#ako7kislife

Baelor rose early, long before the castle had properly stirred, the pale light of dawn only just beginning to creep through the tall windows of his chambers. Sleep had come to him, but not deeply, not peacefully. It had been filled with thoughts of you, of your voice, your warmth, the way you had looked at him when you said yes. Even now, as he sat at his desk, he could still feel the ghost of it lingering, a quiet, steady pull beneath everything else.

He forced himself to focus. Scrolls and parchments lay spread before him in careful disorder, urgent matters of the realm demanding attention before anything else could be indulged. He worked through them with practiced efficiency, answering ravens, sealing letters, issuing commands in a hand that remained steady despite the distraction of his thoughts. A steward stood nearby, bleary-eyed and struggling to keep pace as Baelor passed him ledgers and instructions, his voice calm but brisk as he moved from one matter to the next.

But even as he worked, his mind returned, again and again, to the most pressing matter of all. His marriage to you. 

It would have to be soon.The memory of the night before pressed in on him, vivid and impossible to ignore. The way you had stood before him, uncertain yet resolute. The way your voice had softened when you accepted him. And then… the kiss.

Gods. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose to steadying himself. He had kissed you soundly, perhaps more so than he had intended, every careful boundary of restraint tested by the quiet, breathless sounds you had made against him. Those small, involuntary responses had undone him more thoroughly than any bold gesture could have. They had slipped past every shield of honour he had so carefully built, leaving him grasping for control.

It had taken everything in him not to pull you closer still, not to gather you fully into his arms and refuse to let go. He had wanted, with a startling intensity, to keep you there, to sit with you upon his bed, to let the night stretch endlessly as he spoke softly to you, nonsense perhaps, or gentle promises, anything to keep you near. Nothing unseemly. Nothing dishonourable. But his mind had wandered dangerously close to it all the same.

Soon, he reminded himself. Soon you would be his wife, and such restraint would no longer be required. The way your eyes had grown heavy with sleep, your body leaning unconsciously into him, trusting, yielding. He had felt it, that quiet surrender, and it had nearly broken his resolve entirely. For a moment, he had simply held you, unmoving, as though time itself had stilled.

But he had pulled away.He had placed you gently into the care of his Kingsguard, forcing himself to step back, to release you before he forgot himself entirely. The knight had given him a look, something between amusement and approval, his gaze flicking briefly to your lips, slightly swollen from his affection, before offering a respectful nod.

Baelor had not trusted himself to walk you back. Not when every instinct in him urged him to follow, to remain at your side, to prolong the moment for as long as possible. And yet you had turned back. Just before leaving, you had looked at him, your expression soft, your voice gentle as you bid him goodnight and promised to see him with the sunrise.

That had been enough to let him sleep.

Now, seated once more in the light of morning, he looked down at the spread of parchments before him, his thoughts shifting from memory to action.

It would be a royal wedding. It could not be anything less.Invitations would need to be sent across the realm, to great houses and lesser ones alike. The wardens of the North, the lords of the West, the Reach, the Vale. His brow furrowed slightly as he considered the distances involved. A wedding by the next moon would be too soon. Many would not arrive in time, and to exclude them, intentionally or not would breed resentment.

No. Two moons at the earliest…even that would be ambitious.

Preparations would need to begin immediately. Seamstresses were already at work for your wardrobe, but a wedding gown would require special care, something worthy of you, of the moment. He would have to get them working immediately. Feasts, musicians, decorations, accommodations for visiting lords… it would be no small undertaking.

“I take it you have good news, my son.”

Baelor looked up.

King Daeron stood at the entrance, already dressed, his presence commanding even in relative informality. Beside him, the queen practically glowed, her expression bright with anticipation.

“She has been so generous as to pledge me her hand,” Baelor replied, a warmth entering his voice that he did not bother to conceal.

The queen’s eyes filled instantly, her composure breaking as she crossed the room without hesitation. She reached up, cupping his face in her hands as though he were still a boy rather than a grown man.

“And why wouldn’t she, my handsome son?” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “You give so much. It is the gods’ gift to you. She will be a most wonderful wife… and queen.”

“With you guiding her, I have no doubt, Mother,” Baelor said gently, his smile softening.

She huffed lightly, though her expression remained fond. “Always the charm with you. I thank the gods she has brains. She will keep you on your toes.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek before her gaze drifted to the desk. “…It would seem you are already preparing…Well we will remind the kingdom of what a proper Dornish wedding is.’’ 

The king let out a warm laugh, stepping further into the room. “Well then, I am glad she said yes, otherwise all this effort would be for nothing.” His smile lingered, thoughtful now. “We will meet with her parents, arrange an announcement, have it sent across the realm by day’s end. The sooner this marriage is secured, the sooner I gain another daughter. And I would very much like to hear her thoughts on improving King’s Landing.”

“Husband!” the queen exclaimed, half scandalised, half amused.

“Oh, and your mother would like more grandchildren,” the king added, entirely undeterred. “As if we do not have enough already. But I must confess, I am intrigued to see what the two of you produce. I am sure you will have great fun discovering that.”

“Husband!” she repeated, sharper this time, though her cheeks had coloured.

“That is what a grand tour is for...remeber ours..” he continued with a grin.

Baelor pressed his lips together, a quiet, helpless amusement breaking through despite himself. A faint flush rose along his neck at his father’s words, though he did not look away. Instead, he let out a low breath, shaking his head slightly, caught between embarrassment and something softer.

There was fondness there. Deep, unshaken. His parents’ teasing did not unsettle him so much as it grounded him, reminding him that this was real, that this was happening, that what he felt was not something fleeting or imagined.

“I believe,” he said at last, his voice steady once more though a hint of warmth lingered, “that I shall focus first on ensuring she becomes my wife… before I concern myself with anything further.”

The king laughed again, clearly pleased and Baelor, despite the flush still lingering on his skin, found himself smiling.

xxxxx

“Why the fuck is he here,” Maekar growled, his voice low and dangerous as his sharp gaze settled on Daeron, suspicion etched deep into every hard line of his face.

The maester’s solar had never been meant to hold so many bodies, and yet it had been overtaken entirely, transformed from a place of quiet study into something resembling a cramped, chaotic council chamber. Shelves heavy with books loomed overhead, scrolls piled in precarious stacks, while the narrow windows let in only thin streams of pale morning light. The air felt warm, crowded, thick with the scent of parchment, ink… and lemon cakes.

Your three ladies fluttered endlessly about the eldest prince, fussing over him with an enthusiasm that bordered on relentless. Cushions were pressed behind his back, tea poured and replenished before he could finish a cup, delicate slices of cake placed insistently within his reach. Their laughter and whispers filled the small space, a stark contrast to the tension that coiled through the rest of the room.

Maester Yormwell sat enthroned in his high-backed chair like a contented king of crumbs, while beside him young Aemon remained entirely absorbed in his book, his nose buried so deeply in the pages it was as though the world beyond them did not exist.

Ser Duskendale stood rigid against the only remaining stretch of wall, his broad frame carefully angled so as not to disturb the already overcrowded space. His presence was steady, watchful, the quiet anchor in a room otherwise brimming with movement and noise. The final available corner had been claimed by Maekar’s eldest son, who leaned there with the ease of someone far too comfortable and sober for his father’s liking.

Maester Yormwell reached eagerly into a large specimen pot, retrieving a lemon cake with unconcealed delight. “My prince,” he said brightly, crumbs already beginning to scatter across his robes as he bit into it, “your son has most generously offered his assistance.”

“With what?” Maekar snapped, his lip curling. “I fail to see how his skills in draining a flagon of Reach red will prove useful.”

“Do not be so bitter, father,” came the easy reply, smooth and entirely unbothered. “What will the ladies think of you?”

Maekar grumbled under his breath, something deeply unflattering muttered in a tone that suggested long-standing frustration, his arms folding tightly across his chest as his glare sharpened.

“I heard Uncle was up early today,” Aemon said calmly, not once lifting his eyes from his book, his voice mild and detached as though he were commenting on the weather rather than the growing storm in the room.

“I fear the arrival of the parents has lent a certain urgency to our… mission,” Maester Yormwell said, frowning now as he brushed crumbs from his robes with little success.

“The mother is such a ghastly creature,” Brieanne declared, her expression tightening in clear distaste.

The other ladies gasped at once, scandalised.

“What? She is!” Brieanne insisted, entirely unapologetic.

“That is true,” Mysa added quickly, stepping in with a nod as she poured more tea. “But our lady sent her away. I am thankful for Ser Duskendale and Ser Crakehall. I feared she would never leave… or worse, that she might drag our lady away with her.”

She moved to refill Daeron’s cup as well, but he lifted a hand politely, declining with a small, careful smile under his father’s watchful gaze.

“It is our pleasure… and our duty,” Ser Duskendale said, his voice steady, though there was a faint edge of concern beneath it. “But I, too, have my doubts. Her father remained with her until the last bell.”

“We must prepare for a difficult campaign,” Yormwell added, steepling his fingers now, his earlier cheer fading into something more thoughtful. “We may have the king’s support, but the parents hold influence. And Lord Baratheon has never been inclined toward Targaryen favour.”

“Poncy, overgrown fawn,” Maekar muttered darkly.

“Ser Crakehall took the night watch,” Duskendale continued, shifting slightly in his armour. “When I relieve him, I may have more insight.”

“That might not be necessary,” Daeron murmured, a faint grimace touching his lips as he sipped his tea.

“Who asked you?” Maekar snapped, turning on him instantly. “We must plan. The ladies are not to leave her unattended. Aemon, you will assist. You are an irritating little leech, so you may as well be useful. The father has some sense...I will speak with him. My mother may be persuaded to manage the mother. And if all else fails…” his voice dropped slightly, “…we may need to consider more direct methods.”

“The prince would never!” one of the ladies protested at once.

“My prince…”

“Father…”

“Gods, I meant threats,” Maekar cut in sharply, irritation flaring. “Though if my brother were capable of such things, it would make matters considerably easier. But no he is an honour-bound, love-struck fool. Your lady’s maidenhead is quite safe… at least until after the wedding.”

A ripple of scandalised laughter and protests followed, though Daeron only shrugged lightly, his gaze drifting elsewhere entirely.

“Hmm…it would make them get straight to it but I think the castle should first be modified. Thicker walls to start and…l” he mused idly. “Perhaps concealed balconies would be useful… Private beaches are not a bad idea and yes, hedges would be quite effective…”

Slap! 

“Foolish boy,” Maekar muttered, pulling back his hand, content with his son rubbing his head. 

Maester Yormwell eyed him with open distrust before clearing his throat. “We must first determine where our lady’s inclinations lie. Once that is established, we can proceed with greater certainty. I shall visit her before the midday meal and...”

A sharp knock cut him off.

The door creaked open just enough for a young scribe to peer through, his face pale as he took in the crowded, improbable assembly before him.

“What is it, Cadefael?” Yormwell snapped, clearly irritated. “I said we were not to be disturbed.”

The boy blinked, his gaze darting from prince to prince, to the Kingsguard, to the ladies, clearly overwhelmed.

“Out with it, boy,” Maekar barked.

“The king has commanded...” Cadefael stammered, clutching the parchment in his hands. “All ravens are to be sent to the great houses… and the lesser ones across the realm. It is to be done at once. He said it is a matter of urgency… and that you are to oversee it personally.”

Yormwell was on his feet before the boy had even finished speaking. The king did not send orders like this. Not directly since the rebellion.

“Isn’t it wonderful, my lord?” Cadefael added, a nervous smile flickering.

Yormwell read. Silence fell.

“What is it?” someone pressed.

“Tell us.”

“Out with it!”

“Prince Baelor has been betrothed to your lady,” Cadefael blurted at last. “The banns are to be read today, and the wedding is to take place in three moons’ time, to allow the realm to gather. I have just come from the solar, her lady mother is weeping with joy…and there is to be a grand tour and….”

“Get out!” Maekar surged to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the stone, the sound cutting through the room like a blade.

Cadefael flinched visibly, shrinking back toward the door, his face draining of colour as the full weight of the prince’s temper bore down on him. He stumbled in his haste to leave, nearly tripping over the threshold as he fled.

Ser Duskendale moved at once, stepping forward toward the maester. “Maester…”

But Yormwell was smiling. Wide. Bright. “It is true,” he said, his voice almost giddy as he scanned the parchment again. “They are to be married… it is all here. A full year touring the realm together…” He let out a soft, astonished breath. “My word…”

Relief broke first, soft and immediate. Your ladies clasped their hands together, their faces lighting with excitement, whispers bubbling between them as they clung to one another in delight. Brieanne looked vindicated, Mysa positively glowing, Carlys near breathless with joy.

Even Aemon looked up then, curiosity sparking in his eyes, while Duskendale allowed himself the smallest hint of a satisfied smile, the tension in his shoulders easing at last. Maekar, however, only exhaled sharply through his nose, his scowl deepening, though there was something beneath it now, resignation, perhaps.

Daeron leaned back slightly, watching it all unfold with quiet amusement before speaking, his tone light, almost mischievous. “Well,” he said, “now that matter is settled… let us turn to another marriage.”

Every eye turned to him. “Which one of you lovely ladies,” he continued, entirely unfazed, “will be my new mother? Perhaps all three? The old ways are sometimes best and he will give each of you strong babes”

“You little shit!” Maekar snapped instantly.

The ladies burst into girlish giggle, bright and unrestrained, but moved closer to the poor prince 

Xxxxx

“My darling girl, I am truly happy. I am sure the prince will make you happy. Our little princess will become a true princess… we are happy, aren’t we, wife.”

Your father’s voice was warm, steady, filled with a kind of quiet pride that settled gently over the moment, even as everything around you felt too large, too overwhelming to fully grasp. His hand lingered briefly at your shoulder, grounding, reassuring.

Your mother stood beside him, and for a fleeting moment it seemed as though she might match him, might gather herself into that same warmth.

“Ye… esss. So ha… aa… ppy,” she managed, though the words fractured as they left her, breaking apart under the strain of the emotion she could not contain. Her chest rose sharply, uneven, each breath catching as though it hurt to draw. Her hands clenched in the fabric of her skirts, knuckles whitening, and then, without another word, she turned.

The movement was abrupt, almost frantic. Her skirts swirled around her as she fled, the sound of her retreating steps echoing faintly as she disappeared out toward the gardens, as though the open air might somehow steady what she could not control within herself.

The room did not follow her Instead, her departure left behind a strange stillness, one that drew the attention of the king and queen alike. Their gazes lingered where she had been, thoughtful, measuring, before slowly returning to you, who seems wholly unfazed but your husband could see the way your body tensed ever so slightly, the way your breath caught, the way your composure, so carefully held, threatened to falter at the edges.

Without a word, his arm moved, linking gently with yours. The gesture was quiet, unobtrusive, but firm in its intent. His presence settled beside you, steady and warm, offering support without drawing attention to it. His thumb brushed faintly against your arm, grounding, a silent reassurance that you were not alone in this moment, not exposed.

