could afford to gamble with. If a Targaryen prince took a liking to you, if he bedded you and left you with child, or better yet, if such a scandal could force a marriage... Well, that would be quite the elevation for your family, wouldn’t it? 

You swallowed down the bitterness rising in your dry throat and focused on the task at hand. The camp was a labyrinth, scarcely lit by struggling torches and braziers that hissed and steamed at the downpour attempting to smother them. Somewhere amongst the mess were the royal tents, and within those prestigious walls of canvas and rope, your father hoped, were some bored and restless princelings ripe for seducing. 

Stomach churning, you kept walking, kept weaving, until your eyes landed on the dripping banners that held the three-headed dragon, red on black, the evening’s new gloom adding to their intimidation. Unwanted, your heart kicked hard against your ribs at the sight. 

The Targaryen tents were noticeably larger than the others, naturally, and arranged in a tight and separate cluster away from the rest of the circus. You slowed your approach, expecting guards, expecting someone to stop you, but either the storm or the drink had driven everyone away. The entrance to the tent nearest to you flapped loose in the breeze, almost like it was beckoning you in. 

You hesitated. This was madness fit for a Targaryen. If it went wrong, far more lives than just your own would be forfeited. 

But your father’s face surfaced in your mind, that look of cold calculation as he all but discarded you. You thought of your mother, who’d said nothing to put a stop to it. 

You stepped forward and slipped inside, before what little courage you had could desert you. 

The warmth hit you first, a wall of it scented with wax and parchment, leather and smoke, something vaguely spicy. The braziers glowed low in the tent corners, and candlelight danced from lanterns hung high, casting everything in a soft haze. 

However, for a royal tent, the interior was not as you expected. 

You had imagined opulence, excess – bejewelled goblets and silks draped over every surface, the ostentatious wealth of dragon kings laid bare while the lowest in their kingdom grew restless and hungry. And there was wealth within, to be sure. The dark wood furnishings were finely carved and polished, the chairs and couches piled high with plush cushions, and the bed was decorated in silks so deep a red they were almost black, and furs thick and lush enough to see even a Dornish man through the coldest winter. But there was a simplicity to it all, an understated quietness to the elegance that surprised you. It felt minimalist, almost practical. 

Except for the desk in the middle of it all. 

Covered in parchments and books, inkwells and quills, and half-burned candles. You drifted towards it unthinking, curiosity overriding caution, your eyes skimming over the scattered pages. Personal letters, by the look of them, written in a precise and delicate hand. You peeled your gaze away, not daring to pry any further than you had already, and lingered on the books instead. 

So many haphazard stacks, most of their spines cracked and covers worn. Histories, mostly, it looked like. Accounts of battles and kings long dead. Then, as if proudly placed atop a blank sheaf of parchment, lay something older, smaller. 

You reached for it, fingers careful as you lofted it close and eased it open. The etched leather cover had been softened with age and use, the pages inside yellowed and fragile as you turned them. A painted wooden bookmark slipped free from within it, clattering softly onto the desk. You froze instinctively, heart racing as you glanced towards the tent entrance, but still there was no one there. 

With slowing breaths, you turned your attention back to the bookmarked page. The handwriting was beautiful but difficult to decipher, the ink faded in places, and there were words – sometimes whole sentences – written in a script you recognised but couldn’t read. Valyrian, you thought. Or something close to it. You squinted at the glyphic text, trying to parse meaning from the shapes, but the fragments written in the Common Tongue had more to say: war, ruling, strength, blood, family. 

It appeared to be a personal accounting of some sort, or perhaps a diary. 

You were so absorbed in its tale that you barely registered the footsteps outside, or the rustle of fabric from behind you. It wasn’t until someone spoke that you realised you were no longer alone. 

“It is a rare thing,” A man’s voice came low and smooth, touched with amusement, “For a whore to read.” 

You spun around dizzyingly fast, clutching the book to your chest as your damp skirts whipped heavy through the air, your heart lodging itself somewhere in your throat. 

He stood just inside the tent entrance, rainwater dripping from the edges of his cloak. With his short dark hair and neatly trimmed beard that was more salt than pepper, he was not the young target you had been aiming for. He was handsome though, at least, with his broad frame held in a way that exuded confidence and power, and mismatched eyes – one pale and one dark – fixed on you with an unexpectedly quiet intensity. 

He seemed curious, almost intrigued, rather than furious at finding an intruder in his tent.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat and begged your voice to remain steady, “How fortunate, then, that I am not a whore.” 

His lips twitched upward, just for a second, “Then what are you?” 

You hesitated, weighing your options, deciding on something at least close to honesty, “A nameday present.” 

That earned you a raised brow, his features sharpening with amusement as he stepped closer.  

“I’m afraid it is not my nameday,” He admitted, his tone still light, entirely ignorant of how hard your stomach dropped. 

“Ah,” You nodded slowly, forcing a smile in an effort to salvage something from the mess being created, “It would appear I’m in the wrong tent – forgive me, my lord.” 

You moved to walk past him, to flee before someone called for your head, but he shifted into your path, halting you. Not aggressively, not threateningly – just enough to make it clear he wasn’t ready for you to make yourself scarce just yet. 

He shot you a crooked smile, “Not so fast.” 

Your pulse raced faster than you thought possible. This was it. He was going to call the guards, have you dragged through the mud, whipped bloody. You opened your mouth to apologise, to beg, but he moved closer before you could, entering your space seemingly with little thought for propriety. 

