valarr holds rhae’s little hand in his as the two of you lead the girls back to their septa. she presides in the chamber where they share a bedroom, and though they do not wish to go back, they are easily distracted once you mention that they shall be able to play with their dolls without interruption.

valarr holds back a gentle laugh, but when he lifts up rhae into his arms, when she begins to complain that her feet are tired, you can see the sadness in his mismatched eyes. 

one of your hands is clasped with daella’s palm as she tells you of the many other baby names she prefers. your other hand rests firmly on the soft swell of your belly.

as daella argues the merits of having another daella in the family, you smile gently at valarr. he is so like baelor—the way he tries to hide his pain for his family, for you. he acts as though there is nothing more interesting than hearing of rhae’s dolls, tries to convince you all that there is nothing to worry about.

kiera’s pain is more well known. you have been beside her for one other time she had bled too early and the maesters had said their child was no more. you had comforted her, you had held her trembling hand and stayed with her in her solar as baelor took valarr for a walk, no doubt to comfort him in private.

the other time had been before you and baelor were married. you think you had heard of it—idle talk from your cousin, who loved nothing so much as gossip from the capital whenever it finally traveled to your former home. it might have been old news from moons ago, though you would not have known. 

she had spoken of prince valarr’s tyroshi wife and how she cannot give him an heir. prattled on about how foreign wombs are not meant to grow westerosi kings, until you had finally snapped the book you were reading shut and left the room suddenly. 

you should have challenged her—it was not as if she knew enough of the histories to argue with you. but you were never the sort to fight back. you had often chosen peace in your uncle’s household if it was spared to you. 

even now, the memory incites a strange feeling in your chest. it would be cruel to name it vindication, but that is how it feels. your cousin is still unmarried, still waiting on stories from the capital to entertain her days. 

and you—well, you are a wife to a prince now. you live in the grandest castle your eyes have ever seen. you want for nothing, but it goes beyond material possessions. you have that which you have always desired.

you have your own family now.

nieces and nephews and even your husband’s children to comfort and advise when and where you can. you have maekar, who despite everything else, has tried to do his best for your well-being, whenever he was given the chance. 

and you have baelor back, you think as joy floods through your body. you have the child made from the love the two of you possess for each other, strong and growing every day. and you know how easily it can all be taken away—which only makes you cherish the feeling further.

you hold it near your heart, looking down at rhae and daella. soon, sooner than you know, your own daughter will be walking alongside them.

naerys will cry until valarr lifts her into his arms. she will fight with her cousins over the last piece of lemon cake. she will look at her father with those lovely, dissimilar eyes and he will have no choice but to grant her every wish.

that is all you want.

another thought washes over you calmly as you approach rhae and daella’s chambers. they hug your skirts before running towards their septa, and you glance at valarr before the two of you continue.

i will return to the sept today, you think, biting your cheek as you walk alongside your husband’s son in silence.

i will pray for kiera and valarr to have the child they so desire, a child that naerys will tease and call niece or nephew some day. i will speak to baelor about finding a match for my cousin, when the time is right. 

if you are allowed to possess such joy and sheer happiness—they should all be as well.

you and valarr stop in front of the doors to his shared chambers with kiera. as he goes to open them, you start speaking before you can lose the words.

“it does not feel like it now,” you start, blinking quickly at him as he focuses his eyes on you. an identical portrait of his father’s. “in time this will change. you and kiera will be blessed and this will all be a forgotten memory.” 

“thank you, princess,” valarr says politely. you know that your words carry little weight in the face of his grief. you hope that he believes you, since you have just finished living through your own nightmare.

“you do not have to call me that,” you say quietly.

valarr shakes his head. but before he can answer, the doors to the chamber open from the inside. one of kiera’s lady’s maids steps outside, curtsying before you and valarr.

“is she well?” valarr asks, his attention focused on the girl. in a moment, his countenance has changed, from a grieving man to a dedicated husband. you smile at the thought.

“lady kiera has fallen asleep,” the girl responds. 

“i shall return later, when she has awoken, if she should like to see me,” you say, watching as valarr nods. 