“Daughter… may I call you my daughter already?”

Queen Myriah’s voice was soft, filled with a warmth that felt entirely different from your mother’s. She approached you with open affection, no hesitation in her steps, and when she reached you, she slipped her arm through your free one with an ease that felt almost natural.

“I am so happy to have another daughter,” she continued, her smile bright, her eyes kind as they searched your face. “We have so much to plan, so much to prepare.” There was excitement there, but also sincerity, a genuine welcome that eased something tight within your chest.

Then, with a lightness that carried a hint of playful authority, she glanced toward her son. “May I borrow your beloved Baelor?”

“Of course, Mother,” Baelor replied, his voice warm, the faintest hint of amusement touching it. He turned slightly toward you, leaning in just enough to press a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering only a moment before stepping away.

You felt the absence of him almost immediately, though the queen’s arm remained, steady and supportive.

From the edge of the room, your brother approached. His steps were slower than usual, hesitant, as though each one required more thought than it should. The confidence he so often carried was gone, replaced by something quieter, something uncertain. When he reached Baelor, he bowed deeply, his posture stiff with nerves.

“My prince… I am sorry. I beg for your forgiveness.”

Baelor regarded him calmly, his expression unreadable for a moment as he took in the boy before him. “Forgiveness for what?” he asked, his tone even, neither harsh nor overly gentle.

Your brother swallowed, his hands tightening slightly at his sides before he spoke again.

“For taking my sister,” he admitted, his voice lower now, edged with unease. “I was trying to protect her. I thought… I thought you would be angry. That she might be punished… or called a witch.”

For a brief moment, silence stretched between them. Then Baelor’s expression softened, not into indulgence, but into something measured and understanding. “I cannot fault you for trying to protect your sister,” he said, his voice steady. “It pleases me to know her family cares for her… even if that care is sometimes misplaced.”

Your brother lifted his head slightly at that, uncertainty still lingering in his eyes.

“You are forgiven,” Baelor continued. “But perhaps, in future, you might listen to your sister more closely. She is… rather astute.”

There was the faintest hint of warmth in his tone now, a quiet acknowledgment of you that did not go unnoticed.

Your brother nodded quickly, relief softening his features, though a trace of sheepishness remained. “Thank you, my grace,” he said earnestly. “I will.”

Xxxxx

“Oh Lyonel… she hates me…”

Your mother’s voice broke beneath the weight of it, thin and trembling, her composure finally unraveling now that she was beyond the crowded hall. The gardens stretched wide around her, quiet and green beneath the soft light, but she seemed not to see any of it. Her hands twisted tightly together, knuckles pale, her breath uneven as though each word cost her something.

“She does not,” Lyonel said gently, his tone steady in contrast to her distress. “I know only a little of your daughter, but she is not capable of that. Far too intelligent for something like that.”

Your mother let out a shaky breath, though it did little to calm her. Her gaze drifted upward, toward the towering keep, its walls rising high and imposing, and something like unease crept into her expression.

“She is to be married to the prince,” she said, her voice quieter now, though no less strained. “She will be a princess… one day a queen. She will live here.” Her lip curled faintly as she took in the vastness of it all. “A viper pit. Married to a dragon. A dragon! What chance has she got? How is she to make friends… allies? She cannot even cross stitch.”

Lyonel pattered sympathetically. Nodding as he murmured softness to the mourning lady. His softness all but evaporating as her new son in-law appear at his side. His mismatch eyes sad.

“My lady, may I speak…”

“Did it matter if you may not?” she snapped, turning on Baelor before he could finish, her grief sharpening into something defensive, something brittle. “You have already taken my daughter. What more is there to take? She hate me! She could barely look at me through the meeting.”

Baelor did not flinch, though his posture stilled slightly, his expression softening rather than hardening.“My lady, your daughter is…”

“Do not tell me how she is,” she cut him off, her voice rising, emotion spilling over. “You have known her less than a moon. I birthed her. I nurtured her. I fed her from my own breast, not some simpering wet nurse touch my child” Her voice wavered, breaking as her composure cracked entirely. “I cried when she would not speak… when she was slow to walk. They said she was lacking, that something was wrong, but I told them no. I told them she was only delayed. I waited. I fought for her.”

Tears slipped free now, unchecked.

“Do you know what a curse it is?” she continued, her voice trembling, uneven. “When she finally spoke, I was so relieved… so grateful. But then… then I realized she was different.” Her breath hitched sharply, her shoulders shaking as she struggled to contain herself. “She could read before we could teach her. She learned anything just by watching, as though the world simply… unfolded for her. Yet she would not sit still for the simplest things, would not learn the Lazy Daisy stitch no matter how I tried…” A broken, disbelieving laugh slipped through her tears. “And yet she had endless patience to learn how a level hitch worked. I do not even know what that is.”

Her hands came up to her face as she cried again, softer this time, exhausted rather than frantic, as though the weight of years had finally found release.

“Oh, my good lady,” Queen Myriah said gently, stepping forward from behind her son, her voice warm and steady as she reached to take your mother’s hands. “Sons are easy. Frustrating, yes, but simple in their wants. Daughters… daughters are far more complex.” Her smile softened, filled with quiet understanding. “Your daughter is fortunate to have you. And with us to guide her, how could she fail?”

She glanced briefly toward Baelor, something proud and certain in her gaze.

“She has Baelors protection. And Maekar’s as well, whether he admits it or not. I have never seen my second son tolerate someone he was not forced to endure, and yet he does with her.” A small, knowing smile touched her lips. “She will be well cared for. I have never seen someone hold so many men of the court so effortlessly in her grasp.”

Lyonel let out a quiet, sheepish breath at that, shifting slightly under her pointed look.

“She has good ladies at her side, and friends already forming around her. And perhaps…” the queen added, her tone turning thoughtful, though her eyes flicked sharply toward the stag, “perhaps my son might find a place on the small council for Lord Baratheon. He seems… particularly invested in her safety.” Her gaze hardened just slightly, enough to send a ripple of discomfort even through Lyonel’s usually unshakable confidence. “What was it again?” she continued coolly. “Ah yes. Threatening to slit my son’s throat to find her.”

Lyonel blinked, caught off guard, his usual bravado faltering for the briefest of moments.

“…Baelor will need assistance,” the queen went on smoothly, as though the moment had not passed. “Especially when he is called away on his tour.”

“…If that is Mother’s wish,” Baelor said, inclining his head, though there was a faint, thoughtful note in his voice.

“It is,” she replied simply, then turned, her expression brightening once more as she gently tugged your mother along with her. “Now go, rescue your intended before your father convinces her to redesign the entire pulley system for the blasted moat.”

There was a hint of laughter in her voice as she began to guide your mother away, already shifting into something more practical, more focused.

“Come, my lady,” she continued, her tone light but purposeful. “We have much to discuss. Now… What do you think of Dornish styles? I have always thought the colours are far more flattering, and the cuts…oh, we must consider the cuts…”

Xxxxxx

The moment Baelor found you again within the gardens, he reached for your hand with quiet certainty, his fingers warm as they closed around yours. “This way,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear, already guiding you gently from the path.

The gardens stretched wide, but he knew them well enough to avoid the main walks, leading you instead along a narrower trail where the hedges grew thicker and the air felt softer, quieter. The noise of the court faded with each step, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of life beyond.

Behind you, a heavy sigh followed.

“If I hear any heavy panting,” Maekar’s voice grumbled from somewhere just out of sight, thick with irritation, “I am walking away and leaving you both to deal with the consequences.”

Baelor did not even turn, though the faintest hint of amusement touched his expression. “I will endeavour to behave,” he called back dryly, before finally stepping into a small clearing, half-hidden by overgrown greenery and dappled with soft light.

It was quiet there. Private. For the first time that day, truly so.

He turned to you then, properly, his hands finding yours again, though this time he did not rush to speak. His gaze lingered on your face, searching, softening, as though he needed to reassure himself you were still there amidst everything that had happened.“I am sorry,” he said at last, the words quieter now, stripped of the confidence he wore so easily before others. “For all of it.”

His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, an absent, grounding motion. “It has been… rather a great deal, all at once,” he admitted, a faint, self-aware smile touching his lips. “Your parents arriving, my father making proclamations, my mother already planning half a wedding before you have even had time to breathe.”

There was a softness in his voice, but also sincerity. He did not dismiss it, did not pretend it was anything less than overwhelming. “I had hoped to give you time,” he continued, his gaze steady on yours. “To allow you space before pressure pressing in from every direction. And yet…” he exhaled lightly, shaking his head just slightly;For a moment, he said nothing more, simply holding your hands, his grip gentle but sure.

“I would not have you feel trapped in this,” he added, more quietly now. “Not by me. Not by them. Not by anything.”

His expression softened further, something more personal slipping through, less prince, more man.

“But I cannot pretend I am not… selfishly glad,” he admitted, a small, almost sheepish breath leaving him. “That you said yes.” His hand lifted slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face with a care that felt instinctive. “I have thought of little else since last night,” he added, a faint warmth returning to his voice, though it was gentler now, more contained. “Which is… deeply inconvenient, given the amount of work I am meant to be doing.”

There was a quiet humour in it, but also truth. He stepped a fraction closer then, not crowding you, but close enough that the space between you felt intentional rather than distant.

“Are you well?” he asked softly, his gaze searching for yours again, more serious now. “Truly?”

For a moment, you simply looked at him. Without speaking, you shifted your grip, turning one of his hands slightly in yours. Your fingers traced lightly over his palm, and before he could quite anticipate it, you bent your head and pressed a gentle kiss there. Lifting your gaze to his then, your expression open, steady, far more certain than he seemed to expect.

“I am well,” you said quietly, your voice warm with sincerity. “Truly.” Your thumb brushed lightly against his hand, echoing the comfort he had offered you earlier. “There is much to take in,” you admitted, a faint smile touching your lips, “but I am not afraid of it. Not with you here. I am quite... elated”

His breath caught slightly at that, his eyes searching yours again, as though trying to measure the truth of it and finding only reassurance. A hint of brightness crept into your expression then, something more animated, more like yourself.

“I find myself rather excited,” you added, almost shyly at first, before it grew into something more genuine, “to travel. To see the realm properly. The grand tour…” your eyes lit slightly at the thought, your mind already drifting ahead. “All the places, the libraries, the people… I have never seen so much of the world.”

Baelor stared at you for a moment,  swallowing tightly because for him, the words carried something… different.

Not entirely different, not untouched by what you saw in it, but deeper, threaded with something far more intimate. The grand tour, to Baelor, was not only a journey across the realm, not only an obligation of a prince and his new bride to be seen, to be known. It was time. Time away from the suffocating eyes of court, away from whispers and expectation, away from the constant presence of others.

Baelor’s chest tightened with a mixture of fondness and mischief as he watched you chatter excitedly about the grand tour, completely oblivious to the layers of meaning he already carried in his mind. How sweet you were, so innocent and earnest, thinking of the roads and cities, the libraries and markets, as if the journey were nothing more than an adventure of sights and stories. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too broadly, the thought both thrilling and tender because to him, the “grand tour” was a thinly veiled excuse for the two of you to steal away from the eyes of the world, to learn one another’s bodies and desires in the privacy that marriage alone would afford, to explore every curve, every breath, every sensation that sharing yourself completely could bring. And yet, as he imagined it, he could not bring himself to dampen your delight, only let it bloom, keeping your wonder intact while quietly imagining the joys that awaited behind closed doors, all for him and her alone.

His gaze softened as it settled on you again, something deeply affectionate there, something quietly resolute.

He could not wait to make you his wife. Then, slowly, colour began to rise along his neck, creeping up into his cheeks in a way that was both subtle and unmistakable.

“Ah,” he said faintly, his composure slipping just enough to betray him. “Yes… the grand tour has much to explore and learn.”

You, entirely unaware, only smiled up at him. From somewhere far too close, a voice broke in.

“Gods, I am going to have to do this until the wedding, aren’t I,” Maekar muttered, his tone thick with long-suffering irritation.

There was a rustle and then, quite suddenly, he emerged from the bushes. Leaves clung stubbornly to his cloak, a twig caught in his hair, his expression thoroughly unimpressed as he shoved aside a branch and stepped into view as though he had always belonged there.

Baelor’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Must you lurk,” he said flatly.

“Must you sneak off like a pair of lovesick idiots,” Maekar returned without hesitation, brushing at his sleeve with little success. “I am hiding from her ladies, by the way. They are relentless.”

As if summoned by the mere mention of them, distant voices began to carry faintly through the garden. Baelor exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose for a brief moment. You, however, only smiled, stepping closer to Baelor once more, rising just slightly to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering only a moment before you drew back.

“I shall handle this,” you said quietly, a hint of mischief threading through your voice.

Before either of them could respond, you turned and moved lightly back toward the path, your steps quickening just enough to intercept the approaching voices, drawing attention away from the hidden clearing.

Silence followed your departure. Baelor watching you go, something soft and helpless settling into his expression.

 Behind him, Maekar snorted. “You are doomed,” he muttered.

Baelor did not deny it he meant to reply but from behind him another voice filled the little heaven.

“What,” came the unmistakable voice of the queen, cool and utterly unimpressed, “are you two doing in a bush?”

Both men froze. Queen Myriah stood just beyond the hedging, her gaze sweeping over them, taking in the leaves, the disturbed branches, the state of their cloaks with a precision that suggested she missed nothing.Her expression darkened. “Honestly,” she said, stepping closer, reaching out to pluck a stray leaf from Baelor’s shoulder with firm disapproval. “You look like stable boys, not princes of the realm.”

Her eyes flicked to Maekar, lingering on the twig still lodged in his hair. “And you,” she added sharply, “have entirely ruined that cloak.” Maekar scowled but did not argue. ‘’Out of this bush immediately, you boys honestly. We have a wedding to plan and your playing with sticks.’’

Soooooo what do you think? Cute righ?

Favorite part? Mine is probably Maekar. He is my fav!!! Queen is also becoming my fav!

Also the reader who send me message about rereading this fic, you messages give me so much joy.

Quick authors note

Good new and bad.

Good news- I have lots of new fic outline (I am talking juicy stuff) and have finished planning my outstanding fics all the way up to the end (A Claims a Claim and my anime ones too)

Savior is nearly complete one more chapter then its request time baby!!!

Bad news- My supervision got my feedback for my exam modification and is not happy so wants me to appeal while doing (insane rewrites like whole sections) which I have like 2 month to do..... so all the amazing stories and bi weekly update are going to go on hold. I swear as soon as I have something good going I get hit by crap like this.

Fear not! I will be updating but maybe every couple of weeks. But please keep up the likes/comments coming, they nourish me!

Traditions were to be strictly upheld.

Which meant you had been subjected, without mercy, to the full crushing weight of maidenly custom.

Hours spent within the sept upon unforgiving stone, knees aching as you prayed to the Maiden for purity and grace, to the Mother for wisdom and fruitful blessings. Candle after candle had been lit until the air was thick with wax and incense, your fingers scented with both. Septas hovered like crows, correcting the angle of your bowed head, the cadence of your prayers, the proper reverence expected of a future princess.