Tilting his head, he considered you for a beat before his hands found your damp shoulders, your arms, your waist, patting you down with a thoroughness that felt unnecessarily precise. 

“I’m unarmed,” You hurried out when he came to rest at your thighs, fingers lingering long enough for a heat to crawl up your neck. 

“One can never be too careful,” He mused, apparently satisfied at your lack of threat, and backing up just enough that you could breathe again without inhaling the scent of him – the spice and leather made sense now. His voice dipped lower, the gravel in it lending it some bite, “You claim you’re no whore, yet you sneak your way into a man’s tent when he is unawares.” 

Air hitched hard and fearful in your throat, but when you met his gaze again, there was still no sign of the anger you were expecting. He was teasing you, and something bold and wild within you coaxed you into obliging, “I wouldn’t call it sneaking.” 

“No?” He chuckled, finally looking away from you just long enough to palm away the droplets that clung to his features, “What would you call it?” 

You paused, but couldn’t think of a clever answer quick enough. 

Still enjoying himself, he pressed you again, “Who are you?” 

“My father is brother to Lord Piper of Pinkmaiden,” You nodded, mostly to yourself, feeling neither happy nor particularly prideful at admitting to such a lowly status. 

“You’re a long way from home,” He pointed out after a moment’s consideration, his expression growing briefly distant as he no doubt tried to recall all the branches of your family tree. Either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring your obvious distaste, he continued, “And what business does a lady of the Riverlands have in a stranger’s tent?” 

“I believe my father’s instructions were to entertain the handsome, young princelings in the black and red tent,” You blushed, voice holding surprisingly steady as you took him in again, “But you are no princeling.” 

He huffed out a sharp, breathy laugh, his eyes twinkling, “Is that so?” 

There was something familiar about those eyes, you were beginning to realise, something stirring at the back of your mind, “Your eyes—” 

“Tell me,” He interrupted quickly, flicking his gaze away from you, “Had you found who you were looking for tonight – or, rather, who your father had you looking for – then what? Why would he send his most precious prize into the dragon’s lair?” 

His hissed precious prize almost made you wince, the words landing heavier than they should have. Keeping your tone light, you tried to brush it off, “The same reason as any other lord, I suspect – to foster alliances, though I do believe he would also settle for a scandalous and hastily arranged marriage.” 

“Quite the reacher, isn’t he?” His expression shifted, something darker flickering across his face for the first time since you’d met him. There was a pointed judgment there, weighing heavy, not directed at you but rather in alignment with you. At least, that’s what you hoped. 

“Second son,” You announced dryly, “Lots to prove.” 

Your attempt at nonchalance did its job of pulling him from whatever displeasing place his thoughts had carried him to, and he huffed out another quiet laugh, “Well, I’m terribly sorry to have to disappoint him, but I’m afraid you won’t be getting married tonight.” 

“That’s a shame,” You blinked slow, unable to keep from smiling when he took half a step closer. 

For a moment, neither of you had anything more to say. The rain continued to hammer against the canvas overhead, the wind picking up outside and whistling through the treeline, but inside the tent it remained warm and almost stiflingly close, the air thick with something you didn’t dare name. He was still watching you, his mismatched hues still curious and heavy, pinning you in place, exposing you in a way that had little to do with the thin, damp fabric of your dress. 

Just as he opened his mouth, as if to speak again, fate interrupted: 

“Your Grace?” 

The male voice came from outside the tent, muffled by the storm but clear enough to rip right through the moment. The man before you shifted noticeably, the amusement draining from his expression, replaced by something that almost looked like regret. 

He sighed, his shoulders sagging as he reached for the clasp at his throat, shrugging his cloak off, and that’s when you saw it. 

The pin. 

Heavy, ornate, wrought in the shape of a hand. 

The Hand of the King. 

Not for the first time tonight, your stomach dropped, the world tilting threateningly in your vision. You looked up, met those mismatched eyes, and the pieces snapped into place with a violent clarity. 

Baelor Targaryen – Prince Baelor Targaryen. The heir to the Iron Throne. 

And you had just spent the last ten minutes flirting with him. 

He saw the realisation hit, watched the blood drain from your features, and you could’ve sworn his expression softened for a heartbeat, before the mask slipped itself on. He pitched his chin towards the entrance of the tent, tone far firmer than it had been, “Come.” 

A man ducked between the tent flaps. A Kingsguard, by the look of him – white cloak, polished grey-white armour, his short dirty blonde hair darkened by rain. He glanced at you briefly, his eyes widening with alarm before snapping to the prince. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” The knight said quickly, “I did not realise you had company.” 

“Worry not, Ser Donnel,” Prince Baelor half-heartedly waved him off, moving to hang his cloak on a hook stand nearby, “I presume you have news of my sons and their cousins?” 

The knight nodded, shifting awkwardly on his feet, “Yes, they’ve taken shelter at an inn on the outskirts of the Kingswood, and hope to be with you on the morrow.” 

“Very well,” The prince winced, breathing out his disappointment. He paused in afterthought, head tilting with consideration as the knight bowed, making to leave again, “Ser Donnel?” 

Ser Donnel froze, straightening, “Yes, Your Grace?” 

“The lady is my esteemed guest. To speak ill of her – to anyone – is to speak ill of me, do you understand?” 

There was a lengthy beat of tense silence, before Ser Donnel nodded again, keeping his expression carefully neutral as he regarded the two of you, “Yes, of course, Your Grace... My lady.” 

