Baelor's kindness and protection break through the reader's walls. At a family dinner he’s defending her dignity against the King. Conflicted by her growing warmth for Baelor, the reader writes a secret letter to her sister, Dyanna, terrified that letting him in means betraying her love for Daeron.
The mid day sun beat down on the leather roof of the carriage, trapping a heavy, stifling heat inside.
They had been traveling for days, and the silence between them had stretched into something thick. Across from her, Prince Baelor sat with a thick, leather bound tome propped open on his knee, his multi colored eyes scanning the pages with disciplined focus. He hadn't pushed her to speak since their first day on the Kingsroad.
She kept her face turned toward the window, watching the rolling hills slowly flatten into the dusty crownlands. Her mind was far away, drifting back to the wedding she had spent years quietly planning in her heart. She had always wanted it to be simple. She imagined herself wearing a gown of light, flowing Dornish silk, with no heavy crowns or stiff velvet, and wild summer flowers woven carelessly into her hair. She had wanted to look beautiful for Daeron. She had wanted to see the exact moment his tired, purple eyes lit up when he saw her walking toward the heart tree.
"You have a very expressive face, my lady," Baelor’s deep voice suddenly broke the quiet, startling her. He closed his book, resting his large, calloused hands over the cover. "One moment you look as though you are a thousand miles away, and the next, your eyes light up."
She shifted slightly, her posture stiffening. "I was only thinking of the home I left behind."
"Summerhall is a beautiful seat," Baelor agreed softly, his expression open and entirely devoid of the cold authority he carried in court. She just smiled politely her head still elsewhere. He looked out the window for a quiet moment before speaking again, his voice dropping to a softer, more vulnerable register.
"I know what it is to be forced to build a life on the ashes of another. I still carry the memory of my late wife, Jena Dondarrion. When she passed, I felt as though the sun had permanently set on the realm. I never expected to hold affection for another, nor did I wish to."
She turned her head, looking at him fully now, surprised by the raw honesty of his words.
"I tell you this because I do not expect you to forget whatever—or whoever you left behind at Summerhall,"
Baelor said, meeting her gaze with a steady, compassionate intensity.
"Perhaps this is not the future you envisioned for yourself. But I will try to make it as close to a happy one as possible. You have my word on it. So what is your favorite thing about summerhall perhaps I could get you something of resemblance.”
A small, fragile crack formed in the wall she had built around her heart. She swallowed the lump in her throat, letting her guard down by a fraction of an inch.
"The gardens," she murmured, her voice barely louder than the turning of the carriage wheels. "And the children. I spent almost every afternoon playing with Aegon and Rhae. The palace always felt... alive."
Baelor smiled, a small, genuine curve of his lips.
"The Red Keep has gardens of its own, though mayhaps a bit more manicured than Maekar’s wild woods. And as for children, the castle is never truly quiet. My own boys, Valarr and Matarys, are always causing some manner of trouble in the training courtyards."
Hearing him speak of his sons who were nearly her own age brought the cold reality of her situation rushing back. She offered him a tight, polite nod and turned her gaze back to the window, but the air in the carriage felt marginally lighter than it had before.
A week later, the journey came to its agonizing end.
Before she even saw the towering red walls of the city, she smelled it. The wind shifted, and a rancid, suffocating stench flooded through the carriage window. It was the infamous scent of King's Landing, a vile, thick soup of human waste, rotting fish from the docks, and the putrid mud of the Blackwater. It smelled of absolute sewage and decay, so potent that it made her throat constrict.
Suddenly, a massive roar erupted from outside. The carriage was passing through the lower streets, and a mob of peasants pressed against the sides of the vehicle. They were screaming, cheering, desperate to catch a glimpse of the Crown Prince's new bride.
Panic seized her. The claustrophobia of the carriage, the terrifying noise, and the putrid stench threatened to drown her. She shrank back against the cushions, her breathing turning shallow and rapid.
Without a word, Baelor shifted across the carriage. His massive frame immediately shielded her from the window. He wrapped a strong, protective arm around her shoulders, pulling her firmly against his chest. The scent of leather, and the cologne he wore was heavenly to her nose, she clung to him instantly cutting through the horrific stench of the city.
"Take a breath," Baelor murmured near her ear, his hand rubbing comforting circles into her arm. "I have you. You are perfectly safe."
Instinctively, she clutched at his cloak, burying her face in his shoulder until the carriage finally rattled through the heavy gates of the Red Keep and the noise of the streets faded into the background. She pulled away from him rather quickly.
When the carriage came to a halt, Baelor stepped out first. He turned and offered his hand, his grip steady and firm as he helped her down onto the stone.
Waiting on the steps to greet them was King Daeron and his Dornish queen, Myriah Martell.
Queen Myriah stepped forward immediately, her dark, elegant eyes shining with warmth. Before the formal protocols could even be uttered, the Queen wrapped her in a firm, motherly embrace. The scent of sandalwood and sweet cloves clung to Myriah’s silk robes a sudden, beautiful wave of familiarity. Feeling a desperate longing for home, she hugged the Queen back, melting into the embrace.