Then came the Queen and her ladies.

Smiles sharpened like knives, jewels glinting in candlelight, names and lineages thrown at you one after another until they blurred together into a haze of ancient houses and brittle courtesies. You were paraded through drawing rooms and galleries, presented like some precious new acquisition to wives and daughters who measured your worth in one sweeping glance. Some had been kind. Others were merely curious. A few plainly disapproving of such a match.

And gods,the endless plucking, polishing, bathing, brushing, oiling.

The embarrassment of it would never leave you. You had never been so exposed wearing so little before so many women, hands everywhere at once, discussing your body as if a cow in a butchers window. Brows shaped, nails buffed, skin scrubbed until it tingled. Sweet oils rubbed into your limbs, powders dusted across your throat and collarbones.

Your skin was now silken smooth and glowed almost unnaturally beneath the candlelight. Your hair shone in glossy waves down your back, scented with rosewater and myrrh. Your cheeks held a rich bloom from all the fussing and pinching, and your lips had been rubbed with berry salve until they looked bitten and soft. You scarcely recognised yourself.

Your chambers no longer felt like your own either.

The room had been stripped of the little traces of you that had made it familiar. Shelves once cluttered with loose parchment, dried flowers pressed between pages, ribbons, scattered trinkets and cups gone cold with tea now stood bare and ordered. The book Baelor had gifted you, your treasured volumes with its leather spine worn from nightly reading, had already been returned to his collection in his own chambers, where they now awaited you. The thought sent a warm flutter through your chest.

Your gowns had been folded with military precision into travelling chests. Shoes lined in pairs beside them. Jewellery wrapped in cloth. Hair combs, pins, brushes, even the little carved box where you kept your pressed herbs, all packed neatly and ready to be moved.

To your new chambers.

No. To your shared chambers. Married chambers. With Baelor. Your soon to be husband. Who you would now live with. Where you would wake beside him. Where your gowns would hang beside his coats, your books among his, your laughter mingling with his in rooms once occupied by one man alone. Where you would share a bed… and share other things, things you could scarcely imagine and could not wait to explore body and soul.

The thought made your pulse skip.

The only things that had sustained you through these long days apart were the notes. Notes smuggled through corridors by blushing squires, bribed servants, amused guards, and one increasingly tormented Ser Crakehall. Folded scraps of parchment hidden beneath trays, slipped into sleeves, tucked inside prayer books and baskets of flowers.

You reached for the newest one now, already unfolded so many times the edges had softened.

“Avy jorrāelan, ñuha dāria.- B

You smiled 

My dearest trouble,

I am being made to endure another fitting. If one more tailor jabs me with a pin, I shall have him thrown from the battlements.

They say I must be patient. I say I have been patient enough.

I cannot wait for our wedding day. Every hour spent from you is theft.

—B

Another, delivered that morning:

I am commanded to shave and have my hair cut before the ceremony. Apparently I am to appear respectable and handsome for my new bride. Unfortunately Maekar is the only one I trust, I shall look like a sheep ravished by a dragon.

Pray for me. Jorrāelagon. 

You had laughed aloud at that one before snatching the quill to parchment so quickly you splattered ink.

Your Highness... My groom,

If you allow any man near that glorious hair with shears, I shall call off the wedding myself.

And if they remove your beard, I shall have them sent to the Wall.

I fully intend to run my hands through your hair upon our wedding day, and feel your beard against my skin just as I did the last day I saw you.

Remain exactly as you are.

—Your future wife

The note returned barely an hour later in the hands of a profoundly red-faced Ser Crakehall.

Ser Crakehall hates us now.

I remain unshorn and victorious.

Ready for your generous hands and willing body.

—Your husband, in spirit if not yet in the Gods eyes

You pressed the parchment to your lips, cheeks burning.

Your thoughts betrayed you then, drifting helplessly to Baelor in this very bedchamber on the last day you had seen him. To the heat of him that stole your breath. To rough hands made unexpectedly gentle by reverence. To the way he had shown you pleasures you had never thought possible between a man and woman with nothing more than his mouth, his hands, and the sinful patience of a man determined to ruin you for all others.

“My lady, we must get you ready!”

Brienne glided into the room like a woman entering battle, Mysa at her heels carrying armfuls of silk, while Carlys followed with boxes of jewels and enough pins to arm a small army.

Today you would become the princess everyone expected. Graceful. Regal. Untouchable in poise and splendour.And later, when the doors were shut and the crowns set aside, you would become the wife Baelor had waited so desperately to claim.

Xxxxx

Baelor was dressed before the light had even broken the darkness. Sleep had eluded him, for when next he slept, it would be as a husband and you, his wife. Waking with you beside him in these very chambers, now to be your home as much as his. He would end each night and greet every dawn with you by his side. To feel the warmth of you tangled in his arms, to hear your breath in the quiet hours before sunrise, to know you were no longer promised but wholly his, it made rest impossible.

In mere hours, he would finally see you. He could not wait a moment more. This long days had be agonizing.

To know you were somewhere within the keep, walking the same halls, breathing the same air, perhaps pausing at the same windows he had stood beside only moments before, and yet entirely out of reach. Guarded, watched, shielded by family, septas, your ladies as though he were something to be protected from rather than the man who would soon call you wife. Every glimpse of a passing gown in the corridor made his pulse quicken, only to sour when it was not you. Every laugh carried through stone walls made him wonder if it had been yours.

Perhaps it was for the best.

Because when he had pulled away from you that day in your chambers, it had not been easy. Your pillowy thighs, gods, he could still feel them in his hands. Soft, warm, yielding beneath his grip and he drunk you in. He could still taste you on his lips. It took all his might not to strip bare and join you beneath the comforter.

Pulling your legs wide so he could see all of you, so he could etch the vision of you bare before him into memory before he claimed your maidenhead. Not stopping until you were his in every sense the gods allowed. Until he had marked every inch of your skin with touch and scent. Until nothing in the world existed but the joining of you both, souls burning together like dragonflame. He would brandish the blood-stained sheet for all to see, hang it in his council chambers as proof and warning alike, that you were his, and had been claimed before gods and men. The hell with the wedding and wait a moment more to call you his, especial after your wretch of a mother tried to pry you apart from him.

He agonised over that feeling, the crudeness that possessed him. It was madness, truly. A hunger so consuming it shamed even him. What was worse, you had pleaded so sweetly. That look in your eyes as you asked, no, begged, him to do something so scandalous. Lips parted, voice soft, gaze molten with want.

Perhaps he should have believed Valorr’s accusation that you were some witch, a sweet succubus sent to test him. Some lovely curse wrapped in silk and smiles. He should have locked you in the Maidenvault as soon as your engagement was announced, to protect you from his corruptive influence and carnal thoughts, just as his namesake had once done to his sisters. Hidden you behind stone and steel where no man, least of all him, could reach you.

But he was weak. Selfish. Possessive.

And the thought of not being able to see you, feel you, stalk you across the halls of the keep and pull you into some abandoned shelter for a few stolen moments was too much torture to bear. Too much to surrender willingly. Even though he thought his brother might have locked you in the Maidenvault himself, if only to gain a few moments of peace.

He must truly find a way to repay his dear brother.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop…it’s disgusting.” Maekar’s barbed tone echoed through the chamber.

Baelor blinked, dragged from his thoughts. “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

“I know exactly what kind of thoughts you are thinking, and I would rather not be in your presence while you do them,” Maekar growled. “It had been bad enough that I have had to suffer through the last three moons of courting.”

Maekar’s gruff voice carried through the air as he stomped into the room, already reaching for the wine and pouring himself a heavy cup. Gulping it down in two long swallows before slamming the glass upon the table before bracing himself against it with a groan.

“You do know the wedding is not for hours yet.”

Baelor said nothing, only tugged once more at his doublet. It was a form-fitting tunic beneath a double-breasted jacket, tailored close through the chest with sharp crimson pleats running down the front. Every seam sat perfectly, yet still he found fault with it. His hair, stubborn as ever, curled untidily around his ears despite the efforts of three servants and one increasingly frustrated valet.

The crown sat upon its velvet cushion, glaring at him.

He eyed it wearily. Since his accident, the thought of wearing such a heavy thing sent a pulse of pain straight into the pit of his skull. In the past three moons, his headaches had lessened to a tedious and occasional throb, striking only when he spent too long reading in poor candlelight or when exhaustion seeped into his bones. It was… freeing.

It had allowed him the simple joys he once thought gone forever. Walking you through the gardens while you chattered of flowers and old histories. Taking you riding through the city streets so the people might see you and adore you as much as he did. Watching children run behind your horse with garlands in hand while merchants bowed low and called blessings after you both.

Yet, now the longer he spent away from you, the more his head seemed to ache.

But in a few hours’ time, not even the gods themselves would pry you from his arms.

“Do you have your balm? Taken your tincture?”

Baelor’s stormy eyes slid toward his brother. “I am not an invalid.”

“Today will be long,” Maekar replied dryly. “And as you so often remind me, a crown is heavy on the person who wears it, but it is our duty. And your duty today is to look all princely and glorious in your crown beside your new bride, if you want the kingdom to fawn around her half so much as you do. They will need to see you both in all your splendour, tedious as that may be.”

“They will love her.” Baleor nodded 

Maekar rocked slightly on his heels. “I am sure they will. If she managed to make this old dragon fond of her, she can manage anyone. But there will always be those who talk. It was rather… strange arrangement.”

The words settled like stone in Baelor’s stomach.

The wedding was not without risk. The court was uncertain. You were no simpering noble maid trained to flatter men into softness, nor some polished seductress weaving snares through smiles. You were simply yourself, an enchanting sprite with a sharp mind, a thirst for knowledge. There were lords in the realm who would resent that. Men who preferred women were ornamental and silent. Men who would sneer at wit in a lady and call intelligence impertinence. It was a thought that had kept him wakeful many nights.

“But do not worry,” Maekar grunted. “This little dragon brood she seems to command ensures she will be well loved. Even that blasted stag appears devoted to her cause. Not to mention all her blasted cousins, who seem to scurry out of the woodwork more by the day.”

“Do you have your eye on one of her visiting cousins? perhaps a pretty one has caught your eye brother?” Baelor mused.

Maekar snapped the fastening of Baelor’s jacket into place somewhat harsher than necessary. “I have enough trouble with her fucking handmaids.”

Silence fell heavily across the chamber. Violet eyes met violet eyes before Maekar looked away, scrubbing a hand over his jaw.

“I am sorry… for all of it. I never said it before, but I am...I...”

“Brother,” Baelor said softly, “you have nothing to be sorry for. I am rather glad you struck that blow. If not for that terrible moment, I would never have met my little savior.”

“Gods, you are truly lost.” Maekar grimaced, though his eyes were bright with reluctant amusement.

“Lost in her eyes, brother.” Baelor grinned as a look of pure disgust consumed Maekar’s features.

“Gods, it is more than I can bear. To see the Breakspear reduced to a besotted fool.” He jabbed a finger toward him. “And do not think I know nothing of those blasted love letters and notes passed between you two. Red in not a good shade for a kingsguard.” he huffed turning on his hills.

“Where are you going?” Baelor smirked.

“To see if we can bring the damn wedding forward. In need some peace.” Maekar snapped the words over his shoulder as he stormed from the room, though the corners of his mouth tugged upward ever so slightly.

Xxxxx

The guests were seated. The sept was packed so full that the very air seemed warm with breath, perfume, candle smoke, and anticipation. Every bench, gallery, and standing space had been claimed long before the bells began to ring. Nobles and servants alike craned their necks for a better view, the murmur of hundreds of voices swelling and falling like the sea against stone.

Highborn and lowborn alike had come.

The lower sections, usually reserved for lesser retainers and household attendants, had been opened to the people of King’s Landing themselves after your personal plea to the king. Though the Small Council had objected in stiff tones and practical concerns, the old king had overruled them with visible delight, declaring that if this was to be the wedding of the century, then all who loved the realm should be welcome to witness the day he gained a daughter.

And so fishmongers stood beside merchants, bakers beside blacksmiths, washerwomen beside goldsmiths, children balanced on shoulders and old men leaning heavily on canes. Faces weathered by work and sun now glowed with excitement as they peered upward toward the royal section. Many had never before entered the Great Sept. Some openly wept at the splendour of it. Others whispered prayers or nudged one another whenever a lord in famous colours passed by.

The ground floor belonged to the great houses.

Lords and ladies filled the front rows in a dazzling display of wealth and pride. Silks rustled like leaves in the wind. Jewels winked at throats, wrists, and brows. House colours were worn boldly, gold lions, green roses, silver trout, black stags, sunspear orange, kraken black and white, falcon blue and white. Banners hung high between the columns, turning the chamber into a forest of heraldry.

Above them, galleries brimmed with lesser nobility, landed knights, clerics, and fortunate courtiers. Servants moved carefully through narrow aisles with watered wine and cloths for flushed faces. The musicians played soft processional strains, though they were nearly drowned beneath the restless hum of speculation.

At the front, nearest the altar and beneath the seven-pointed star, the royal family waited.

“Stop pacing and sit down.” The queen snipped at the king. “Anyone would think it is you getting married and not Baelor.”

The olderman smiled at his wife. “I cannot help it.”

He had indeed worn a path into the polished marble with his movement. Though age had bowed him slightly there was a boyish energy in him this day that made the years seem lighter. His robes of state hung richly from his shoulders, cloth-of-gold worked with dragons and suns, but his fingers betrayed his nerves as they drummed against the carved pommel of his cane. His eyes flicked constantly toward the great doors, eager and bright.

“Silly old fool, he even tried to sneak out to see her when she arrives.” Queen Myriah scowled softly, before turning to her son, cooing as she pulled at his doublet smoothing something out the velvet. “My handsome son.”

Queen Myriah was regal even in motion, draped in deep Dornish silks the colour of wine-dark pomegranates, threaded with gold that caught the candlelight at every turn. Strings of pearls nestled at her throat, and her dark hair, only lightly touched by silver, was braided with tiny gemstones. Her scolding never fully hid the softness in her expression. Pride radiated from her as she fussed over Baelor with the intimate authority only a mother could wield.

He stood tall in princely crimson and black, broad shoulders wrapped in velvet and gold fastenings, the crown lending solemn weight to a face already taut with emotion. Though composed to any distant eye, those nearest could see the restless energy beneath it, the way his fingers flexed once and again at his sides, the quick rise of his chest, the fixed pull of his gaze toward the doors where you would soon appear.

She patted his chest before turning to Maekar who, with face freshly shaved, looked boyish and nearly twenty names younger. “It will be your turn next.”

Freshly shorn of beard and hair pulled from its usual severe style, Maekar appeared almost startlingly changed. Without the pale roughness of his beard, the sharp architecture of his face was laid bare, high cheekbones, severe mouth and silver scars. The years seemed peeled from him, leaving a dangerous face of a mature man.

“Mother!” Maekar huffed jerking away from his mothers golden hands.