“yes, of course. i will send word,” he says, bidding you goodbye as he enters his chambers.

you think for a moment that baelor might still be in the hall, your feet turning to carry you in the opposite direction. a thought comes to you quickly—how grandmaester malleon has been checking on the progress of baelor’s headaches around mid-day, attempting to understand how they change as the day wanes. 

so you turn back, headed towards the chamber you and baelor share.

perhaps you might be able to ask the grandmaester when he will have time to see you. it is silly, but even news of kiera’s loss makes you feel nervous, a uncomfortable, anxious feeling coursing through your body. 

naerys is strong, you know, but you feel as though your mind and body have been through their own silent war. just the reassurance—that he was not worried about you or the babe—will quell your fears for now.

that is what you are thinking of when you hear it, no more than a few footsteps away from the doors of baelor’s chambers. 

and it feels as though the walls of the keep begin to crumble around you, crashing down silently. 

“told me what?” you say, though it is useless.

you can hear nothing else but the sound of your own blood rushing to your ears, your heart beating louder and faster than it ever has before. it feels as though it wishes to escape from your chest by ripping through your skin and bone.

from across the room, you are certain they can hear the sound too.

you do not need baelor to answer your question, though your mouth falls open with another unspoken sentence hanging in the air. 

you already know of what he speaks. what maekar is asking him—the lie they speak of. what else could it be?

and in your pained, thudding heart, you hope and pray for a moment. that you are merely confused. that you have misunderstood their words and befuddled your own mind. that your husband, your baelor would never lie to you about something so grave, something so important to you. 

you blink, focusing your gaze on him from your position by the door, unable to take even a step in either direction. your mind is unable to decide which torture is seemingly sweeter—staying or leaving.

and for the first time in your recollection, you see what your husband looks like when he is guilty. 

you swallow hard, fresh hot tears welling up in your eyes. they burn against your skin, the anguish swallowing your chest whole until you feel as though you might never recover from this pain. 

this pain, that you thought you were finally free from. instead, it has returned with a vengeance.

a lie. it was all a lie—someone else’s memories and his imagined wishes for the two of you and his feigned happiness. the way he looked so at peace beside you this morning. 

and you, in your daftness and eagerness to believe that your life could return so easily to what it once was, had trusted him instantly. 

your hands come to your belly again, wrapping around the slight protrusion as though you might be able to protect the child inside from the despair coursing through you. your fingertips dig into the blue silk of your dress for a moment, before you release it, fingers trembling.

perhaps it is, after all, your fault. 

you were so desperate, so impatient to have your husband back. you had believed him without even asking a single question or to recount even one shared memory. you should have, at the very least, spoken to him about it. about what he remembered and when it had returned and how he was making sense of it.

instead, like the stupid, silly girl you are, you had gone silent and teary-eyed, your mind turning away from sense completely, to instead focus on your happiness in that moment. 

it had felt as though that was the only moment of your life that had ever mattered. 

and then, even more foolishly, you had fallen back into bed with a man who considers you more of a stranger than a wife. 

when your eyes shut, the teardrops finally escape. they roll down your cheeks as your husband and his brother’s eyes fixate on you.

a most familiar feeling, you think. you have never been a stranger to tears. you had mourned a mother and a father, and a lifetime of affection for as long as you could remember. grief used to find you every evening when you were in your bedchamber alone, making your pillow wet with tears and wondering why the gods had left you so alone in this world.

the only time those tears had abandoned you, replacing themselves with tears of joy, was when you had come to the red keep on the eve of your wedding. 

even then, everything had been so frightening. your aunt had kept reminding you not to speak out of turn, not to do anything that might make the crown prince change his mind about you. you had stared at her blankly, you recall, wondering how exactly to tell her you had already spoken out of turn to him. 

in the gardens, the night of the feast. 

you had talked until someone noticed he was missing. and more than that—you had made him laugh, after your shyness was cast aside. 

that night, that magical night, you had forgotten yourself and your place in your uncle’s family. 

instead, you had spoken of your garden and the modest flowers in earnest. you had stared at the way baelor’s differing eyes looked even brighter and kinder in the moonlight—so unlike what you thought the eyes of a prince might look like.

not purple, to start. he had laughed at that too, you remember. 

you had spent so many nights lying awake, wondering why he had chosen you. you had not gotten your answer until you had been wed, that perfect evening that followed your wedding feast, when you had realized that before you stood a man who wanted you.

who wanted your sincerity and your reserve, wanted you to speak until you were content with silence, wanted your affection and wanted to return it back to you in tenfold. 