And with that, he was gone, slipping back out into the storm. 

You stared at the empty entrance, your mind racing. This was a disaster. An absolute, horrifying disaster. Your father had sent you to seduce a princeling, some untried boy that you could mayhaps wrap around your finger. Not the heir to the Iron Throne. Not the man who would think nothing of having you executed for your treasonous indiscretions. 

“I should go,” The words tumbled out of you, your voice strangled. You moved towards the entrance, desperate to put as much distance between yourself and this catastrophe as possible, “Pardon my intrusion, Your Grace.” 

“Wait,” His hand caught your wrist, gentle but firm. He stepped in front of you, blocking your path once more, and when you looked up, you found him smiling – that same crooked, teasing grin, “You came here seeking a prince, did you not? Though, granted, I am neither young nor handsome.” 

You blinked hard, conflicting emotions rising within you, “At least you must certainly have been entertained, watching me make a fool of myself.” 

“I do not think you a fool,” He admitted quietly, his expression sobering. He released your wrist, but remained in your space, eyes flitting around your face as if he were trying to read your very thoughts, “Brave, yes. Intriguing, definitely. But no fool,” He hesitated, the hand that had held onto you twitching at his side, “And I apologise for making you feel like one. It’s not very often I get to be alone with someone who has no idea who I am.” 

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, and for a moment, you were at a loss for what to say, what to do. This was so far off course from what you had planned. You had to leave. 

“It is I who must apologise, Your Grace, for taking up so much of your time. I’ll not disturb you further,” Something brave – or something mad – sparked within you, and you dared to step around him, dared to call his bluff. 

“I could order you to stay,” He said, a hint of that earlier amusement creeping back into his tone as his eyes followed you, “If you’re going to continue to suddenly be so deferential.” 

You scoffed without fully meaning to, which only seemed to make him light up more, “I would have thought the Hand of the King had more important things to do with his time.” 

“You think my sons and nephews would be more entertaining, is that it?” He leaned in slightly, his voice sharp but jestful, “Perhaps easier to manipulate? Forgive my forwardness, my lady, but you do not strike me as someone afraid of a challenge.” 

Your breath caught. Had you really been so easy to read? And yet, he was still teasing you – no, challenging you. Open, unoffended... Eager. And despite everything – despite the fact that this was probably one of the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms – you felt something warm spark in your chest. Something reckless. 

“No,” You breathed, meeting his gaze, “No, I’m not.” 

His smile widened, “Good.” 

He moved away then, at last, crossing to a sideboard laden with bottles and goblets and glasses in varying colours and shapes, and you watched as he poured two glasses of wine. Dark red, almost black in the dim candlelight. When he turned back, he held one out to you, and after a moment’s hesitation, you took it. 

“To unexpected company,” He toasted, raising his glass. 

A smirk tugged at your mouth as you clinked your glass against his, “To wrong tents.” 

What sounded like a genuine laugh bubbled out of him, a startling sound that you suspected few got to hear. It settled gentle between you, like a secret shared, unburdened. 

After a long first sip, he gestured towards the seating area near a brazier, and you followed, about to sink into the plush couch when the weight of your cloak pulled hard at your shoulders, the damp wool heavy and cold. Before you could move to adjust it, Baelor was there, his fingers deft as they worked the clasp at your throat. 

The cloak eased away, and he lifted it carefully, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. You felt exposed under that look, acutely aware of the way your dress clung to you, still damp and thin from the rain. 

“Better?” He asked as you sat down, moving to hang your cloak up beside his own. 

You nodded silently, not trusting your voice as he came to sit next to you, immediately angling himself towards you, as though having his attention anywhere else was not an option. 

For several minutes, the two of you simply sat there, drinking and listening as the storm raged on outside. And then you remembered – the book. You were still holding it, clutching it tight within your fingers like a lifeline. 

“You were reading,” Baelor smirked, following your gaze, “Before I disturbed you.” 

“I...” You stared down at the worn leather cover with its scale-like etchings, suddenly embarrassed, “I didn’t mean to pry. I just—” 

“It’s alright,” A wave of his hand cut you off, “I’m curious, actually. What caught your attention?” 

You opened the book carefully to where you vaguely recalled the forgotten bookmark had lain, and held it out for him to see, “The handwriting is beautiful, but I couldn’t read most of it. Some of it is in Valyrian, I think?” 

“Very good,” He nodded, his expression shifting to something almost wistful, “My great, great grandmother’s diary. She wrote in the Common Tongue, mostly, but certain things – private things – she recorded in High Valyrian.” 

“Private things,” You repeated, intrigued, “Like what?” 

He leaned in, a conspiratorial smile pulling at his features that had your breath catching, “Things not meant for prying eyes.” 

Scoffing, you shook your head, hoping to distract from the heat spreading across your cheeks. But you were still curious, and so the next words to tumble out of your mouth were poorly planned, and utterly ridiculous: “Could you read some of it to me?” 

Baelor’s brow raised, looking entirely too pleased with himself while you floundered. You were sitting in a tent with the heir to the Iron Throne, asking him to read to you like you were some lovesick girl. 

If he picked up on the absurdity of the request, he was gracious enough to not needle at it, “I’m a tad rusty... And I shouldn’t really be so readily revealing family secrets.” 

“I wouldn’t be able to understand you anyway,” You pointed out quickly, “I just want to know what it sounds like.” 