Even so, the flush that climbed his neck betrayed him more than any protest. Nearby courtiers hid smiles behind gloved fingers. One old lady openly sighed at the sight of him.

“Wife, it seems like it is time. Let us sit. you can find a bride for Maeker later.” The king offered his arm, still smiling, and guided the queen to their carved seats. Around them the movement rippled outward as the royal attendants settled, guards straightened, and musicians changed tune.

Thousands of eyes turned toward the great doors.

Xxxxxx

The bells of the Great Sept rang so loudly you felt them in your ribs.

Each thunderous peal rolled across the city, over rooftops and market squares, through alleys and towers, announcing to every soul in King’s Landing that a royal wedding was beginning. 

Your veil had been lowered before the great doors opened. Your mother smiled, planting a kiss on your cheek, her hand lingered, as you gazed at each other, it was bittersweet. No matter how much you yearned for it, your relationship with your mother wasn't the same. Older eyes soften and her mouth opened but before words could be uttered the septons cough hurried her to take her place in the sept. 

With your veil in place, it spilled from your jeweled comb like a river of moonlight, layers of fine silk and pale lace drifting over your face and shoulders.

Your father was one moment away from blubbering. It had taken him a solid hour to collect himself after he saw you dress in your wedding finery. You were grateful for the shield of it, for the small privacy it offered while your heart threatened to pound clear through your bodice. To see you gentle father in tearful joy you might beccoem a sobbing mess yourself.

The doors groaned open.

Sunlight speared into the sept first, bright and golden, catching the incense smoke in shafts in .the air Then came the sound, a great swelling murmur of voices, the scrape of benches, rustling velvet, clinking chains, whispers hissing like wind through leaves as every person inside rose to their feet. 

Hundreds of eyes turned toward you.

Silence.

For one breath, you could not move. Then the musicians struck the next note, and your feet obeyed.

You stepped forward. Guided by your fathers arm you walked. The aisle stretched before you like a path into another life, carpeted in crimson so rich it looked like poured wine. Your gown whispered around your ankles with every step, layers of ivory silk and silver-threaded lace heavy enough to remind you constantly of the occasion. Pearls were sewn through the sleeves and bodice, cool against your skin. A necklace of rubies rested at your throat like droplets of fire, matching the dainty tiara nestle in you lose hair

You could feel them watching. Lords with calculating eyes. Ladies with practiced smiles. You gave them nothing but serene grace.

Inside, your pulse was wild. Your gloved fingers curled once around the folds of your father's arms before you forced them still. You lifted your chin another fraction and continued, slow and regal, exactly as Briaennie had drilled into you until dawn.

Then through the gauzy veil, familiar figures emerged. Lyonel stood broad as a tower among the front rows, dressed richly enough for court though he wore finery like armour. His arms were folded across his chest, jaw hard, and he was glaring at the altar with such naked hostility that three nearby lords had subtly shifted away from him. At Baelor, no doubt. Yet the moment his gaze found you, the storm vanished. His expression softened into something warm, proud, almost brotherly. He dipped his head with quiet reverence.

In front of him the princes stood, Valarr and Matarys looked devastatingly elegant, Valarr's eyes jump straight to his father while Matarys' violet eyes sparkled radiantly, giving you a tiny enthusiastic wave the instant no one was looking.

You nearly laughed beneath the veil. Further down, Daeron was smiling so broadly it seemed painful. Near the rear, chaos as ever attended Egg. He had climbed halfway onto the stone railing and was leaning dangerously far off the shoulder of Dunk in order to see better. Dunk kept one enormous hand braced around the boy’s middle while trying to maintain some scrap of knightly dignity in his new white coat. Egg’s waved at you with such vigor that two ladies gasped.

And there was Maekar, beside your soon to be husband, you saw the gleam in his eyes. Moisture unshed. His jaw flexed once, as if annoyed by the existence of feelings altogether. Then he gave you the smallest nod, stiff, formal but you saw it, the gathering sparking in his eye.

Your throat tightened.

Then you saw Baelor. He stood before the altar beneath the seven-pointed star, crowned in blackened steel and rubies, draped in princely crimson and sable. Gold clasps gleamed at his shoulders, his clock resting there ready to claim you. One that you would be wearing when you turned back. 

You gasped softly as you father pressed the kiss on your veil cheek leaving you beside your soon to be husband. 

His mismatched eyes flickered across your blurred features. The moment he truly beheld you through the veil, a tear slid unceremoniously down his cheek. Then another. His lips parted as though speech had abandoned him entirely. His chest rose sharply beneath embroidered silk, and one hand flexed at his side, as he foot leached forward, and it would have been Maekar's heavy presence was not anchoring him to his spot.

He looked stricken.

Without glancing at him, Maekar reached into his sleeve, withdrew a folded handkerchief, and shoved it sharply into Baelor’s palm with the efficiency of a conjurer.

Baelor accepted it blindly, never once taking his eyes off you.

He dabbed at his face as he turned to face the blinking High Septon, only then reaching his hands to claim yours. 

Xxxxxxxxxx

The crown upon his head felt heavier than it ever had before. It pressed into his skull, unforgiving, a band of iron and rubies that seemed to burn against the place where old pain still lingered. A dull ache stirred behind his eyes, threatening to bloom into something sharper, something that would steal his focus at the worst possible moment. The weight of duty, of expectation, of the entire realm watching settled upon him all at once, a suffocating pressure that no training had ever truly prepared him for.

But as you drifted down the red carpet, a vision of light and silk, the entire sept falling into a hush so complete it felt almost sacred. Baelor could not bring himself to care about the crown fastened to his head

You were close enough now that he could see you. Your veil blurred your features into something almost unreal, but it could not hide you from him, not truly. He could see the faint outline of your lips, the rise and fall of your breath, the soft glow of your skin beneath layers of lace.

Everything that had once felt heavy now seemed distant, irrelevant, dulled beneath the singular and overwhelming truth that you were to be his wife. His.

The ceremony stretched on, as such things always did. Sermon upon sermon, blessings layered upon blessings, words spoken in reverence to gods and tradition and lineage. It should have been tedious, suffocating in its length, but Baelor did not mind in the slightest. He heard none of it. Not a single word reached him in any meaningful way. He was too content to simply stand and look at you, to study every small movement, every breath, every flicker of thought that passed behind your eyes.

When the moment came, his hands did not shake, but there was a carefulness to them as he reached for your veil. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted the fine fabric away from your face.

Your skin glowed beneath the light as though lit from within, smooth and luminous in a way that made his chest ache. Your eyes met his, clear and alive, filled with a softness that struck straight through him and left something unguarded in its wake. Your lips were slightly parted, still touched with the faint stain of berries, and your hair shimmered around your face like something drawn from dream and flame.

Baelor exhaled a breath he had not realised he had been holding. It came out uneven, almost broken, as though the sight of you had undone something deep within him. A slow, disbelieving smile spread across his face, soft and awed.

He unclasped his cloak with steady hands, though his gaze never left you, and drew it around your shoulders. The heavy fabric of Targaryen colours settled over you, black and deep crimson lined with ornate embroidery worked through with threads of gold that caught the light with every small movement. It transformed you in the eyes of the realm in an instant, marking you as his, as one of his house, as bound to him in blood and name and future. His fingers lingered as he fastened it, brushing lightly against the curve of your shoulder as he secured it, not daring to look away.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

Baelor surged forward. One hand came to your jaw, firm but gentle, guiding you upward as though you already belonged there. The other settled at your waist, steadying you, drawing you just slightly closer. His lips met yours. Soft at first, reverent, then deeper in a way that made the world beyond the two of you dissolve entirely.

The sept erupted around you, but he barely heard it, still lost in the feel of his lip against yours. When the cheers rose and the bells rang when he finally allowed himself to pull away from you, turning you together to face the realm, Baelor stood taller than he ever had before. Baelor’s hand found yours beneath the folds of your cloak, fingers threading through yours as he guided you down the steps

Xxxxxx

The parade through the city felt endless, winding from the Great Sept down through the heart of King’s Landing and into the narrow, teeming streets beyond. By the time you reached Flea Bottom your arms ached from waving, your fingers stiff from clutching flowers and hands and ribbons pressed upon you by eager crowds. Your cheeks burned from smiling, the muscles of your face beginning to protest with every passing moment. And yet, you could not bring yourself to stop.

You did not want to and through it all, Baelor never once let go of your hand.

By the time you were finally returned to the keep and ushered into the great hall, the feast was ready as you circulated the tables with your new husband. Polite and courtly.

But your thoughts betrayed you.

Your face burned suddenly, vividly, as the memory of the carriage ride rose unbidden. The closeness of it, the heat of him, the way his voice had dropped low and dangerous when he had called you his wife for the first time without witness. The press of his hands, the stolen kisses that had been anything but restrained especially as his hands sunk between your thighs and...

“Wife, you have gone quite red, are you well.”

You could hear the smirk in Baelor’s voice even as his brows drew together in feigned concern. The concern was for show, but the spark in his eyes betrayed him entirely. He knew. Of course he knew.

“Please excuse us, I must tend to the princess. Forgive us, it has been a long day. I am sure we will speak again before you depart.” your husband smiled, placing his hand at the small of your back. 

“We look forward to welcoming you and the new princess to the north,” Lord Stark bowed. 

You smiled, dipping into a graceful curtsey before Lord Stark, who regarded you with steady, approving eyes,his nod was slight, but it carried a quiet respect that settled warmly in your chest.

Baelor did not wait a heartbeat longer than politeness demanded. His hand found yours again, firm and certain, and he guided you away from the gathered lords with a smooth authority that parted the crowd before him. It was not rushed, not improper, but there was purpose in every step he took. His body angled subtly toward yours as he walked, shielding you from wandering hands and over-eager well-wishers, his presence a quiet wall at your side.

When you reached the high table, he paused only to pull your chair back himself. No servant was given the chance. His hand hovered briefly at your waist as you turned, steadying you as though the simple act required his attention. He adjusted the fall of your skirts with careful precision, ensuring nothing caught or tangled, then settled the cloak more securely about your shoulders, fingers lingering just a fraction too long at the fastening near your collarbone.

Only once you were properly seated did he allow himself to sit beside you. “That was uncalled for, husband.” You pouted softly, though the heat still lingered in your cheeks.

Baelor leaned slightly closer, just enough that his words would not carry beyond you. “Keep calling me husband, this day will end quicker than you expected.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, eyes dark with amusement and something far more dangerous beneath it, his fingers already seeking yours beneath the table once more as though even a moment’s separation had been too much.

Xxxxx

After returning at last to your seats, the procession of gifts began in earnest. One lord after another stepped forward, each more eager than the last to present their offering and secure favour in the eyes of their newly wedded prince and princess. The servants moved in a careful rhythm behind them, collecting, cataloguing, carrying away treasures that would have filled smaller halls entirely.

It did not take long for a pattern to emerge. Word had spread. Where others might have expected jewels alone, or silks, or ornaments meant only to dazzle, you were instead met with tome after tome. Bound in leather, in velvet, in gilded covers and worn spines alike. Histories, poems, treatises, maps, collections of songs and philosophies from across the realm and beyond it. Some ancient and delicate, others newly commissioned, all offered with careful bows and hopeful glances.

Alongside them came jewels in glittering cascades, bolts of fine silk from distant lands, spices that perfumed the very air as they were unveiled, oils and perfumes sealed in delicate glass. Offerings meant to please, to impress, to secure your favor as much as his.

For Baelor, daggers of Valyrian steel, dragon glass carved and polished into ceremonial forms. Crates of grain, stores of apples, casks of wine, symbols of loyalty and provision, promises of support from lands that fed the realm. All presented and given willingly as the musicians took their cue then, strings rising, drums steady beneath them as performers climbed onto their platforms. Laughter grew louder, freer, as wine flowed and the weight of ceremony began to ease into celebration.

It was then that Baelor allowed himself to loosen his hold on you, if only slightly.

You moved from his side, drawn into conversation, into laughter, into the orbit of curious lords and eager ladies who wished to claim a moment of your time. Yet even as you wandered, he remained never more than two arm lengths away. His gaze followed you without effort, constant, instinctive. The duties of a prince did not end, but neither did his attentness to you.

“I must say despite my doubts she is rather suited to dragon colours.” Lyonel sidled up beside the dragon, ale sloshing lazily within his flagon taking a seat with careless ease. “I am rather impressed, actually. She seems to suit life as a princess, wrangling all those prattling lords and ladies.”

Baelor said nothing at first. His violet gaze had already settled on you across the hall, where you stood listening with remarkable patience to a particularly animated Lord Tyrell. You smiled at the right moments, inclined your head with grace.

“Though I must inform you not all are as enamoured with the new little dragonling.” Lyonel’s voice dropped as he lifted the flagon to his lips, eyes shifting subtly toward a gathered knot of men.

Baelor followed the motion.

A cluster stood apart, close enough to be present, far enough to remain removed. Lord Bolton, pale and watchful. Lord Tarly, stern and unyielding. A scattering of lesser lords from the grasslands, their expressions guarded. A handful from the north and west, their attention less celebratory, more calculating.

“And why would you warn me of such dissent among our subjects?” Baelor’s voice was quiet, but there was iron beneath it now.

Lyonel did not look at him immediately. He took another long drink, then lowered the flagon slowly. “While I still believe there is no such thing as a good dragon, she is and always will be my godsdaughter. And far better than any dragon. And if she is cursed to birth more dragon spawn into this world, they will never be dragons.”

Godsdaughter. Baelor brow furrow lightly. Hmmm. The stags brown eyes cut toward Baelor then, not quite challenge but something edged between the two.

Baelor held his gaze for a long moment before speaking. “Then I am glad she has such a strong lord fighting her corner.” His tone remained even, but his eyes flicked briefly back toward you. “I fear she will need that.”

“Brother, congratulations on your marriage.” The voice that followed was softer, almost hesitant. Aerys stood there, slight and watchful, his presence quieter than most in a hall. Beside him stood a man impossible to ignore.

Brynden Rivers smiled thinly, pale hair stark against dark clothing, one eye fixed with unsettling intensity.

“Thank you, brother....Brynden, I am glad you could join.” Baelor's head inclined ever so slightly.

“Yes, congratulations, my prince. I hope your future is bright and free of burden.” His voice was smooth, almost pleasant, yet something beneath it twisted the words into something less comforting. “You have certainly picked a most becoming bride. I am certain she will be capable of leading the kingdom through whatever is to come.”

Both Baelor and Lyonel’s gazes sharpened at that.

There was something in the way Brynden’s eye lingered, not on Baelor, but past him. Toward you. Watching. Measuring. Knowing far too much, or at least giving the impression that he did.

The moment stretched, taut and uncomfortable beneath the weight of unspoken things. “Come, Prince Aerys, I promised to show you my book collection.”

Brynden turned smoothly, guiding his brother away before any reply could truly take shape. Baelor’s gaze lingered on him as he disappeared into the shifting mass of guests, swallowed by the crowd. Only when he could no longer see him did Baelor’s attention return to you, your head tipped back in a laugh as Egg and Aemon tugged at your skirts.