When she pulled away, she had to face the King. Daeron stood with a polite, welcoming smile on his face, but as she curtsied, her eyes remained cold. She offered him a stiff, horridly tense greeting, her voice dripping with a barely masked venom. She hated- no, loathed him for breaking her original marriage.
Sensibly ignoring her hostility, the King merely nodded, and a flock of silent maids stepped forward to lead her away to her new chambers.
The rooms were grand, draped in heavy Targaryen silks, but to her, they felt like a mausoleum. The moment the heavy oak doors shut, she collapsed straight onto the barely made mattress, burying her face in the pillows, and surrendered to a deep, dark sleep that lasted an entire day.
"M’lady? M’lady, please wake."
A soft patting on her back pulled her from her dreamless slumber. She opened her eyes to find one of her handmaidens standing over her, looking anxious.
"The King has requested your presence at an intimate family dinner tonight, my lady," the maid whispered. "The King, the Queen, Prince Baelor, and his eldest son, Prince Valarr, are already gathering."
Her stomach instantly turned into a cold, violent knot.
The handmaidens hurried to bathe her and dress her, weaving intricate braids into her hair and lacing her into a gown of deep violet silk. Every step toward the royal dining hall felt like a march to the gallows.
When she entered the private dining chamber, the family was already seated. She took her seat directly across from Baelor. Almost immediately, she felt the weight of his gaze. Baelor was staring at her with an intense, unreadable look his eyes fixed on her face, completely unblinking. It wasn't threatening, but the intense admiration in his eyes made her feel utterly exposed and deeply uncomfortable.
"That color suits you beautifully, my dear, well why wouldn’t it, you are a Dyane." Queen Myriah said warmly, breaking the tension.
"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied, forcing a soft, grateful smile. For the first half of the meal, she clung to the Queen like a lifeline, finding comfort in their shared Dornish heritage.
To her right sat Prince Valarr. He was handsome, possessing the striking similar features of his father, and he was almost exactly her age. When he spoke to her, his voice was smooth and perfectly polite, though she could see the faint flicker of unease in his eyes. She went along with his polite facade, understanding fully how incredibly awkward it must be for the young prince to watch his father prepare to marry a girl his own age.
Then, the King spoke, his voice carrying the careless weight of a ruler.
"Indeed, she looks radiant. A healthy, young bride is exactly what this branch of the family needs. I expect we shall see a nursery full of strong Targaryen’s in the coming years."
The words felt like a bucket of ice water poured down her spine. She froze, her fork hovering in the air, the blood rushing in her ears as the suffocating reality of her biological duty was laid bare before the entire table.
"Father," Baelor’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding.
The table went dead silent. Baelor set his goblet down with a heavy, deliberate thud, his dark eyes fixed firmly on the King.
"My lady has only just arrived after a grueling journey. She is a guest in our home, not a broodmare to be discussed over roasted fowl. I ask that you treat her with the respect she deserves."
King Daeron blinked, momentarily taken aback, before offering a quiet, apologetic nod. "Of course. Forgive me."
She stared at her plate, her heart hammering wildly, but a profound wave of gratitude washed over her. Baelor had stood up to the King, his own father just to protect her dignity.
When the dinner finally concluded, Baelor stood, offering his arm to escort her back to her chambers.
The walk through the quiet, torch-lit corridors of the Red Keep was different this time. The silence felt safer, more comfortable.
"I must apologize for my father's thoughtlessness," Baelor said quietly as they reached her door. "He sees the realm in chess pieces. I do not."
"Thank you," she whispered, looking up at him. "For standing up for me."
Baelor stepped a fraction closer, his eyes soft.
"I meant what I said in the carriage. I will protect you. I am truly looking forward to the day we officially wed in the Great Sept."
Looking up at him, she felt a sudden, unexpected lightness touch her chest. He was honorable, kind, and fiercely protective. For a fleeting second, she realized that her life with him might not be the miserable prison she had feared.
"Goodnight, Prince Baelor," she said softly, offering him a genuine, albeit small, smile.
"Goodnight, my lady," he replied, bowing low before turning to walk down the corridor.
Inside her room, her handmaidens quietly helped her out of her heavy velvet gown and slipped her into a soft, white silk nightgown. Once they were dismissed, the quiet of the room settled over her.
She still felt that strange, confusing lightness in her chest but beneath it, the ache of Daeron’s memory still lingered, a stubborn shadow that refused to leave.
Needing an outlet for the storm in her head, she sat down at the small writing desk in the corner. She pulled a piece of fresh parchment toward her, dipped her quill in dark ink, and began to write.
They say you are in a better place, but tonight, I wish you were here in this shithole with me. I am in the capital. The city smells of rot, and the castle feels like a beautifully gilded cage. I met Baelor. He is not the monster I wanted him to be. He is kind, Dyanna. He protected me tonight, and for a moment, my chest didn't feel so heavy. But it frightens me. I am terrified that if I let his kindness in, I will forget the boy under the weirwood tree. I am terrified of losing the only love I ever chose for myself. Please hold a place for me in the quiet, wherever you are...
She watched the ink dry on the parchment, her eyes burning with tears, before folding the letter tightly and hiding it deep within the drawer of the desk, a secret confession to a sister who could never tell.
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