#* baelor.

you make that look easy. her husband's words finally reach her. elia, covered in sweat and slick and mess, wisps of chestnut hair sticking to her ruddy, mottled skin, glances up at him and cannot help but laugh, a merry sound new and loud enough to startle their newborn, who, after settling at the familiar scent of her mother, immediately threatens to begin her wailing again. sweet silence falls when she is offered a finger and begins to suckle happily, rosebud mouth instinctively and firmly clamped around the nail. " ah — if only. but she was more than worth it, every minute of it. look at her, baelor. " she shows their daughter to him, breathless with pride and wonder, and marvels, as she does every time, if their last one was so beautiful, so impossibly small. " we made her, you and i. can you believe it ? is she not perfect ? "

there is a way. the voice in her head is near a whisper. gold - green eyes flicker to her doors. she absentmindedly wraps a lock around her index finger. there is a secret, half - forgotten passageway behind a wall hanging, a lovely green - and - white tapestry of a maid and unicorn in a meadow, which leads directly to the king's guest chamber ( covered expertly by a pretty mural of birds and flowers ). she used to play in it with her sisters, pretending they were princesses and knights until one day were caught by their governess, who gave them such a firm hiding that they never dared to venture in the dark, winding passage again. it is not without risk of being caught, but no sooner has the idea dawned in her head or she's already on her feet, slipping out her door, and rushing down the hallway, white robe floating behind her.

the secret passageway is less romantic than she'd imagined. elia realizes only inside that she has forgotten to bring a candle, and so it is dark, and there is dust and cobwebs everywhere. still resolved, though feeling less an adventurer and more a fool, she guides herself forward, one hand placed on the damp stone walls, sensing, gliding, until they meet the sudden texture of wood. fingers trace over it, feeling every seam, the cool air gently breathing through it. an ear to the door reveals only silence. NO — NOT FULLY. there is the rumbling of the hearth, logs sinking, breaking, spitting embers. the scratch of a quill on paper. a scuffing noise, like a chair being moved over the wooden floors. satisfied that it is safe, she gently pushes the door open. immediately her heart gives a thrum. there he is: his noble figure sat at the table, goose feather quill poised between his slender fingers, the dying firelight illuminating his handsome face. " baelor, " she says instinctively, the name she has sighed, the name uttered between trembling breaths from swollen lips. she expects him to start, but he remains strangely composed, almost as if he'd been expecting her. she suddenly realizes, with some chagrin, that he must have known of the passageway; apparently it is not so great a secret as she had thought. that, or he is oddly good at maintaining his composure. " your grace. i have missed you today. "

SHE HAS OFFENDED HIM. somehow. she grasps this too late, and only when he finally speaks, his tongue lashing unusually sharp, lacking its usual gentle tone. YOU KNOW ME. IF YOU WANT SWEET WORDS, FIND THEM ELSEWHERE. she is taken aback. brows furrow in confusion, lips parting as if to protest, though she knows not what. the dismissal is oddly specific. sweet words, sweet words, she has asked nothing of the sort ... ( a dull conversation, her father inquiring what is he like, and she had said, not knowing what else to say, not thinking that the king could possibly have been listening, kind, he is kind, he has sweet words for me )

" the florent boy. " it is not a question. elia almost laughs when it finally clicks, when she realizes why he has been avoiding her since the feast. she knows not if it's jealousy or insult that has disgruntled the king, but, clearly, disgruntled him it has. she moves closer slowly, carefully, kneels in front of him with reverence. HA — THE FLORENT BOY ! as if he were any competition, that lily - livered squirt with his pink cheeks and clammy hands and tedious talking about hawking and jousting. she lays her cheek flat on his knees, looks up at him through soft sooty lashes. " you think i care for him ? he was so dreadfully mundane that i knew not what else to say to my father. not that it matters. he could have been the most chivalrous and handsome lord in the realm and it would have made no difference to me ... there is only one man i have ever longed for. i do not need anyone's sweet words, or touch, or love. one look from you, your grace, is worth more than any of that. please, will you forgive me ? "

are you sore ? a soft inquiry, hushed enough to pass only the space between the two of them. she finally looks at him then, brows arched slightly in surprise , marveling that he knows her mind. after a moment lips curl into a smile, one genuine enough to make her eyes crinkle. " a little, " she whispers back, then nods at the reins in her hands, letting out a soft laugh despite herself. " this won't help. " it had been her father's suggestion, to show the king the loveliness of highgarden's gentle woods in the soft light of the morning, and she hadn't been able to find a reason to excuse herself. not that she had truly wanted to: she hadn't had the chance to speak to him after, not at noon, nor dinner, and she had somehow missed him at the sept this morning. despite the shame, she had yearned to see him again, to hear his voice, feel the warmth of his gaze.