“It is time for the bedding ceremony!”

The words cut cleanly through the music, sharp enough to still the nearest conversations.

Lord Bolton rose as he spoke, pale eyes fixed upon you with a cold intensity that made your skin prickle. There was no warmth in his gaze, no celebration, only something watchful and intrusive, as though he already claimed a right to witness what should never belong to him. Around him, a few voices stirred in agreement, murmurs rising like a slow, unsettling tide.

Before the sound could swell, movement answered it. Lyonel was on his feet first, the scrape of his chair loud against the stone as he straightened to his full height, flagon still in hand. There was nothing hurried in the motion, nothing overtly aggressive, yet the shift in his stance was unmistakable, his broad frame angling ever so slightly between you and the growing attention.

Maekar rose next, slower, deliberate, his expression hardening into something carved from iron. He did not speak, did not need to. One step placed him closer to you, positioning himself just enough that anyone approaching would meet him first.

Valarr followed. placing himself at Baelor’s other side, a quiet reinforcement that needed no announcement.

Further down, Dunk pushed from his post , towering above most in the hall, his sheer presence enough to draw attention, stepping closer until he stood just behind you, a silent wall of loyalty and strength. Beside him, Ser Duskendale and Ser Crakehall , stepped forward there shining armor shining the falling sun. 

“There will be no bedding ceremony.” Baelor’s voice did not rise, yet it carried across the hall with absolute clarity as he stood finally from his own seat.

A ripple of disappointment moved through parts of the crowd, most noticeably among the younger women who had leaned forward in anticipation of tearing the tailored doublet from his body and the chance gaze past a certain appendage and feel the weight of something that might have been their own if it not been for you.

Lord Bolton's gaze remained fixed, unblinking. “It is tradition,” he said coolly.

“And proof,” Lord Tarly added, his voice firm, carrying easily. “There must be evidence of the union. Witnesses ”

Baelor’s expression sharpened, the last trace of warmth gone from it entirely. “This is a celebration,” he said, each word precise, controlled. “Not a spectacle.”

Silence stretched, tight as drawn wire. “My wife is a princess,” he continued, the word deliberate, weighted. “The realms future queen. Not something to be pawed at for the amusement of the court.”

A murmur rippled outward, some approving, others less so.

Lord Tarly did not yield. “Then how are we to be assured, Your Highness?”

For a moment, it seemed the hall itself held its breath. At your side, the weight of so many eyes pressed in, suffocating. You felt it then, the shift from celebration to scrutiny, from joy to expectation. Your fingers tightened faintly in your skirts, your composure wavering just enough for those closest to notice. The thought of them grabbing at you, watching as you…sicken you but if it was expected…

You stepped forward only for Maekar to step nearer, a subtle motion guided you back a pace. Dunk shifted with him, placing himself just enough behind and beside you that the line of sight from the hall broke, shielding you from the worst of the attention without drawing notice to it.

A sharp bark of laughter cut through the silence as he stepped forward, slinging an arm loosely around the nearest lord and thrusting a brimming cup into his hand.

“Gods, must we turn a wedding feast into a council debate?” he called out, voice loud, irreverent, deliberately careless. “Drink, man. If you require proof of anything tonight, I suggest you find it in your own bed rather than another’s. I am sure there will be dragons aplenty roaming around before long, not that we don't have enough already! ”

A few chuckles answered him. Then more.

Lyonel did not stop. He pressed another drink into waiting hands, clapped a man on the shoulder hard enough to jolt him “Play!” he shouted toward the musicians. “Unless you plan to stand there all night like statues. Play for fucksake”

The first notes returned hesitantly, then stronger as the rhythm caught. Conversation resumed in uneven waves, the tension loosening under the weight of wine and distraction.

You blinked from behind the mass of the new kingguard as the hall fell into a joyful roar, skirts swinging in the air as the jig resumed. 

‘’Come wife.’’

Xxxxx

Baelor stood alone upon the balcony, the cool night air brushing against his skin as he looked out over the Red Keep and the city beyond. Torches burned in long winding lines through the streets, their glow flickering like rivers of fire in the dark. The distant hum of celebration still carried faintly upward, laughter and music softened by distance, the city alive in honour of the day.

His hands rested against the stone balustrade, fingers curling slightly as he leaned forward, though his thoughts were far from the view. The waiting stretched long, taut, filled with a restless anticipation he could neither quiet nor ignore. This was the safest place for him. He  cloistered himself here in fear the moment you pulled the last pin from you hair he would pounce on you. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”Your voice drew him from his thoughts instantly.

He turned

You stood framed in low firelight still dressed in your wedding gown, though outer layers had been shed. The heavy ornate tiara was gone, the veil long since removed, hair unpinned and loose around your face. The layers of formal adornment undone until it was simply you in the dress. The fabric clung where the long day had warmed your skin, the neckline looser, the sleeves slightly slipped, revealing the slicker of unkiss skin.

You looked no less magnificent for it. More so even.

Baelor exhaled slowly, his gaze darkening as it moved over you, “The Maiden herself would bow in reverence at your beauty,” he said, his voice lower now, threaded with something deeper than awe. “She will never be as beautiful as you, wife.”

The word settled heavily between you. You flushed at once, the warmth rising to your cheeks as you instinctively turned slightly away, one hand brushing at the fabric of your dress as though to steady yourself beneath the weight of his gaze, your hair cascading down your face, shielding him from his piecing stare.

He noticed. Of course he did. In a few unhurried steps, he crossed the distance between you.

“Why do you hide?” he murmured, his hands finding you with ease, gentle but certain as they drew you back toward him. His fingers brushed along your arms, settling at your waist, grounding you there.

You hesitated, then admitted softly, “I like it… when you call me wife.”

“Wife,” he repeated, slower now, the word deepened, deliberate. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips, warm and unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world now that you were his. When he drew back, it was only to say it again, softer, closer.

“Wife.” His lips traced along your jaw, then lower, pausing at your neck, each touch lingering just long enough to make your breath catch.

“Wife.” The word became a quiet rhythm between you, spoken against your skin, woven into every brush of his lips, every steadying hold of his hands at your waist as he drew you closer still.

A soft sound slipped from you before you could stop it, your fingers curling lightly into his shoulders. “Husband…”

That was all it took. Baelor’s restraint shattered. His hands moved more surely now, one sliding along the curve of your back, the other brushing the fabric at your side, fingers catching lightly in the folds of your gown as though already testing how it might come undone.

Baelor’s hands tightened at your waist, his breath unsteady now, no longer the composed prince before a court but a man pushed to the edge of restraint. His gaze dropped once more to your dress, to the way it clung and shifted with every breath you took, and something dark and wanting flickered openly across his face.

“I have stood before half the realm,” he murmured, voice low, roughened, “endured their eyes, their words, their traditions… all while knowing you would be waiting for me. My wife.” His thumb brushed along your side, slow, deliberate. “Do you know what that does to a man?”

You tilted your head slightly, a spark of mischief breaking through the warmth in your cheeks, your fingers still resting lightly against him. “It seems to make him terribly impatient… and rather poor at hiding it.”

A breath of laughter left him, low and disbelieving, his grip tightening just slightly. “My bold, intelligent wife,” he said, the words laced with something deeply pleased, almost reverent beneath the heat of them. “Already testing me.”

You met his gaze without flinching. “I would think a prince should welcome a challenge.”

That was all the invitation he needed. Baelor’s arms slid fully around you, lifting you effortlessly from the ground. You gave a soft gasp, your hands finding his shoulders as he gathered you close against his chest.

“My wife,” he repeated more quietly, as though committing it to memory.

He turned without hesitation, striding from the balcony toward the bed with long, purposeful steps, the world narrowing to the space between you. Firelight flickered across stone  shadows stretching and shifting as he nestled you against the plush cotton of the sheet, staring down at you splayed delicately against the white bedding. Bedding that would be stained with a claim that you were his.

As he moved above you, settling at your side, your hand lifted, reaching carefully toward him. Your fingers found the crown still resting in his hair, easing it free with surprising gentleness. The weight of it settled briefly in your hands before you set it aside without ceremony, casting onto the floor leaving him unburdened at last. Then your touch returned to him, softer now. Your fingers threaded lightly through his hair before settling at the back of his head, tracing the faint, familiar lines of the seven-pointed scar there. Your touch lingered, careful, knowing.

He drew back only a fraction, his lips still grazing yours, his voice low and dangerous in the space between. “My wife…Nuha Dāria.’’ His thumb brushed slowly along your jaw, his gaze dropping to your eyes as he eyes darkened impossible so as he claimed your mouth.

Sooooooooo they are married and the grand series of request may begin.

Thank you so much for your support! You have no idea how much it has meant to me! Hope this was worth the wait

Favorite moment? Lyonel of course!

Baelor did not panic. He had stood on battlefields slick with blood and lived. He had bargained beneath the shadow of rebellion, feeling the weight of men’s ambitions like a blade at his throat. He had heard whispers of blood magic and faced them without flinching. He had taken a wife he scarcely knew and, through patience and duty, shaped that union into something steady, something almost warm, all while navigating the quiet dangers of courtly life.

Yet none of it compared to this. Nothing had ever set his pulse racing as it did now, as he forced himself to pull away from you.

Every instinct in him cried out in protest. He wanted, with a desperation that bordered on madness, to fall to his knees before you. To beg. To cast aside pride, rank, reason, everything that had been drilled into him since boyhood, and plead until you relented. He could already see it, the two of you before the High Septon, vows spoken in the hush before dawn, the world remade with a single binding promise.

But he did not yield to that impulse. He felt the way you softened beneath his lips, the warmth of your body answering his own, and that alone was enough to drive him back. Desire surged through him, sharp and insistent, urging him to draw you closer, to let his hands wander, to lower you gently onto the cool grass beneath a sky scattered with stars that seemed to watch in silent approval.

For the sake of honour, he would not. He could not. Not with the weight of his name. Not with the storm that loomed, unseen but ever present. The stag that waited within the castle walls, restless and ready to charge at the slightest provocation.

Lyonel Baratheon was nowhere to be found when Baelor had gone to seek him. The Laughing Storm was not a man easily summoned, and sending guards would only invite spectacle. Lyonel would turn it into something loud and public, something impossible to contain.

Baelor needed time. Time to think, to plan, to act without the world crashing in around him. But time had already slipped through his fingers.

Your parents’ company had been sighted along the kingsroad, their arrival no longer a distant concern but an approaching certainty. Maekar’s harsh and abrasive nature had a way of setting events into motion that others were left to resolve. And Lyonel’s presence here was surely tied to that same tangle of consequences.

A low groan escaped him as he pressed a hand briefly to his temple. The beginnings of a headache throbbed behind his eyes, dull but persistent. Even so, the lingering sensation on his lips, the memory of you, softened the pain, made it almost bearable.

Wine would help. A cup of Gold Arbor, perhaps two, something to occupy his hands and quiet the restless ache within him. Better that than remembering the curve of your waist beneath his palms, the way you had fit against him as though you had always belonged there.

He exhaled slowly as he retreated into his chambers. The fire was already lit, casting a steady glow across the room, and for a moment he thought himself alone. Then he saw the figure seated in his usual armchair, gaze fixed deeply upon the flames.

“Father.”

Baelor paused, taking in the sight of his son. Valarr’s face was half lit by the firelight, the rest lost in shadow, making him appear older than his years.

“Valarr,” Baelor said, his voice steadying as he crossed the room. “What do I owe for such a late visit?”

He moved to the table between them, pouring two glasses from the waiting pitcher before settling into the chair opposite. The familiar motions grounded him, even as unease lingered beneath the surface.

“I have been unable to settle,” Valarr replied after a moment. “Kiera would not retire until I did, so I came here instead.”

A faint smile touched Baelor’s lips, softened by genuine affection. “You are always welcome, my son.”

He eased back into the plush cushions, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly.

Valarr did not immediately drink. His gaze remained on the fire, thoughtful, distant.

“I have been thinking,” he said at last, his voice quieter now. “About mother.”

Baelor’s brow lifted, curiosity stirring. “I take it you have asked her to marry you, then? Am I to call her mother now?” Valarr’s eyes shifted, catching the firelight fully. They burned like molten metal, bright and intense, revealing more than his calm expression ever would.

“I have asked… but I await her reply.”

Baelor watched the flicker of uncertainty pass across Valarr’s face, the way his brow drew together as though burdened by thoughts he could neither order nor cast aside. The young man shifted in his chair, restless, as if the very act of waiting was a strain he had not been prepared to endure.

“Why…” The question lingered, unfinished, heavy with disbelief.

“I am giving her time,” Baelor said gently, his voice measured, deliberate. “Time to consider. Time to choose freely.”

Valarr’s expression tightened, confusion plain upon his features. “But she will accept… won’t she?” There was a note of urgency now, something almost pleading beneath the surface. “She would be queen one day. She saved you. Surely she must…”

Baelor exhaled softly, leaning back as he turned the cup between his fingers. “Perhaps,” he said after a moment. “Or perhaps not. She possesses a mind of her own, and a formidable one at that. I would not care to imagine what thoughts she might entertain if she felt cornered or compelled.” A faint smile touched his lips, though it carried more respect than amusement.

Valarr leaned forward abruptly, his restraint cracking. “If Grandfather spoke, her father would have no choice but to listen.”

“I would rather not force her into a life she does not wish for,” Baelor replied, the firmness beneath his calm tone unmistakable.

“That does not anger you?” Valarr pressed, incredulous. “Does it not frustrate you?”

“It does,” Baelor admitted without hesitation.

The honesty seemed only to fuel the younger man’s agitation. “Then why not go to her now?” Valarr demanded. “Tell her. Make her understand. That… that Baratheon has been in her chambers all evening, saying gods knows what.” His voice sharpened, frustration bleeding through. “He has been storming through the castle as though he owns it.”

“I am very aware, Valarr,” Baelor said, lifting his cup and taking a slow sip, letting the sweetness of the wine temper his thoughts. He lowered it again, his gaze settling steadily upon his son. “But I find myself wondering… why this concerns you so deeply. You were not long ago quite clear in your dislike of her. What was it you called her?” A faint arch of his brow. “A witch, was it not?”

Colour rose swiftly to Valarr’s cheeks. “I did not…” He faltered, then sighed, the fight leaving him in a rush. “I mean… I did. But I do not think so now. Not truly.” He glanced away, gathering his thoughts. “My wife believes she is… something else entirely. A gift. Sent by the Mother herself.”

Baelor regarded him with quiet interest. “And what do you believe?”

Valarr hesitated, the firelight dancing in his eyes as doubt and wonder warred within him. “I think…” he began slowly, “I think it is possible. She saved you. Uncle tolerates her, which is no small thing. Matarys all but worships her. Even Maester Yormwell seems taken with her mind.” He swallowed. “She is… extraordinary. The kind of person one might believe the gods had a hand in shaping.” His voice softened further. “And you love her.”