He studied you for a long moment, his mismatched gaze unreadable as he scooted closer, your pulse spiking when his fingers grazed yours as he slid the book from your grasp. He flipped through the diary with the same delicate touch you had used, before settling on a page, his eyes scanning the text. And then he began to read, aloud, to you. 

The Valyrian flowed from him like warm honey, smooth and confident, each word rolling off his tongue with a practiced ease that belied his claim of being rusty. As expected, you didn’t understand a word of it, but gods, it was beautiful. The cadence of it almost hypnotic, the way his voice dipped and rose, the slight rasp that edged certain syllables... It stirred something low inside you, something that felt dangerously addictive. 

You found yourself leaning closer, drawn in in the face of all propriety, and when he glanced at you, there was something dark and knowing in his look. 

He read for several minutes, several pages, his voice never faltering, and you sat there, entirely transfixed, until he finally stopped, closing the book with a soft thud. 

Smirking, his attention returned to you, “I did not think you would be so easily pleased.” 

“Neither did I,” You admitted sheepishly, swallowing down another sip as your mouth suddenly went intolerably dry. 

With his hummed chuckle, the air between you shifted, thickened, and you became painfully aware of how close he was. Close enough that you could see the flecks of contrasting colours in his irises, the little scar to his brow. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. 

“Could you read some more?” You tucked your chin down, voice barely above a whisper. 

“More?” He cocked a brow at you, setting the book aside and leaning back just a hair, his gaze sweeping over you in a way that felt deliberate, assessing, “You didn’t come here tonight just to have a prince read to you.” 

He didn’t wait for you to respond. Standing, he plucked your near-empty wine glass from your fingers and moved to refill it, except that he didn’t immediately sit again when he returned, looking down at you with that same infuriating smile, “Let’s make this interesting – a quid pro quo, if you like. You answer my questions, and I’ll read to you some more.” 

Pretending to weigh up the offer, you took a long sip of your new wine, this one hitting quicker and harder than the last, “Very well.” 

“Good answer,” Baelor took a sip of his own wine, before rejoining you on the couch and cutting straight to the chase, “How old are you?” 

You bristled, taken aback, “How unexpectedly impolite of a prince... I’m old enough.” 

Your chiding bought you another laugh. He settled back into the cushions beside you, his features softening, “How confounding, that no man has claimed you as his wife yet.” 

“The second daughter of the second son of a vassal house is hardly a prize,” You mused flatly, swirling the wine around in its glass. 

“I disagree,” There was something in his tone that had your eyes snapping up to his, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. 

The words hung between you, and the way he was looking at you – steady, sincere, without a trace of highborn mockery – made your chest tighten in a way you hadn’t expected. 

You took another sip of wine, intending to steady yourself, but the warmth of it spread through your limbs, loosening the last of your caution. The conversation began to flow easier after that, though you noticed the balance had shifted. Where before he had been the one asking questions, poking and prodding, drawing answers from you with that infuriating precision, now you found yourself inadvertently turning the tables. 

It started innocently enough – a question about his sons, about the hunt tomorrow. But his answers came clipped, deflecting, almost solemn. His gaze would drift, and between scattered sips of wine, his fingers would move almost absently around themselves, pulling your attention. 

The rings. 

Two of them, one for each hand. He twisted and twirled them as he spoke, in a restless motion that seemed entirely unconscious, making their jewels catch in the candlelight. It was subtle enough, easy to miss if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, but once you did notice it, you couldn’t stop. 

He did it again as he deflected another question about his duties as Hand, and again when talk shifted to his eventual role as king. 

“I’m sure my sons would have made far better company,” He pondered lightly in a quiet moment, but you caught the edge beneath the words, the self-deprecating smile that he tried to mould into something else, “Younger, certainly. Easier on the eyes... More entertaining for a lady.” 

“You’ve said that twice now,” You pointed out, emboldened by the drink and the easy intimacy of your surroundings, “About not being young or handsome or entertaining enough.” 

He blinked, his fingers stilling for a fraction of a second, before resuming their spinning, “Have I?” 

“You have,” You set your glass down with a sigh, angling yourself towards him more fully. The couch had seemed large enough when you’d first sat down, but somehow the space between you had diminished without either of you realising or acknowledging it. You continued to prod, “Why? Why would a prince of the realm be so unkind to himself?” 

He huffed out a quiet, empty laugh, “Perhaps because it’s true.” 

“Is it?” The question poured out alarmingly quickly, earning you an unexpectedly sharp look. 

For a moment, you thought he might shut you down entirely, retreat behind that princely mask. But then his shoulders sagged, and he leaned harder into the cushions, his weary eyes drifting towards the crackling brazier as his fingers spun endlessly on. 

“In my position, everyone expects you to be a certain way – ready, perfect... Better than you are, better than what came before,” His voice came quieter, more contemplative, “With all those roles and titles, rules and expectations, how can a man even tell who he truly is?” 

Though his gaze seemed weighted and lost in the simmering flames, the rings spun faster, in a nervous and agitated tempo, and before you could reckon with the movement, you reached out and placed your hand over his, finding the metal bands cool under your skin in spite of all his fiddling. 

He went very still, his eyes dropping to where the two of you were joined. 

“You don’t have to do that,” You pushed softly, your thumb tracing his knuckles. 

The tent felt impossibly quiet all of a sudden, with even the storm outside fading into a distant murmur. You could feel the rough warmth of his skin beneath yours, the faint tremor in his fingers as they were finally forced into stillness. 

“Force of habit,” He mumbled, voice rough as he cleared his throat. 

You smiled, “I noticed.” 