you had trusted in that. you had trusted in him. 

you’ve felt sorrow before, but this agony is something new entirely, as you come to understand the man who stands before you today is not the same man you think of.

you look at baelor glassy-eyed, your vision blurry and your head feeling scrambled. you should try and discern his comportment, but you cannot even see him clearly. no one has spoken, no one has attempted to answer your question, because they too know the answer clearly.

perhaps you should say something else, but nothing comes to mind anymore. your body feels numb and tired, as though you had once again fallen asleep in that uncomfortable chair by baelor’s bedside.

maekar stares between the two of you, still silent. you had almost forgotten he was there. 

you blink faster, wondering what role he had in this. 

he had lied to baelor before—though it had been to protect him. the torment of his words had felt unbearable at the time, though you had come to forgive him quickly in the days since. it had all been done for the better, for the purpose of allowing your husband to come back to you without any interference.  

perhaps you had not forgiven him at all. rather you had pushed the emotions aside, focusing on your delight instead. 

gods above. does anyone remain who has not lied to me in some way or another? 

you step away from the thought, feeling as though the gods have continued in their mockery of you. giving you peace for a moment only to snatch it away, restoring your faith only to make you suffer further.

another thought strikes you—and perhaps this is what it feels like to be struck by the cold steel of a blade. 

you are not the only one suffering. 

baelor has always been kind in your eyes. too kind, even when you have not been deserving. 

you think back to that day in ashford castle, when ser duncan had kneeled before your husband as you had watched from your seat, watching with wide eyes as your husband listened to his tired plea.

he had called baelor the soul of chivalry. and you had smiled earnestly at the hedge knight, knowing that his words rang true. 

in these last few moons of marriage, you had come to learn that it was indeed more than just his kindness. he was always gentle with those who deserved it, but sometimes his benevolence was a shield, of sorts. he was genial to protect feelings, even at the expense of his own. 

that must be the true explanation. 

a singular moment of clarity basks over you—of course, he had been so gentle with you. of course, he had pretended to regain his memories. certainly that was an easier fate than to deal with your sobbing and sulking and hysterics, just as you’d heard the young maester muttering to himself about as he passed you in the corridor. 

you had smiled at him, but he had not smiled back. 

the pieces seemed to be coming together in your mind. you have been so consumed by your own suffering, you have forgotten to think of baelor’s. 

you—a stranger, parading around his family’s home, trying to convince him of your past affection for one another while he is trying to heal from his almost deadly injuries. trying to convince him that you are his wife, when his thoughts are likely still focused on jena—his true wife. in the span of a few days he had regained jena and lost her again.

and instead of consolement, instead of allowing him to grieve properly, you had thrust yourself back into his life, even as maekar told you not to. his lie was inevitable, you suppose, given all he has been through.

perhaps he just wanted a moment of reprieve from you. telling you that he remembered would make you stop, wouldn’t it? give him a moment’s peace again. a sliver of time to process and heal from his great loss, that of the love of his life, without you interrupting at every turn. 

unsurprisingly, maekar is the first to speak.

“i shall take my leave. the two of you should…” he trails off, walking towards you, towards the door. you take a step away from him, closer to the wall, as if that might protect you from what has just been revealed to you.

you suspect that maekar turned back to glance at his brother, trying to perhaps convey something with his eyes. but your own are filled with water again and so you cannot determine it for certain. you only know he has departed when you hear the door thud shut.

you swallow again, your throat dry and your face wet. you move your hands from your belly, from naerys, to wipe your cheeks quickly. 

now you know—baelor has seen enough of your outbursts. he does not need to be burdened with yet another.

“sweet girl,” baelor breathes, the words quiet and heavy in the air. 

you feel the little resolve you have left, the newfound determination to stop crying, beginning to wither away. memories of the prior night return hazily, your body tensing involuntarily, thinking of how he had called you that, with lust and desire heavy in his voice.

how could it all have been a lie?

“do not-” you begin, though the sentence begins to die as a sob wracks its way up your throat. you shut your mouth, not wanting it to escape.

“let me explain myself-”

“there is nothing to explain,” you say quickly. you imagine this is what receiving a dagger to your throat would feel like.

my heart, too. 