“I do,” Baelor said simply.

Valarr’s frown returned, though it lacked its earlier sharpness. “Not as you loved my mother.”

Baelor’s gaze grew distant for a moment, touched by memory. “Do not mistake me, Valarr. I loved your mother. We built a life together, one forged from duty, from responsibility, from shared purpose. We gave the world two remarkable children.” His voice was gentle. “But what existed between us was a partnership.”

He paused, searching for the right words, then let them come plainly.

“With her… it is something else.”

“It is different,” Valarr said quietly, understanding dawned. “You… revere her. I have seen it.”

Baelor did not deny it.“And that troubles you?” he asked.

Valarr nodded, though slower now, more uncertain. “It did. It does” he admitted. “But…” He faltered, drawing in a breath that trembled despite his effort to steady it. “She saved you. I cannot ignore that. I was wrong about her, and I can admit that.” His voice dropped, the words becoming more fragile. “I only… I do not want to lose you. Not as I lost Mother.”

The admission seemed to take something from him, leaving him exposed in its wake.

“When I saw you that day…” Valarr continued, his voice breaking despite himself, “with her gone, and you so… lost… I thought I would lose you as well. Forever.”

The first glimmer of tears in his son’s eyes was enough. Baelor moved without hesitation, setting his cup aside as he rose and crossed the space between them. He drew Valarr into a firm embrace, one arm wrapping securely around his shoulders. The young man clung to him, the composure he had fought to maintain giving way at last.

“I will not leave you,” Baelor said quietly, his voice steady and certain, meant to be believed. “Never. You are my son. I am here, and I will remain so. Always.”

He held him there, offering what comfort he could, allowing the moment to stretch without interruption. The crackle of the fire filled the silence, and somewhere beyond the chamber walls, the bells tolled softly in the distance. Baelor did not release him until their echo had faded entirely.

xxxxxx

You did not sleep that night.

Ser Crakehall walked beside you in silence as he escorted you back to your chambers, his usual steady presence replaced by something far more rigid, almost uneasy. He did not speak, nor did he meet your gaze even once, as though whatever had passed in the gardens had placed an unspoken distance between you. When he left you at your door, it was with a stiff nod, and then he was gone.

After that, no one disturbed you. Your mind churned endlessly, dragging you through every moment that had led you here. The past day unraveled, then the past weeks, then further still, until your thoughts circled back to the tourney. That single, fateful day that had set everything into motion, though you had not known it at the time.

Kissed by Baelor Targaryen. A prince. The heir to the Iron Throne.

The man who had not only taken your breath beneath the starlit sky, he intended to marry you. The thought alone felt unreal, too vast to settle properly in your mind. It repeated itself over and over, as though saying it enough times might make it solid, might make it something you could truly grasp.

You let yourself fall back onto the bed, still dressed, the fabric of your gown whispering softly against the sheets. Your eyes closed, though rest did not follow.

You had never imagined leaving your home, not truly. Kings Landing had been a distant place in stories, not somewhere you would ever see with your own eyes. Marriage had always been a matter of quiet discussion, of alliances considered and dismissed. You knew offers had come and gone, but your father and mother had always been resolute. Your place was with your family. Where you belonged.

You turned every possibility over in your mind, examining each angle, each consequence, until exhaustion finally dragged you into a shallow, restless sleep.

Xxxxx

It was far earlier than you were ever usually roused.

The castle should have still been wrapped in sleep, quiet corridors and dim hearths, but instead it breathed with restless energy. Servants hurried past in clusters, arms laden with linens and polished silver. Banners were being unfurled and fastened along the stone walls, their colours bright even in the soft morning light. From somewhere deeper within the keep came the unmistakable rush of the kitchens in full motion, the clatter of pots and the shouted coordination of cooks preparing for something far larger than an ordinary day.

It reminded you, unmistakably, of home. Of the way your family’s keep would stir when guests of importance arrived, every corner brought to life with purpose and expectation. The way your mother demanded the spiced wine to be simmered through the night which is made in particular and sugary and one glass was enough to send the bannermen cheeks a light pink and well on the way to tipsy. Or how your father declared all welcome to his feasts, for intellectual debates, which turned into squiffy half unintelligible rambles when the moon hung fully in the sky. Even your brother dancing with way too many ladies and wearing far too much cologne.

You missed them.

Mysa leaned in close as you walked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The prince has ordered all the rooms in the west wing to be aired and cleared. We are expecting visitors.”

Carlys all but lit up beside you, her arm looping eagerly through yours as she half skipped to keep pace. “He must wish to make them feel most welcome,” she said brightly, her curiosity barely contained. “I wonder who it could be…”

You kept your gaze forward, though their excitement did not quite reach you.

Instead, a quiet unease began to take hold, curling slowly in your chest. You were happy, in truth. There was no denying that. But beneath it, something heavier lingered.

Your parents.

The thought of them pressed sharply against your mind. They would already be displeased with your absence, but this… this would be something else entirely. Far worse than the time you had slipped away under the guise of collecting books from the Old City, only for the truth to unravel later. Worse still, you had not only lied…

You had saved a prince and now that same prince intended to marry you.

The weight of it all settled deeper, your thoughts tangling as you walked. You were so lost within them that you barely noticed where you were being led, until a sudden gasp broke the haze.

Your gaze lifted.

Before you stretched a table laid as though for a feast day. It was abundant to the point of excess, platters upon platters arranged with deliberate care. Fresh breads still warm from the ovens, bowls of porridge steaming gently, cured meats and crisped bacon, delicate whole charred fish, fruits glistening with freshness, jugs of milk and neatly arranged teapots sending thin curls of steam into the air.

And seated at the center of it all, looking entirely too pleased with himself.  Prince Daeron, sober.

“Our Lady Saviour,” he greeted warmly, gesturing grandly toward the spread before him. “Do join me. You are even earlier than I expected. Even my sour-faced father remains abed, which means more time in my delightful company.”

He leaned back slightly, clearly satisfied. “We have porridge, breads, fish, bacon, fruits, cold meats, teas, milk… no wine, I am afraid. I am attempting to rid myself of such vices.”

“Prince Daeron…” you began carefully, uncertainty threading your voice.

“Is he well?” you asked instead, the more pressing concern slipping free before you could temper it.

Your ladies exchanged a quick, uneasy glance.

“I will fetch Maester Yormwell…or perhaps his father,” Mysa said quickly, her tone shifting with quiet urgency. “My lady, come with us…”

“My lady…stay! Join my breakfast... lovely ladies please do gather my father and Master Yormwell, we have much to discuss… but go let me break my fast with our saviour” Daeron’s voice cut through, softer now, yet no less insistent.

You turned back to him, studying him more closely as hurried feet departed behind you There was something… off. Not madness, not quite, but something unsteady beneath the surface, something that made the air feel subtly wrong. “You look well.”

“I am well,” he continued before you could respond. “Because I have hope, my lady.” His smile lingered, though his eyes carried something deeper. “Hope that you will save me.”

You frowned faintly. “Save you? You hardly appear in need of saving.”

“I have seen it,” he said, his voice lowering as his gaze seemed to drift beyond you, unfocused. “In my dreams. I have seen you.”

A chill traced lightly along your spine.

“I have dreamed of you since that day at Ashford. That dragon was meant to fall,” he murmured. “But you changed it. You made him rise instead, made him soar.” His lips curved faintly. “And you… you will become the mother of what is to come.” He paused, blinking slowly, as though returning to himself. “But there is time for such things,” he added lightly, as if brushing the weight of his own words aside. “First…”

“Are you a dreamer?” you asked, your head tilting slightly, your curiosity sharpening despite yourself. Your eyes roving greedily over his features, dragon blood was strong with that. Your mind drifted back to the tragedy of poor Haelana the dreamer, and you frowned.

He huffed a soft, almost self-deprecating breath. “Such an extraordinary gift bestowed upon such an entirely mediocre man,” he said with a crooked smile. “A cruel jest, perhaps.”

Then, as easily as if he had not spoken of visions at all, he gestured toward the table. “But I have every faith in you curing me,” he added, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. “Provided you intend to remain.”

He reached for a platter and lifted a strip of bacon between his fingers. “Bacon?”

Xxxxx

Your family’s arrival did not come with grandeur. The gates opened without ceremony, the great wooden beams creaking as though even they felt the weight of what passed beneath them. No horns sounded, no voices rose to announce noble guests. Instead, the courtyard filled slowly with the dull, uneven rhythm of tired hooves striking stone.

The horses were the first sign of it. Their heads hung low, reins slack in the hands of men too exhausted to keep a proper hold. Foam had dried along their flanks in uneven streaks, their coats darkened with sweat and road dust. One limped as it crossed the threshold, its gait uneven, each step placed with reluctant care.

The guards fared little better. They remained mounted, but only just. Shoulders slumped, armour dulled beneath a film of dirt, cloaks hanging heavy and unkempt. One man swayed slightly in his saddle before correcting himself, jaw tightening as though sheer will alone kept him upright.

Behind them, the wheelhouse rolled in last. Its once-polished sides were now dulled by travel, wheels coated in layers of mud and dust. It creaked as it moved, each turn sounding laboured, as though it had carried more than its fair share of burden across the miles.

When it finally came to a stop, there was no pause. No moment to gather oneself, no breath taken, the door flew open.

Your mother emerged in haste, all urgency and disarray. She nearly stumbled as her feet met the ground, catching herself only just before she fell. Her hair, usually so carefully kept, had been hastily bound, strands escaping in every direction, tangled by wind and neglect. The ribbon that held it was frayed, barely doing its duty. Her gown bore the marks of the road, creased, dusted at the hem, pulled slightly out of shape from long hours spent confined within the carriage.

But none of that mattered. Her eyes moved quickly, desperately, scanning the courtyard as though she might find you simply standing there waiting.

Lyonel Baratheon saw her first.

Something in his expression shifted, softened. The ever-present storm within him quieted, replaced by m something gentle as he watched the frantic search in her gaze.

Your father followed, though his descent from the saddle was slower, more deliberate. When his boots struck the ground, he lingered for a heartbeat, shoulders rising and falling as he steadied himself. The journey had carved its mark into him, lines deeper at the corners of his mouth, the weight of worry etched plainly across his face.

But the moment passed. Purpose took hold. In three long strides, Lyonel closed the distance between them, grasping your father firmly by the arms. The gesture was solid, grounding, the kind shared between men who had weathered much together.

“Lyonel, thank the gods you are here…” your father’s voice was rough, worn from strain and lack of rest. His grip tightened. “Have you seen her?”

“Do not trouble yourself, my friend,” Lyonel answered, his voice carrying across the courtyard with ease, deep and assured. “She is safe. No harm has come to her.” His hold remained steady, reassuring. “She has been treated as though she were royalty.”

Your mother stilled at those words, but only for a moment. Relief did not come easily, not without seeing you with her own eyes.

Lyonel’s grip tightened briefly on his friend's arms. “I have secured you an audience with the king. We must be steady and strong.”

Above them, the doors of the keep opened.

Baelor descended. Each step was measured, controlled, his expression composed in the way only years of training and expectation could shape. Yet his eyes betrayed him, flickering across the scene below with quiet intensity.

He saw exhaustion, the desperation, the undeniable truth of what this journey had cost them. They looked smaller, somehow. Not in stature, but in the way hardship stripped away the careful layers of nobility, leaving only what lay beneath and it unsettled him. Then his gaze found your brother.

Then his gaze found your brother and irritation sparked. The memory was immediate. That boy,no, that young man had stood between you before, had interfered, had spoken out of turn when Baelor had neither the time nor the patience for it. The recollection alone was enough to tighten something in his chest.

Your brother met his gaze and faltered. Whatever resolve he might have carried seemed to drain in an instant. His shoulders stiffened, but not with defiance. His eyes dropped briefly before lifting again, uncertain this time, lacking the sharp edge they had once held. There was something almost sheepish in the way he stood now, as though aware painfully of the difference between them.

Baelor held his gaze a moment longer, his annoyance not hidden entirely, before letting it pass. The boy was no threat, he could not snatch you away from him, not again but he would make sure both Ser Duskendale and Crackenhall remained at your side till the matter was resolved. 

“My lord. My lady,” he said smoothly, inclining his head. “I welcome you to the capital.”

“Where is my daughter?”

Your mother’s voice cut through the air without hesitation, sharp and unyielding.

Baelor did not take offense, he understood it, if anyone dared to rip you from his grip he would tear the kingdom apart till he held you in his arms agan.

“My Kingsguard will escort you to the stronghold,” he replied evenly. “You will find her there.”

At once, the white cloaks stepped forward.

Your mother did not wait. She moved immediately, urgency overtaking exhaustion as she followed, gathering her skirts in her hands. Your brother hurried after her, close at her side, though his earlier stiffness had not fully left him.

Baelor’s gaze lingered on them.

Your mother was fierce and unyielding, She would not need force when she had love, expectation, and years of influence to wield in her stead. And your brother, uncertain though he had seemed, would stand at her side, adding his own voice, perhaps quieter but no less persistent, urging you to return, to leave this place, to leave him, convincing you it was for your safety, your happiness, your rightful place in the world. Baelor’s jaw tightened as the thought settled heavily within him, that between them they could surround you with everything familiar, everything safe, until what he offered felt distant, reckless, even foolish by comparison. And if they asked you to go… if they persuaded you, not with force but with love and duty intertwined so tightly they became impossible to refuse… 

Baelor exhaled slowly. Then turned away.

Lyonel had already begun leading your father toward the keep, toward the throne room where his father waited and the greatest matters waited. Baelor followed, a grave, sombre feeling settled in his bones. Whatever came next would demand more than composure, it would demand resolve

xxxxx

The throne room felt vast in its stillness. It was a cavern of stone and shadow, the high vaulted ceiling disappearing into darkness where banners hung like silent witnesses, their long, heavy folds unmoving in the stale air. Torches burned steadily along the walls, their light flickering across ancient carvings and polished floors, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to stretch and breathe with every shift of flame. The great hall, so often filled with courtiers, petitioners, and the low murmur of politics, now stood almost entirely empty.

Almost.

At its heart, raised upon a series of worn, imposing steps, sat King Daeron on the Iron throne

He did not lounge, nor did he sit in ease. His gaze moved between the men before him, not hurried, not distracted, but keenly observant, as if measuring each word before it was even spoken. There was a strange contrast to him, a man who seemed at once entirely present and yet touched by something distant, something only he could see.

At the base of the throne, flanking either side, stood his sons.

Maekar stood his presence hard, unyielding. His arms were folded across his chest, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with barely concealed irritation. There was no patience in him, no tolerance for what he clearly viewed as a waste of time. Valarr, by contrast, stood with careful composure. His hands rested loosely before him, his posture straight but not tense. His expression was controlled, measured, though his eyes flicked occasionally between the speakers, thoughtful, watchful, as though trying to soften what might otherwise turn sharp.

And slightly apart from them. Baelor. He stood tall, shoulders squared, his face a mask of calm control. Only those who knew him well might have noticed the tension held tightly beneath it, the way his focus never quite settled, shifting instead between the king, your father, and Lyonel.