“You’ve been watching me,” It wasn’t a question. There was something raw and unguarded in his expression that made your breath catch, and his hand shifted beneath yours, turning to curl around your own, “Why?” 

You should have pulled away – decency and deference practically compelled it. You should have laughed it off, deflected the way he had been doing for much of the evening. But the wine had loosened your cares, made you reckless, and the way he was looking at you – like you were something unexpected, precious – made it impossible to lie. 

“Because watching you is easy.” 

His features shifted with a flicker of something deeper. His thumb brushed over your wrist, a slow and deliberate graze that sent heat crawling up the veins in your arm, and suddenly the inside of the tent felt a little too quiet, too close. 

“You didn’t come here tonight looking for me,” He sighed with almost bitter resignation, “You came looking for some impudent, impatient princeling you could wrap around your finger.” 

You nodded in quiet agreement, and let the moment have its way with you, “I did... But I’m glad I found you instead.” 

The words landed between you like a spark to kindling. 

For a stuttering heartbeat, neither of you moved, even to breathe. And then, slowly, carefully, he released your hand to reach up, his fingers brushing along your jaw before tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was feather-light, as if you were the most fragile thing in the world; it made your heart race all the same. 

He leaned in. 

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your lips, close enough that you could see the way his pupils had blown wide, almost swallowing up the mismatched hues of his irises. Close enough that if you tilted your head up, just a fraction... 

He stopped, and you could feel the tension radiating off him – want warring with restraint. His eyes closed tight, his jaw clenching with indecision, and you thought for a second that he might let it happen, he might kiss you anyway. But then, agonisingly slowly, he retreated from you. 

The loss of him felt like a physical ache, settling unnervingly cold even with all the wine and candlelight. 

He wasn’t looking at you anymore, his attention returning to his rings with their twinkling little rubies. There were no more clever words to share, either spoken or implied. The game was over. 

The shift was painful enough to sober you up. With a quiet sigh, you stood, smoothing down your skirts with uncertain hands, and moved to return your wine glass to the table he had plucked it from earlier, the floor feeling unsteady as you walked. 

“I should go,” You murmured down at all the pretty bottles and glasses in front of you, almost glad to have him out of your line of sight, unable to distract you further, “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” 

The silence that followed lingered thick and heavy, oppressive, broken only by the gentle patter of rain and the crackles of the braziers. It seemed he really was going to let you leave this time, let this strange and unthinkable night finally come to an end, with nothing to show for it but almosts and what-ifs. 

But then you heard him move. 

Footsteps behind you, slow and certain, crossing the space between you. You felt him then – the heat of him at your back, that familiar warmth that rolled off him in waves. Your breath caught, your fingers curling around the table edge. 

When he spoke, his voice came low and rough, dancing through you like lightning, “Are you quite sure this is what you want?” 

You closed your eyes, your heart hammering in your chest. Still, your answer came out steadier than expected, “Yes.” 

“You understand what it would mean?” He pressed, stepping close enough that you could feel his even breaths curl down your spine, “What the consequences may be?” 

Something coiled ever tighter inside you. You understood well enough. The risks of it all. Of being caught. Of being left with a bastard child. The scandal, the ruin it could bring down on you, and you alone. He was the heir to the Iron Throne, not some boy-prince; there would be no hasty marriage to save your honour, no easy solution if this went wrong. 

And still, you couldn’t make yourself walk away. You repeated yourself, firmer this time, resolved, “Yes.” 

For a worryingly long beat, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, and you wondered if he was trying to convince himself as much as you had. But then his hand came up, gentle and tentative as it slipped around your waist. Slowly, he closed the gap between you until you felt his solid frame at your back. There was a patience to his movements, as if he were still giving you the chance to pull away, to change your mind. 

He breathed in the scent of you, his lips pressing a soft, grazing kiss behind your ear that sent a bolt right through you. He took his time, making peace with this decision just as you had – with giving in, with letting himself want you. Another kiss, lower this time, trailed its way down to where your neck met your shoulder, and you couldn’t stop the quiet sound that escaped you, couldn’t help but melt into his tightening grip around you. 

You tilted your head without thinking, giving him better access, and you felt the low rumble of approval in his chest, buzzing through you. He continued his torturous exploration of your neck, every kiss, every graze feeling like a question – Are you sure? Is this what you want? – and every time you leaned back against him, every soft sound you made, was your answer. 

His other hand wrapped around you, deftly working with the other to undo the strings at the front of your dress. Having long since dried in the warmth of the tent, it needed little encouragement to fall, pooling clumsily at your feet. The chemise it left behind was thinner, more exposing, and Baelor was all too content to show the new skin available to him the same eager affections. 

When you finally turned in his arms, unable to bear the ache of not being able to taste him back, you found his eyes already on you – dark with want, but still edged with the thinnest thread of restraint. 

You leaned up, closed the few inches left between you with a kiss that was more curious than insistent, fragile and hesitant. The berry wine you had shared seemed to taste so much better on his lips, and soon enough you were chasing it, hungry for more. You reached for him, fingers working at the fastenings of his doublet with a desperation that made them clumsy. But then your fingers found something else, brushing against a cold metal that made you freeze. 

That damned pin, again. 

The Hand of the King. Heir to the Iron Throne. 

You thought you had made peace with it, but seeing that pin glinting grimly in the low light made the reality of it crash over you all over again – who he was, who you weren’t, the impossibility of it all. You were the lowest rung of the highborn ladder, what were you thinking? Your hands stilled, doubt creeping in like ice water through your buzzing veins. 