she looks at the king again, eyes lingering perhaps too long on his features, his straight nose, his sharp jaw, fine lips. he looks like a storybook knight. he is close enough that she could touch him, if she reached out. she thinks of what she would do if she didn't have to worry about propriety, if they were alone. she would run her fingers over the length of his arm, she would trace the shape of his mouth, she would take him in her arms, and kiss him, and show him that he has taken up residence in her. you're here, she would say, showing him her veins. you're here, she would say, showing him her heart. you're here, she would say, in my chest and in my blood and in my head. you're here. how are you here ? how have you possessed me so quickly, when none before you could ? how am i now yours when i have always just been my own ?

" we could make a break for it. " rash, the impulsive child in her. still the offer, born from a hope easily crushed, is earnest, as is her sweet gaze. " you and me, right now. ride someplace they won't find us until we want to be found. we'll say the horses bolted. "

i was wondering, he says when he enters ( no: STORMS ! ) their bedchamber, his eyes dark, his voice clipped, and she can feel the envy coming off him in waves ( gaze darting up in surprise, fingers halting in their path, hovering near the earring she was about to remove ), are you drunk, or merely stupid ?

she holds his gaze for a moment. different emotions flit across her fine features — disbelief, anger, a flash of amusement. this is not the first time she has seen her husband jealous, but she had thought it unlikely to happen now, pregnant with his fifth child, round as could be, nearing the very end. it takes only a brief moment to smooth over her expression, a trick she learned as a young girl, and one she has perfected as a wife and mother. green - gold eyes reveal very little. " i'm not drunk, " elia eventually replies, looking back at her reflection. she calmly takes off the heavy earrings, unclasps her necklace next. she runs them through her fingers, then drops them carefully on a silver platter, where they roll home with a pleasant, ringing noise. " so i must be stupid. perhaps your grace — " here she pauses for effect, with that bold, unashamed stare of hers, those eyes bright like stars flickering back to him ( she seldom addresses him so, he is always baelor to her ), " — might educate me on what i have done to offend him ? "

a canopy of sheer curtains that filters the light of the gentle moon, the welcome comfort of silk - and - cotton sheets, a velvet draping for cooler nights. there lingers a heavy but familiar smell of incense, hearth, and pleasant oils in the room, along with beeswax of long since molten candles. the hour is late, as it almost always is. still, elia stirs when she hears her husband enter the room, never fully asleep until he joins her. eyes flutter open, sight still blurry with sleep, lingering on his broad figure anyway. she sits up ( straining, soft groan from her lips, a hand briefly supporting her growing belly ) and takes him into her arms placing kisses along his sweet brow. it's late, she says, and he replies that a ruler gets no rest, a weary statement that is almost an apology.

" even a ruler must rest, " elia disagrees gently. there is an unusual flicker of anger in her chest when she thinks of the men who have so little regard for her husband's wellbeing. fingers brush over the short stubble of baelor's salt - and - pepper hair. nose presses to his cheek. she inhales the familiar scent of him and closes her eyes briefly. " you will wear yourself down if you keep this up every night. for your sake, for my sake, do not indulge your council and advisors so late; come to bed with me instead. there is no war, no famine or other matter so dire at the present that cannot wait until morning tell them your tired, pregnant wife cannot sleep without you by her side. it is true enough. i have missed you. "

the sept is still deserted. elia shrugs off her cloak and kneels in front of the brightly - colored altar of the maiden, its inlaid gemstones and metals shimmering faintly in the blue twilight of the morning. she carefully lights seven stumps, watching the wicks flicker and dance, breathes in the familiar scent of beeswax. she bows her head in reverence to the stone statuette, lips forming a silent prayer, beseeching the maiden to guard her innocence, to protect her from the danger of her own desires.