“I demand a trial by combat.” Lyonel Baratheon’s voice broke the stillness like thunder, loud and unapologetic, filling the chamber and echoing faintly against the stone.

Maekar’s head snapped slightly toward him, his expression darkening at once.

“Fuck you are,” he growled, the words low but heavy with threat, his patience clearly already spent.

“What my uncle means,” Valarr interjected smoothly before the tension could rise further, his tone calm, diplomatic, “is that you have had a long journey. Perhaps you should let his Lord and company rest before making such demands.”

‘’You loyalty to your friend is admirable but it is not your place to demand a trial by combat  and as far as I am aware no crime has been committed. Now my Lord speak.’’ the king's violet eyes bared down on the man. 

Lyonel did not look appeased.

“My king,” your father stepped forward, his exhaustion evident but held firmly beneath a layer of resolve. His voice carried, not loudly, but with weight. “My daughter was taken from her home by a royal convoy.” His hands tightened slightly at his sides. “I ask only that I be allowed to take her home.”

King Daeron’s gaze settled fully upon him now, sharper, more focused. “Your daughter,” he said slowly, “is the saviour of my son. The crown prince. The future of this realm.” His fingers stilled against the armrest. “Which means you ignored the ravens that summoned her to King’s Landing.” There was no anger in his tone. “Had you answered,” he continued, “arrangements could have been made. Your entire family might have come in comfort, with honour.” His gaze flicked briefly toward Baelor. “Instead, my son was forced to retrieve our heroine himself.”

“I was not aware of my daughter’s involvement at Ashford,” your father replied, his voice tightening. “It was a truth my son revealed only after our home had already been entered and my daughter taken.” Your fathers eyes shifted, narrowing slightly as they settled upon Baelor.

Baelor stepped forward, the movement was deliberate, drawing attention without force, his presence steady as he spoke. “I requested your daughter’s presence,” he said clearly. “I wished to see the one to whom I owed my life.” His gaze did not waver. “And upon meeting her, I have no doubt that she is the one to whom I wish to pledge mine.” A pause. Then, with quiet certainty.  “It is my intention to make her my wife.”

Your father blinked, the words seeming to strike him harder than any accusation. “My daughter…” he began, but the thought faltered, caught somewhere between disbelief and instinct. “She is not suited to… such a task she is...” he tried again, struggling to find footing.

“Intelligent,” Valarr offered gently.

“Beguiling,” came King Daeron’s voice, almost amused.

“Humble, annoying too,” Maekar added, as though building a case piece by piece.

Your father looked between them, overwhelmed by the sudden shift, the way the room itself seemed to turn in your favour without his consent.

“You can see it, can you not?” King Daeron continued, leaning forward slightly now, interest sharpening his features. “Your daughter has captivated House Targaryen.” A faint smile touched his lips. “I can think of no woman better suited to sit beside my son. To be a queen. To be a mother to this realm.”

“…my daughter has not been raised for such a role,” your father said, though the certainty in his voice had begun to fray.

“From what I have seen,” Daeron replied, “she embodies everything a queen ought to be.” His gaze flicked briefly toward Baelor, something knowing passing through it. “And we are sorely lacking in minds that think as she does. I am surround by fools”

The room stilled once more. Your father stood caught between words, between what he knew and what was being offered, between fear and something far more uncertain. At last, Daeron leaned back, the decision settling into place with quiet finality.

“It something to ponder on,” he said, almost lightly, as though the matter were not as immense as it was, “we shall not press further tonight.” His hand lifted in a small, dismissive gesture. “You have travelled far. Rest.”

His gaze shifted briefly toward Baelor. “I believe my son has had the west wing prepared for his future in-laws.”

xxxxx

The door did not open so much as it burst inward, striking the stone behind it with a force that echoed through the chamber and sent a sharp crack through the air. The quiet sanctuary you had built within these walls shattered in an instant, replaced by urgency, by movement, by the unmistakable presence of family.

Your mother entered first.

She moved quickly, almost too quickly for someone who had only just endured such a journey, her skirts gathered in one hand as she crossed the threshold with little regard for decorum. Your brother followed close behind her, his steps less certain, his posture caught somewhere between duty and hesitation. Behind them came the Kingsguard, their white cloaks falling in controlled lines, silent and watchful. Two you had only ever seen at a distance in Baelor’s shadow, their expressions unreadable beneath the discipline of their order. And then, more familiar, more grounding, Ser Duskendale and Ser Crakehall, both steady, both alert, their presence filling the doorway as they entered last.

But none of that mattered the moment her eyes found you.

Everything in your mother changed.

The sharpness fell away, the tension that had held her rigid loosening all at once. Her breath caught, a soft, broken sound escaping her as relief flooded her features so completely it made her look younger, softer, almost fragile in a way you had never seen before.

“My daughter…”

She reached you in only a few strides, her hands coming to your face, your shoulders, as though she needed to feel you, to assure herself you were real and whole and not some illusion conjured from fear and exhaustion.

“You are well… you are safe…” she murmured, her voice warm, trembling slightly with emotion she rarely allowed herself to show.

For a brief moment, she held you there, close, her forehead nearly brushing yours, her presence enveloping, familiar, grounding.

Relief hardened into something sharper, something structured and controlled. Her hands dropped to your arms, not unkindly, but firmly, as she drew back to properly look at you, her gaze sweeping over you with a critical eye.

“We will have to begin locking doors, I think,” she said, her tone tightening with familiar authority. “If not, who knows what trouble you will get yourself into next.” Her lips pressed together in disapproval. “My dresses will never recover from this ordeal. Do you have any idea what riding in a wheelhouse does to silk? Ruined. Entirely ruined.”

You blinked, the warmth of her earlier embrace already fading beneath the weight of her words.

“Foolish girl,” she continued, turning her sharp gaze briefly toward your brother. “And you, Aston. Letting her involve herself in such nonsense. She is a lady. A lady. And yet she is wandering about in mud at a tourney, of all places. Blood everywhere, filth, noise, men shouting like animals. It is entirely improper.”

“I never told you about Ashford because I knew how you would react,” you said, your voice quieter but steady enough to cut through hers.

She paused, only slightly.

“You would have scolded me. Told me off. You would not have listened.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I saved someone,” you continued, your voice softening but holding firm. “You should be proud. I saved someone. He would have died. He would have been carried from that field and…”

“Stop this silliness,” she said sharply, dismissing your words with a flick of her hand. “Enough of this nonsense. Your father will speak to the king. We will say it was your brother’s doing, that you merely recalling knowledge, and then we will leave. This will be corrected.”

“I am not silly,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

“What are you saying?” she demanded, already turning away from you, already moving as though the matter were decided. “Are these the servants? We must have your things gathered at once. There is no reason to linger here…”

“Mother,” you said, firmer now. “They are not servants.”

She turned back, irritation flashing across her features as her gaze landed on the three women gathered nearby.

They stood close together, instinctively drawn into one another’s space. Brieanne stood slightly forward, her composure intact though her hands were clasped tightly before her. Mysa and Carlys hovered just behind her, their expressions uncertain, their eyes wide as they took in your mother’s presence.

“We are her ladies in waiting, my lady,” Brieanne said, dipping into a respectful curtsy, her voice calm despite the tension. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Your mother stared at her. “Ladies in waiting,” she repeated, disbelief colouring every syllable. Her gaze swept the room then, taking in the towering shelves, the countless books, the quiet order you had built here. Her expression tightened further. “Who do you think she is? The queen? Silly girl”

Your brother said nothing, he only looked at you, there was no anger, no accusation, only a quiet, unsettled guilt. His shoulders seemed smaller somehow, his posture less certain, as though he stood caught between loyalty to your mother and something else he could not quite name.

“I am not silly,” you said again, louder this time.

“Daughter don’t be stupid…”

“Mother, perhaps we should wait for Father to return,” your brother offered, his voice careful, almost cautious, as though he feared pushing too far in either direction.

“I am not silly or stupid,” you said, the words steady now, grounded in something deeper.

“We will wait in the carriage,” your mother said briskly, brushing past it all, reclaiming control with sheer will. “Your father will be done shortly, and these…”She stopped.

Ser Duskendale and Ser Crakehall had moved. They now stood at the doorway, their presence filling it completely, leaving no clear path beyond them. Their posture was firm, unyielding, their expressions composed but resolute.

“My lady will not be going anywhere,” Ser Duskendale said, his voice even, respectful but immovable. “Not unless she wishes it.”

Your mother turned slowly to face them, her expression cooling into something far sharper. “My daughter will do as she is told,” she replied, each word precise. “And you have no authority over that.”

The room seemed to constrict, walls leaning in as the tension thickened. Neither Ser Duskendale nor Ser Crakehall flinched or moved an inch. Their armor gleamed faintly in the torchlight, polished to a severe perfection, but it was their presence that filled the space. Every line of their bodies spoke of restraint, of discipline, of readiness. “Our authority comes from the Crown,” Ser Crakehall said, his voice calm, unwavering, but carrying the weight of steel behind it. “We are sworn to serve and protect our lady. We follow her will.”

The words hung in the air, echoing faintly off the stone walls, heavier than any scolding or command. A hush settled over the chamber. Even the torches seemed to burn slower, as if holding their breath. You could hear only the faint shuffle of your own feet against the cold flagstones and the shallow, sharp intake of your mother’s breath. She turned her gaze from the knights to you, her eyes wide, disbelief flickering across her face, then hardening into anger, sharp as a blade. There was something new there, something dangerous, something that made the hair on your neck rise.

“Daughter! What is the meaning of this?” Her voice rang out, high-pitched, trembling with fury, reverberating against the vaulted ceiling. “Tell them to move! You are coming home!”

The words hit you, but beneath them stirred a more private fear. She did not see you as yourself; she saw only the girl she thought she had raised, the obedient daughter. But you were not that girl anymore. You were someone else, someone who had claimed her own choices, and that someone refused to bend now.

“Did you truly tell Lord Baratheon that you don’t want me to marry…because they could use me in ‘any purpose’ like a gullible idiot?” Her voice trembled as it rose again, a mixture of disbelief, horror, and a mother’s fierce need to protect.

You felt your chest tighten, your heartbeat quickening as heat rose to your face. Her words threatened to crush you under the weight of expectation, judgment, and fear. But then, clarity surged through you. You had spoken your truth, and it was your truth that mattered. Your voice shook slightly, but the edge was there, tempered with the strength you had been cultivating all these months.

“Well, you do seem to be acting this one now…now I will not answer any more of your questions,” she huffed, each word deliberate, controlled.

You realized that for the first time, your mother no longer had control here. You could see it in her eyes, in the slight hesitation in her stance, in the momentary falter of the fury she had carried for so long.

Relief surged unexpectedly through you, warm and dizzying, but it was tangled with the adrenaline of confrontation. You had found your voice. You had carved a space for yourself, even here, even against the force of family. A thrill mingled with fear, and it left your hands trembling faintly, though your stance remained firm.

“Get out, Mother,” you said, quieter now, measured, but no less firm. The words fell between you like iron. “Just… leave.”

Your brother drew in a sharp breath. His eyes widened, pupils dark, almost dilated, the color of guilt and panic dancing together. He shifted from foot to foot, the weight of indecision making his body taut, the color draining from his face as if he had been struck. He looked at you as though he had never truly seen you before, as though the girl he had known had been replaced by someone unrecognizable in her strength and resolve.

Your mother stared at you, her mouth opening slightly, then closing, her lips pressed together so tightly they were pale. The recognition of her own child, no longer pliant, no longer malleable, seemed to fight with her sense of authority and the expectation that you would always yield to her will. Her eyes widened in disbelief, and for a long moment she simply stood there, unmoving, unblinking.

“The lady has asked you to leave,” Ser Duskendale said, stepping slightly forward, the authority behind his voice now undeniable. His stance radiated a calm, absolute power, the kind that brooked no argument. “You may do so willingly… or I will see it done by force.”

Xxxxx

Your mother burst across the courtyard, skirts flying, hair loose in the wind, her hands trembling as she reached your father. Every step seemed hurried, uneven, as if fear and urgency pushed her forward faster than her own balance could manage. Her face was pale, eyes wide, brimming with worry, lips parted in shallow gasps. The moment she reached him, she clutched at his arms, pressing close, as though holding him might steady the world.

“She threw me out,” she murmured, her voice cracking, eyes darting to the white cloaks of the Kingsguard standing at the edges of the courtyard.

Baelor’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner. Relief mingled with amusement, there was a small, stubborn triumph in knowing you had not allowed your self to be swept away. 

Aston frowned, stepping closer, his brows knitting together with exasperation and disbelief. “Mother was a bit heavy-handed with her,” he said, voice measured but tinged with unease.

“She is such a headstrong girl,” your mother snapped, wringing her hands with worry, her fingers trembling with each twist of the fabric. “And that is entirely your fault, husband, letting her read and bustle about the keep as she pleases. It gives her ideas….dangerous, foolish ideas!”

“My dear… hush,” your father murmured, leaning down slightly to press a hand against her quivering shoulder, his voice gentle, soothing, but firm, attempting to anchor her frantic energy.

“She was always a difficult child,” she continued, stepping back slightly, voice rising with frustration. “Unruly and opinionated, always arguing, always bossy, always some idea or another. Stupid, terrible ideas!” Her hands fluttered nervously at her sides, twisting in frustration, her fear evident in every motion.

“If she were a man, you would be praising her,” your brother spat indulgently, his tone sharp, the corners of his mouth curled with a mixture of irritation and grudging admiration.

“Enough from you!” your mother howled, spinning toward him, eyes blazing. “This is your fault too, indulging her, just like our father! Letting her abscond to that god-forsaken place! She was never supposed to leave the keep…she is a girl! My babe” Her voice cracked as the words tore out of her, raw with worry, fear, and a mother’s desperate anger.

“Maybe the gods made her a woman,” your father said softly, shaking his head, “to give men a chance to challenge her. I should have trusted her.” His voice carried a mixture of regret and quiet pride, eyes following the path your mother’s energy had left in the courtyard.

Baelor’s eyes flicked toward the retreating form of your mother, still clinging to Aston as they moved toward the carriage. He pitied her, he saw a mother struggling. Struggling to protect a child she didn't understand, forcing her into a safe little world that would not contain you. The pity did not remain for long. A small measure of satisfaction and hope warmed his chest. Perhaps now, with her temporarily restrained, you could speak, act, breathe. Perhaps the seeds of your independence could take root.

Your father turned then toward the assembled nobles and knights, bowing slightly before the king. “My prince, please, allow me to visit my daughter,” he said, his voice low, respectful, tinged with hope.

Lyonel stepped closer to your mother, laying a hand on her shoulder in quiet reassurance, his presence a grounding force against her frantic energy.

“Of course,” Baelor said, frowning slightly, tension tightening his jaw, though inside, that cautious optimism still glimmered. “I would never stop you.”