He noticed immediately, of course. 

His hand came up to cup your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his gaze again. His thumb breezed a trail across your cheek, as tender and grounding as the words he spoke, “Deference has no place between us now. Not in this place, not tonight.” 

You swallowed hard, searching his face and finding so much sincerity. 

“Tonight,” He continued, “I am your lover, not your prince.” 

The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself, and he smiled – small, at first, but so heart-warmingly real. His thumb traced your lower lip, and then he was kissing you again, the weight of titles and consequences melting away until there was only you and him, only this. 

Together, you worked the pin free, and it fell with an achingly heavy clatter onto the table behind you – the Hand of the King, both the title and the man, discarded, forgotten. 

He kissed you harder then, as if realising himself just how unburdened he was, his hands fisting in the fabric of your chemise. Pushing flush against you even as you wrestled his doublet off, you gasped into his mouth at the feeling of his arousal pressing firm through the layers between you. 

The table dug into the back of your hips, and you thought for a moment that he might take you right there and then, as eager and hungry as his touches betrayed, but his movements slowed to a stop with visibly painful effort, chest heaving beneath his shirt as his forehead came to rest against yours. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes twinkling as they searched your face. An unspoken question hovered on the air while his hands travelled upward, to the thin straps that clung loosely to your shoulders. Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you nodded, and he eased your chemise off, the featherlight fabric tickling you as it went and joined the rest of your skirts beneath you. 

He sucked in a sharp breath, his jaw clenching briefly with barely held restraint, as his hand travelled lazily down all that was new to him. Stood bare, the air felt cooler, nipping at you in spite of his dark and heated gaze. 

Then, suddenly, he was lifting you, strong arms sliding beneath your thighs with disarming ease, and you wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, your shoes clattering uselessly to the floor. The movement had you pressed together even more firmly, in all the right places, the friction of his pants dragging a gasp from you. 

He carried you towards the bed, kissing you the entire way – deep, hungry, breathtaking kisses that left you dizzy. When he lowered you onto the silk sheets, the cool softness was a shock against your overheated skin, but you could barely register it before he was there, covering you with his body, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress in a way that felt both too much and not enough at the same time. It was enough to make you squirm though, desperate for purchase wherever you could find it. 

Your fingers raked eagerly down his shirt, twisted into the strings of his pants, praying for something – anything – to give, to grant you as much access to him as he had to you. Your efforts earned you a teasing smile that you felt rather than saw, as it pressed tight to your jaw. 

“Patience, my love,” He chided, his scruff grazing skin that was shamefully sensitive. 

His kisses travelled to your neck, then lower – your collarbone, the swell of your breast – each touch as reverent as the last, and maddeningly slow. Your hands found his hair, threading through dark strands not long enough to cling to, as hard as you damn tried, and when his mouth closed around your nipple, your limbs failed you entirely, and you arched beneath him with a sound unbecoming of a lady. 

He took his time lavishing attention on you, his mouth and hands working in cruel tandem until you were writhing beneath him, pleading for more. Only then did he move down your body, pressing kisses to your ribs, your stomach, your hip. Hooking your knees lazily over his broad shoulders, he eventually settled himself between your thighs. 

His thumb parted the folds of your cunt with deliberate slowness, the rough pad of it gliding through your slickness with ease, teasing at your clit and pulling a cry from you. You felt his low chuckle, the indulgent little sound vibrating through every nerve ending in your body. Then, without warning, his mouth replaced his thumb. 

The first swipe of his tongue would’ve been more than enough, your thighs clamping reflexively around him as pressure and pleasure coiled tight in your belly. But he kept going, kept lapping in deep strokes, sucking hard and savouring the taste, pushing you right to the edge before retreating, and renewing his efforts when you would finally slump, dragging you right back to that delicious brink. 

The babbled plea tore from your throat before you could stop it – a ragged, worthless cry that was half his name, half something more primal. His fingers dug possessively into your hips, and this time he didn’t relent, your hands twisting up the silken sheets as the pressure built again. Then, finally, he let you fall. 

You lay boneless against the sheets, your chest heaving, your entire body humming with aftershocks. Through half-lidded eyes, you watched him pull away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a gesture that was somehow both obscene and oddly humanising. An indulgent smirk played at his lips as he dragged himself upright. 

He rid himself of his pants and shoes with agonisingly unhurried movements, still teasing after thoroughly undoing you. His shirt rode up as he did, catching on his thick cock as it sprang free at last, and you couldn’t help the way your breath hitched.  

He crawled back up the bed towards you, his features softening as he reclaimed your mouth, the kiss gentler now, reverent, savouring. With it came that sharp tang of wine again, now mingled with the dizzying musk of your own pleasure. 

Still trembling, your hands found their way beneath the one piece of fabric still separating you with shameless urgency, desperate to feel skin against skin, to feel all of him, and he obliged in helping you work it off, tossing it aside without care. 

There was a pause then, a shared breath held, as you let your fingers explore the newly exposed planes of his chest, tracing the scars, the lines of muscle firm beneath your touch. He watched you, seemingly as mesmerised with you as you were with him, until your hand drifted lower, when he caught it gently, bringing it to his lips before letting you settle. 

His cock teased at your entrance, a pressure unfulfilled as his eyes searched yours, a vulnerability there despite all that had already passed between you. He spoke at last, voice barely more than a rasp, “Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” You whispered back, emphatic and certain as you pulled him in for a kiss that said more than you could coherently verbalise, the few words you could scramble together muffled by the moment, “Gods yes, Baelor, please.” 