the heavy groan of the sept's doors disturbs her prayers. elia starts and whips around, eyes wide, ready to scold whoever has dared to enter at this early hour. but there he stands as if sent by the gods themselves, lit faintly by the waning moon, handsome and tall and broad, a mirror to the vision of her dreams. any words of protest die on her lovely lips. she touches her throat, then mouth as if to search for them. she trembles. she is suddenly acutely aware of her undone hair, the way her loose shift has slipped and left her shoulder exposed, the fact that the fabric is so finely woven that he could discern her figure even in this poor light. she should leave, elia realizes. should cover herself up, greet him, and head straight for the doors, and then they may pretend they never saw each other. gods only know what the servants would whisper if they caught them together at this early hour. but despite decency and virtue and reason, elia cannot bring herself to move; instead she leans back against the altar to steady herself, grappling at the marble, and stares at him, helpless, as though he is the only answer she has found within herself. " your grace ... "

elia lies entangled in her husband's embrace, limbs heavy and tired from their first night together as man and wife, chestnut hair loose and fanned out instead of in its usual braids. despite her exhaustion she stirs, gazes at his handsome face before she lays her cheek on his chest, feeling the way it rises and falls reassuringly with every breath. fingers softly brush over the salt - and - pepper hair there. she can hear the sound of his heart: strong and steady like him, a drum so rhythmic it could almost lull one to sleep. it may have, had she not been haunted by so many thoughts. memories of long ago replaying in her head: heated kisses, the taste of his lips, the warm caress of his hands.

it seemed another lifetime when she believed she must have offended THE SEVEN somehow. losing one betrothed after another to the hands of fate, to such odd circumstance and ill - luck that none dared ask for her hand again; none until he came along, wearing grief so heavy on his shoulders, appearing before her like a mirage in the gardens of her home. she remembers thinking how alone he seemed; how she had yearned, instinctively, to unburden and comfort him. the days that followed were filled with long tourneys and lavish feasts, dizzying nights with a cornucopia of fizzy drinks and elaborate meals ( brightly - colored fruits spilling over silver platters, enough sweet - meats to feed a horde, honey - drenched cakes filling the room with their sickly sweet scent ), only the finest harp and lute players present, all to celebrate the king's presence.

not once in those first few days had she considered her father may have held an ulterior motive. only afterwards, long after she had ruined herself, had she realized to what lengths leo 'longthorn' tyrell had gone to ensure the king would notice his daughter. much of it had been a ploy: ensuring baelor first stumbled across her in the sweet - smelling shadows of the groves, seating her next to the king at every feast, instructing her to dance and sing and play the harp to entertain him. even when her father had summoned her and confided the grieving king was lonely and in need of comfort, instructed her to show him the pleasures of highgarden, she, in all her maidenly innocence, had not understood. but to this day she is unsure how much of what followed had truly been planned by her father. if he had known her tender heart had already softened for sweet baelor, if he had known that the king's honor would momentarily falter in the face of such temptation.

he was a gentler husband than she could have imagined for herself. a true king, noble and dependable, clever and chivalrous, a man she could gladly devote her life to as both subject and wife. perhaps, she thinks to herself, it was not misfortune that had kept her alone so long, perhaps it was not her father's plotting that ultimately drove them into each other's arms — perhaps the gods had saved her just for him. " i love you. " the confession is barely more than a sigh, marred by sleep, a murmur that could easily be carried away by the breeze. lashes flutter shut. beneath her ear, his heart continues to drum steadfastly.

delighted, surprised laugh pelts. elia drops her embroidery, letting the work flutter to the floor, and simply leans back in her husband's embrace, resting her head against his broad shoulder. gentle hands intertwine with his, keeping them rested against her stomach, her still empty womb. she drinks the moment in and relishes how happy it makes her feel; how his touch alone leaves goosebumps on her skin, how his heady scent stirs yearning in her, and the warmth of his body sends her heart into a frenzy. how terribly fond she has grown of him in so little time; a life before or after him seems impossible now. most — if not all of her hours — are spent longing for his presence, his ever - warm attentions for her, even when she is occupied with matters of the royal household, charity, and petitions. " i didn't think i would see you before tonight, " she says, gazing up at him. she stands on her toes to kiss the crook of his jaw, feeling and rather enjoying the prick of his salt - and - pepper beard, rough as sandpaper against rose - red lips. the sweet burn lingers; it is a welcome reminder of him. " what to do with all this extra time, then ? administration ? more meetings ? "