For a brief moment, your mother exhaled, her trembling easing just enough to lean on Lyonel, her eyes softening with the relief of permission, even as worry still lingered, sharp and urgent, in every line of her face.

Xxxxx

“You handled your mother remarkably well,” Brieanne said, leaning in close, her voice a mix of admiration and awe. “I never thought anyone could stand up to a mother so firmly. And calmly, too!”

“Yes, my lady,” Mysa added, smiling as she adjusted the folds of your gown. “I feared she might drag you back screaming, but you… you simply stood your ground. It was incredible. I wish I could do the same to my own dear mother!”

Carlys, always more exuberant, clapped her hands together, eyes shining. “And now you are staying! Just think of all the books we can read together. All the sketches we can complete! All the Maester’s notes we can decipher!.....and all the dress we can look at” she blushed as the insidious look she received from the Lannister.

Your gaze drifted past them for a moment, toward the open doorway where your father stood, peering into your rooms. His eyes lingered on the shelves, the stacks of notebooks, the scattered sketches, and the neat rows of Maester Yormwell’s annotations. But when his eyes found you, tears slowly dripped down his face.

The knights accompanying him, Ser Duskendale and Ser Crakehall, hovered quietly, ever watchful. “You are not here to upset our Lady?” Duskendale asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice. Your father shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Without hesitation, you rose from your seat and rushed forward, arms wrapping around him, pressing your face against his chest. The comfort of his presence grounded you, made the tension of the last hours melt away.

“Papa, I missed you.” you murmured into his tunic, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek.

Xxxxx

Your father stayed long after the seventh bell had sounded, long after the castle had begun to quiet and the evening settled into something softer, more intimate. Your ladies had returned, the candles had been lit, and still he remained, seated beside you as though there were no other place he would rather be.

And you spoke.

You spoke as you always had, as though a dam had broken and every thought you had held back spilled forward all at once. You told him of the journey to King’s Landing, of the long roads and the shifting skies, of the strange mix of fear and wonder that had followed you every mile. You spoke of the sept, of its towering arches and quiet reverence, of the way the light filtered through coloured glass and made everything feel almost sacred.

You spoke of books. Each one, in detail. You named authors as though reciting a litany, your hands moving as you spoke, your thoughts darting from one idea to another with bright, restless energy. You lingered on passages, on verses that had caught your attention, on theories that had fascinated or frustrated you.

“In particular,” you said, leaning forward slightly, “I cannot agree with Maester Vareega’s assertion that quinine bark serves no purpose in the treatment of sickness. It is entirely dismissive of its potential properties, and I think…if prepared correctly…it could be…”

Your father nodded, listening, truly listening, his eyes warm with quiet amusement and something deeper. Pride, perhaps. He asked questions where they were needed, gentle prompts that kept you moving, but for the most part he let you wander, let you leap from one thought to another as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Prince Maekar has been most kind,” you continued, barely pausing for breath. “He allows me to lunch with little Prince Aemon, and I have been helping him with his studies. He is quite clever, though he does grow distracted….”

You shifted again, already moving on.

“Brieanne prefers histories, though she pretends otherwise. Mysa and Carlys drift endlessly between romance and poetry, though I did catch Mysa reading a tome on herbal remedies, which she continues to deny quite adamantly, though I am entirely certain...”

You laughed softly to yourself, then pressed on.

“Maester Yormwell says the salve preparation must be kept at a consistent temperature, though I think there may be some flexibility in that if the base ingredients are...”

You spoke until your throat grew dry, until your lips began to crack slightly with the effort, until even your breath came a little shorter between sentences. And still, he listened.

“I must admit,” your father said at last, his voice soft, almost awed, “I never thought I would see the day when you would miss something so obvious.”

You blinked, your thoughts stalling. “Father?”

His smile widened, eyes glistening faintly in the candlelight. “It would seem Prince Baelor’s intentions were clear from the very beginning,” he said, a low chuckle escaping him as he took in your expression.

“A prince does not gift books from his personal collection lightly. Nor does he allow such free reign with them. Nor does he send his own kin across half the realm to retrieve a ‘little bookworm’.” His tone was warm, teasing now, as he reached out to tickle lightly at your side.

“And he certainly does not entrust her with the care and teaching of a young prince.”

You let out a small, embarrassed laugh, pulling your skirts closer as warmth rushed to your cheeks. You shifted away slightly, settling at the opposite end of the lounge, though the space between you felt filled with something soft and understanding.

“Baelor asked me last night,” you admitted, pressing your cheek closer to your father’s chest.

“It would seem,” he said, sighing as he ruffled your hair, “that I have very little say in the matter.”

“But you wish me to decline?” you asked, eyes lifting to meet his.

“I wish you to make your own mind up,” he said, his tone softening, filled with pride. “I sometimes forget how clever you are. I still see you as that little toddler, eyes wide with wonder as I carried you through the castle, so gleeful, so fearless. And yet here you are, grown and capable, making your own choices.”

You smiled against him, the warmth of his words sinking deep into your chest. 

“I would not have parted you from any of this for less,” he added more quietly, his voice gentling. “Not unless it is what you truly want.”He rose then, stretching slightly, the weariness of the road finally catching up to him.

“Now, I must find my bed. Two weeks on the road with your mother has left me quite threadbare.” He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Goodnight, my little genius.”

“Goodnight, Father.”

The door closed softly behind your father, the sound barely more than a whisper, yet it seemed to echo through the room in a way that lingered. For a moment, you remained exactly where you were, as though movement might disturb something fragile that had settled in his absence. The warmth of his presence still clung faintly to the space, to the cushions where he had sat, to the air that had been filled with your voice only moments before.

You sat there, hands resting loosely in your lap, and for the first time that day, your thoughts were not rushing ahead of you. They did not leap from one subject to another, did not scatter into a dozen half-formed ideas. Instead, they gathered. Slowed. Turned inward.

You thought of leaving. Of returning home, to familiar halls and known routines and nothing but predictable. You could go back. You could fit yourself into that space again, into the quiet limitations that had once felt normal.

But now…you know what lies beyond it. You had seen the world stretch wider than your parents keep. You had argued with maesters, studied with princes, been entrusted with knowledge, with purpose. You had been seen. And more than that you thought of Baelor again, of the way his voice had softened, his question, his conversation. There was something there that you could not dismiss. Not just affection. Respect.

A slow breath left you, steadying. This would not be easy. Nothing about it would be. Your mother would resist. The court would whisper. There would be expectations you had never been prepared for, roles you would have to grow into without guidance.

But for the first time, that did not feel like a reason to refuse. The uncertainty did not vanish, but it no longer ruled you. Beneath it, something stronger had taken hold. A quiet, unshakable certainty that this path, however daunting, was one you were willing to walk.

You drew in a breath and stood, the movement slow but deliberate, as though sealing the decision within yourself.

“Ser Duskendale…” you called softly as you moved toward the door. “Might I seek an audience with the prince?”

The knight straightened at once, though there was a flicker of surprise in his expression as he took in the hour, the stillness of the corridor beyond.

“My lady,” he said carefully, “it is nearing the middle of the night.”

“I…” You faltered briefly, the weight of what you were doing brushing against you again. “I am sorry. I only…I wished to…”

He studied you then, more closely, something sharper entering his gaze, as though he were measuring not your words, but what lay beneath them. “My lady… do you have an answer for the prince?” he asked, and there was no mistaking the note of anticipation in his voice now.

Your breath caught, your heart quickening.“Does… everyone know?” you asked, your voice quieter than before.

A faint, almost sympathetic smile touched his lips. “Yes, my lady. Most of the castle. Plus a rather terrified septon, he now refuse to attain service if Prince Maeker is there. And at least half of King’s Landing, if they have seen the way the prince looks at you. Prince Baelor has been rather open in his intention”

Heat rose swiftly to your cheeks, and you lowered your gaze, the reality of it pressing in from all sides. For a moment, doubt flickered again. “I shall wait until morning,” you said quickly, retreating slightly from the edge of your own resolve. “I should think about it more.”

Ser Duskendale adjusted his stance, his weight moving as though he were considering something carefully, something beyond protocol.

“NO!’’ he winced, straightening himself,  his gaze returned to you, steadier now. ‘’I mean... its quite alright. Come with me,” 

Xxxxxx

“These passages were meant for discreet meetings,” Ser Duskendale said quietly as he guided you forward through long passages of darkness, his voice low though there was a tightness beneath it. “If you ever intend to seek the prince for....a private liason, my lady, you must allow myself or Crakenhall to escort you. The stronghold is safe… but not without ears or danger.”

Your cheeks burned instantly, heat rising so fiercely it felt as though it might give you away entirely. You nodded, unable to trust your voice, your hands clasping together as you followed him.

The passage was narrow, far narrower than the grand corridors you had grown used to. The stone walls pressed close on either side, the air cooler here, tinged faintly with dust and old mortar. Only a few torches lined the way, their light dim and flickering, casting long, uncertain shadows that danced with each step you took. It felt secretive, hidden, as though you were moving through a part of the castle not meant for open use.

And yet, as you walked, a realization slowly settled in, how close he had placed you. How easily these passages connected your rooms to his. The thought made your breath catch slightly, your heart beating just a little faster as you followed the knight through a final turn before he came to a stop before a door.

He knocked. Then, from within, warm and clear, though edged with mild distraction, came Baelor’s voice.

“Enter.”

The door opened.

Baelor was not dressed in courtly finery, nor clad in the careful composure of a prince before his people. Instead, he lounged in more relaxed attire, breeches and a loose jacket, the fabric slightly rumpled from where he had been reclining. A book rested in his hand, half-forgotten now as he turned toward the door.

At the sight of Ser Duskendale, he surged upright instantly.

All ease vanished. Concern replaced it in an instant, sharp and immediate. His brows drew together, his posture tightening, his gaze searching the knight’s face as though expecting ill news, something urgent, something wrong.

“What is it…is she…”

And then he saw you just behind the knight, half-shadowed by the doorway.

The tension left him in a breath. His expression softened so completely it was almost startling, the worry melting into something brighter, something warmer. A smile spread across his face, unguarded and genuine, and there was something unmistakable in the way his eyes lingered on you. Adoration.

“My lady wishes to speak urgently,” Ser Duskendale said, stepping aside, dunking quickly out of the room into the safely of the corridor.

Baelor moved at once, setting the book aside hastily, running a hand through his hair as though suddenly aware of himself. His movements were quick, almost boyish in their urgency as he tried to compose himself.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he began, his voice softer now, a touch breathless. “I was not expecting…”

“I accept.” The words left you before you could lose them.

He stilled. For a heartbeat, he simply stared at you, as though he had not heard correctly. ''What?” he asked, the word almost disbelieving, barely more than a breath.

“I accept your proposal,” you said, your voice quieter now, your hands twisting slightly in your skirts. “I wish to become your wife… very much so.”

There was something shy in the way you said it, something earnest and unpolished, and it seemed to undo him entirely. He crossed the space between you in an instant. His arms came around you without hesitation, lifting you from your feet as though you weighed nothing at all. You let out a small gasp as he spun you, laughter breaking free from him, bright and unrestrained, the sound filling the room in a way that made everything feel suddenly alive.

“You cannot mean it…you do…gods, you do,” he was saying, words tumbling over themselves, his voice rich with happiness he made no effort to hide. “You have no idea…no idea what you have just given me….”

He set you down but did not step away, his hands still resting at your waist, as though he feared you might vanish if he let go. Up close, you could see him properly.

His hair, longer than was strictly proper, curled softly around his ears and fell in loose strands where he had disturbed it. Without thinking, without planning it, you reached up, your fingers brushing tentatively through it.

He froze. Not from discomfort, he did not move, as though any sudden motion might break the moment.

“You hair…,” you said, your voice small, your cheeks warming again. “It suits you.”

His smile that followed was quieter, but deeper, filled with a kind of fondness that made your chest tighten. “I do have one request,” you whispered after a moment, his expression shifting slightly, something more serious threading through it as he looked down at you.

“Can you kiss me,” you murmured beneath your lashes, your voice soft, almost hesitant, “as you did in the garden?”

His lips found yours again with a quiet certainty, closing the small space between you as though it had never existed. This time there was no pause, no careful testing. His mouth settled fully over yours, warm and sure, the softness of it drawing a breath from you before you could stop it. His hands tightened instinctively at your waist, pulling you closer, not roughly, but with a kind of restrained urgency that betrayed just how long he had held himself back.

You felt his breath catch against your lips, felt the way he steadied himself even as he deepened the kiss, as though he were balancing between restraint and desire.

Your own lips parted slightly beneath his, uncertain at first, then responding, moving with his in a slow, unhurried rhythm that felt as though it belonged entirely to the two of you. There was nothing rushed in it, nothing careless. It was deliberate, lingering, each shift of his mouth against yours thoughtful, as though he were committing the feeling to memory.

A soft sound escaped you before you could stop it, barely more than a breath, but he felt it. You knew he did by the way his grip tightened just slightly, the way his thumb brushed faintly against your side as though grounding himself in the moment.

Warmth spread through you, steady and deep, not overwhelming but impossible to ignore, settling into your chest and blooming outward with every second he remained close.

When he finally drew back, it was only by a fraction.

Your lips still brushed his, your breaths mingling, uneven and shared. His forehead hovered close to yours, nearly resting there, and for a moment neither of you moved, as though breaking the contact entirely would undo something delicate.

His hand rose slowly, almost reverently, brushing along your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw with a softness that made your breath hitch again. His fingers lingered there, as though memorising you, as though afraid to lose the feel of you.

“I fear,” he murmured, his voice lower now, roughened at the edges, “that I must stop myself… before I forget every honourable intention I have ever held.”

You swallowed, your throat tight, your pulse racing in a way that left your thoughts scattered and distant.

He exhaled softly, a faint, breathless smile touching his lips as he leaned in again, not to claim your mouth this time, but to press gentle kisses along your cheek, your temple, the curve just beneath your ear. Each one was softer than the last, but no less filled with feeling, as though he could not quite help himself.

A quiet hum escaped him, something content, something deeply pleased, as he let his lips linger briefly at your neck, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver through you.

“And I will,” he said, though it was clear the promise cost him something. “I will show you how gallant a husband I can be.” His gaze lifted to yours again, softer now, though something playful flickered beneath it, restrained but present.

“But not,” he added quietly, leaning in once more, his lips brushing yours in a lighter, teasing kiss, “until I have thoroughly kissed you…” His mouth found yours again, slower this time, lingering, as though he meant to savour every second, every small sound, every breath shared between you before he allowed himself to step back at all.

Soooo.... What was everyones favorite scene? Mine might have to be the Valarr and Baelor scene... who am I kidding it was the kissing scene! Shout out for Ser Duskendale...wingman legand.

I am gutted to not get any Maeker in here but I have a mazing scene plan between him a Daeron...he is going to havee a breakdown poor man

Thank you for all the lovely messages I got to make sure I was alive and to encourage me on!!!!

What so we think the wedding will be like?

As always please let me know what you think.

Like. Comment. Request.