There was no teasing with his slowness this time. Careful and considerate, he sheathed himself inside you, swallowing your whimper with another kiss as you adjusted to the stretch. Each deliberate drag of his hips felt deeper than the last, fuller. You clutched at his shoulders, nails biting into flesh that felt hot enough to burn. There was a gasp in your ear, the gentlest nibble at your neck. 

Then, once you’d stopped wincing, when one sort of tension in your body rapidly began being replaced with another, more pleasurable sort, he hitched your legs up high around his hips, shifting the angle, and your world all but fractured. A choked moan broke free from your throat as he hit a spot deep within you, one that sent lightning arcing up your spine. His breath stuttering, Baelor’s mismatched hues darkened at the sight of you unravelling beneath him. 

“There?” He questioned, voice rough and heavy, and you could only nod frantically, your hips canting up eagerly to meet his next thrust. 

The pace that followed was merciless. Gone was the restraint, the careful control, and what remained was something raw and tetherless, each snap of his hips into yours wringing desperate sounds from you. Every brush of his skin against yours, every ragged breath into your neck, every peppered kiss, made your body sing. 

You weren’t alone in your undoing, at least – every gasp of his name that fell from your lips, every broken plea and prayer, had his rhythm faltering. 

There was the tickle of whispers in your ear, silken Valyrian words rolling off his tongue and straight down to your coiling core. His free hand slid up your ribs, his palm rough against the soft swell of your breast, his thumb circling your bud with agonising leisure. 

You were teetering again, and he knew it. And he was too, if his breathless grunts were anything to go by. 

The hungry graze of teeth at your neck sent a fire licking low, just as he buried himself to the hilt in you. Your back arched hard as you clung to him, a cry tearing out of you as your orgasm shattered through you in blurry waves, each one making you tremble through the last of his matching thrusts.  

An equally feral sound spilled from him as he followed you over the edge, his movements stuttering as his head lolled against your shoulder with a shuddering exhale. You felt him pulse inside you, the heat of his release flowing deep and warm.  

You breathed there together for a long moment, uneven and rabid, the high continuing to vibrate on beneath damp, sensitive flesh. With your fingers raking lazily down his spine, he shivered, almost buckling under his own weight, and you wouldn’t have even minded if he had. But instead, with a drawn out sigh, he shifted, his length withdrawing from you with a wet tickle that made you clench all over again. The absence was immediate and hollowing, cool air rushing to fill the space he’d left behind, and you bit your lip against a whimper, fighting the urge to chase him. He collapsed beside you into the gentle sheets, frame shaking and heavy, burying his satiated moan into the pillow. 

His hand found your abdomen almost immediately as he settled, fingers dancing idle patterns against your skin. You lay still beneath the gentle movement, watching the candles flicker and burn low in their lanterns overhead, momentarily too spent and wine-soft to do anything else. 

You could feel him watching you. 

When you finally turned your head, you found him propped up on an elbow, looking at you with an expression so unguarded it almost hurt to witness. Like you had given him something he hadn’t known he was missing. Like you had given him the world, and he was still trying to work out just how to hold onto it. 

“Thank you,” He said quietly, voice raw. 

You blinked, certain you had misheard him, “For what?” 

The corner of his mouth curved up, soft and a little shy, “For indulging me.” 

A disbelieving scoff escaped you before you could think better of it. You turned onto your side to face him, “I think you’ll find it is very much I who has been indulged.” 

At that, his features softened – with relief or perhaps pure and simple pleasure, you couldn’t tell. His fingers, which had followed your movement without breaking their lazy rhythm, now traced the line of your waist instead. He leaned in to press a kiss to your shoulder, and said nothing more, seemingly content to let the point rest between you, shared and understood. 

The candles burned lower, dimmer. Outside, the rain had gentled to a murmured pitter patter. Your eyes grew heavy and you felt yourself slipping, lulled by your surrounds, by the evening’s events, by him. 

“Would your father expect you back tonight?” He asked eventually, quiet and careful enough to keep you from startling. 

It was the content of the question itself that gave you cause to stir, pulling an empty, bitter laugh from you, “I doubt it. By now he’ll be so deep in his cups he’s likely forgotten he brought me at all.” 

Baelor hummed, a low and half-appreciative rumble. He had nothing to say in response, nothing was needed, his silence alone somehow felt more like solidarity than any words might have. He shifted, drawing up the nest of folded furs from the bottom of the bed to wrap around the both of you. 

“Good,” The earlier amusement returned to his face as he looked down at you with a wicked grin, “I would indulge myself a little more tonight, if you would allow it.” 

You smiled, not needing to be asked twice. 

The hours that followed were unlike anything you had words for, in the Common Tongue at least. 

They passed in layers – in the low burn of rekindled desire beneath the furs, his hands and kisses finding you over and over again with the same unhurried dedication as before; in the hushed and breathless intervals in between, when you lay spent and tangled together and talked of small things, inconsequential things, the kinds of things that felt enormous in the dark and the quiet. He made you laugh twice, genuinely, and both times he looked at you afterwards like the sound had done something to him. 

Just before the candles burned down to their last, clinging wicks, he retrieved the diary again. 

Tucked into the curve of his neck, his arm wound loosely around you, you felt the vibration of his voice. The Valyrian came softer this time, slower, something that felt more private. Poetry, you thought, from the rhythm of it. Something old and lyrical and achingly beautiful. 

You still didn’t understand a word of it. You didn’t need to. 

His thumb moved in slow circles against your arm, and his voice continued low and steady, and the pulsing ember-red coals of the distant brazier glowed soft in the corner of your half-closed vision. 

You were asleep before he reached the end of the page. 

It was the press of a kiss to your temple, soft and lingering, and the curl of fingers through your hair that finally roused you, and for a moment you couldn’t place where you were. The silk sheets, the fading warmth, the faint scent of smoke and leather and something distinctly him – it all came rushing back in a wave that coiled hot inside you, reviving the ache between your legs. 

When you opened your eyes, Baelor was there beside the bed, fully dressed, doublet fastened and the cold Hand’s pin restored to its rightful place below his collar. He was crouched at your side, his free hand just a hair’s breadth from touching your own as he watched you with an expression that was equal parts tender and reluctant. 

“Good morning,” He hummed, his voice a little more gravelly than when you’d first met him. 

You blinked at him, still sleep-soft and disoriented, acutely aware of the cold air nipping at your bare shoulders above the sheets, of your hair that was surely a disaster, of the fact that he looked every inch the prince while you looked like... Well, like you’d spent the night doing exactly what you had been doing. 

“Morning,” You managed, somehow sounding even rougher than him. 

His mouth quirked, almost apologetic, “My sons and nephews will be arriving within the hour. I’m expected to greet them.” 

Reality settled over you like cold water. Of course. The hunt. Prince Valarr’s nameday. The world beyond the tent flaps, which had felt so distant last night, was closing back in, tightening its grip on your fantasy. 

You moved to get up, when he stopped you with a gentle hand. 

“There’s no need to rush,” He said with a shake of his head, tipping his chin towards a nearby table that lay full of food – bread, cheeses, fruit – simple bounties, but more than you’d expected for so early in the day, if the dim grey-blueness of the tent was anything to go by, “You should eat something first, gather your strength after such a... Busy night.” 

His smile grew as you buried your face in your hands, hiding the heat crawling across it. 

You sighed, “I’m fine.” 

“Nonetheless,” Carefully, he pried your hands away, brushing at your cheek with his thumb before withdrawing, “It is there if you want it. And you’re welcome to stay as long as you need. Just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean you have to.” 

The kindness in his voice, the adoration in his eyes, made your chest ache in a way it had no right to. You nodded a silent agreement, not trusting yourself to speak. 

He stood then, the loss of him painful and immediate. He moved away, adjusting his cloak, and it was only as you watched him that you noticed your clothes from last night at the foot of the bed, neatly folded and waiting. 

Your breath caught, something else clicking into place – he was dressed, the breakfast was prepared, the braziers had been tended to. Someone else had been in this tent – multiple someones, possibly. Servants, presumably. And they would have seen you here, bare and tangled up in their prince’s sheets. 

Panic clawed its way up your throat. 

“Baelor—” His name escaped you in an impulsive rush, and you found yourself wincing – that wasn’t who he could be to you anymore. Even so, he turned immediately, frowning at your evident and unprompted fear, “What about the servants?” 

“They won’t speak of it,” His tone was reassuringly firm, and you almost believed him. He crossed back to you, crouching again so he was eye-level, “The servants are loyal, and they know the price of loose tongues. You recall Ser Donnel?” 

You nodded slowly, unsure where he was heading. 

“I told him that to speak ill of you was to speak ill of me – that wasn’t just courtesy, that was a command. He understands what is at stake for you, and he’ll ensure the others do too,” His hand found yours where it clutched the sheets, his thumb smoothing soft across your knuckles even as his jaw tightened, “I cannot predict what might come of this further down the line. But this, here, you? This I can protect. And I will.” 

You stared at him, speechless, the quiet intensity in his mismatched eyes cracking something in your chest wide open, “Why?” 

“Because you deserve better than to be collateral damage in your father’s schemes. Because last night...” He paused, looking almost vulnerable as his gaze faltered for a beat, “Last night was a gift I didn’t know I needed, and I won’t let it cost you everything.” 

Your throat tightened, tears threatening your vision, and you had to look away before you did something foolish. 

He lifted your hand, pressing a long kiss to the back of it, before standing again. He moved slower this time towards the entrance to the tent, as hesitant now as you were to let the world take him back. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted – lighter, touched with that familiar amusement that had pulled you in the night before, that made your heart skip. 

“If it pleases you,” He offered, and you looked up to find him glancing back at you over his shoulder, a knowing smile playing at his lips, “I would have you find me again tonight. Perhaps we might get to finish reading that diary.” 

The way he said it – the eager curve of his mouth, the mischievous glint in his eye – made it abundantly clear that you’d likely get as far through that diary as you had last night. 

You smiled despite yourself, something warm unfurling inside you, “Perhaps.” 

“My lady,” He tipped his head, formal and proper, a prince acknowledging a noblewoman. And then he was gone, slipping through the tent flaps and out into the cool early morning. 

The tent felt impossibly large without him. Impossibly still. 

But as you sat there, wrapped up in his sheets, you couldn’t help but think of how different it all felt now compared to when you had very first slipped inside – uninvited, afraid. Then, this space had felt foreign and dangerous, a place you had no right to be in. Now, it felt like somewhere you might belong, at least just for a little while longer. 

The taste of him still lingered on your swollen lips, and the promise of tonight was already coiling hot in your belly. You found you didn’t mind the emptiness quite so much.