“allow me a chance to try,” baelor insists, walking slowly towards you. you take yet another step away from him, but your back hits the wall of his chambers. 

as he gets closer, you put up your hands in defeat, a sad motion. they hang there for a moment, before you turn them into fists, the dull edge of your nails digging into your palm as deeply as you can as you tremble before him.

you take another breath, trying to calm yourself. this cannot be good for the babe, you remind yourself.

another fear consumes you, if only for a moment. 

how little you might have left to live for if you lose naerys, too. if it came to that, they might decide you are not worth the trouble altogether. it all seems so reasonable, so clear to you now—even if you had doubted baelor’s true intention before, you do not anymore. he would never try to prolong the suffering of a woman, let alone one carrying his child. 

everything he had done was to stop you, it seems, from falling prey to the histrionics you were known to him for. a small lie was a reasonable price to pay, you imagine. 

your eyes are wet again. 

“do not try,” you say quietly, your words thick and warbly with the truth of your sadness. “i-i shall leave now.”

“do not leave,” baelor says, taking another step towards you.

you are close to him now, so close that you can imagine how the velvet of his doublet might feel against your hands, how the coarse hairs of his beard would feel against your face once more.

baelor is the blood of the dragon too, you remind yourself, unsure of where the thought came from. 

he always runs hot, his warmth enough to enshroud you, melting the thoughts of your mind for a few heartbeats. when you blink away the unshed dew dormant in your eyes, you can see him, as plainly as though it was the first time all over again.

his expression, as though he is filled with concern for you. as though you have, perhaps as you wished, misunderstood him. 

you know you have not.

“if you wish for me to stay, your grace, then i shall.”  the words make you shudder involuntarily, averting your eyes to stare at the black and blue of his clothes. we are matching, you think stupidly.

baelor sighs, a sound you mislike greatly. further proof of his fatigue and exhaustion—or perhaps how tired he is of entertaining you. 

“do not call me that,” he says. you can feel the strength of his gaze boring through you, even as you do not meet his eyes. “let me explain myself. i have acted foolishly-”

“no,” you interrupt him. you close your eyes, as if that might make it easier to say. “i… y-you must think me such a fool.”

the words are barely a whisper. 

you feel baelor’s hand on your chin, tilting your head up, no doubt to look at him. you peel your eyes open, another rivulet streaming down before you can stop it. 

just as you had always known—your tears are among your closest friends, the way they have been your constant companion all these years. a companion for life, it seems. 

“you are no such thing,” baelor says. “i… i should not have lied to you. i only-”

“i know,” you interrupt again. “i know what you were doing. you do not have to explain. i-i beg you not to.”

hearing him say it might tip you over that edge where you walk. 

returned to that fine line, that in-between state where you perpetually reside. on one side is the fool, on the other is the hopeful girl you have always been. just as you begin to cross, the current drags you back. 

no longer are you debating whether you shall be a wife or a widow. 

you are simply a stranger now, another duty for the crown prince to manage. another obligation he is too polite to turn down, an imposition on the only person you have ever loved. the only person you have ever believed has loved you back.

“i cannot let you go on thinking that i lied for naught,” baelor says, and you feel as though the wall your body leans against may give out at any moment from the weight of your hurt.

those words that he wishes to say to you, they will change everything. they will take it all away—all the hope you had garnered, all the prayers you have begged for. 

if only he would stop talking, you might live in your memories for a moment longer. 

that fateful night in the garden comes to mind first, as it always has. would you still dare to venture out there alone? knowing what you know now? enduring what you have? 

you decide that you do not know the answer.

“i already know,” you say, attempting to give baelor a small smile through the sting of your tears. his expression looks pained, though you know what lies underneath.

your sweet husband. too courteous for his own good. the notion of making a lady—because that is all you are now, a lady, just as you were before—cry is enough to send him deep into his own thoughts. he does not enjoy the suffering of others.

and even now, he has done so much to protect you from yourself. even though he does not know you or remember you. he still tried to ease your mind with his lie. he still tried to spare naerys so that she may continue to grow instead of bleeding out from you while you neglected to eat and sleep. 

you do not walk between anything, now. you are a fool through and through.

that little girl who went to sleep and woke daily wishing for the slightest hint of affection from those around her, only to be disappointed every day. who grew up praying for a husband that might have a family where she would be loved and included. to make sure her children never felt alone in the world, that their parents would love them. 

at least, you think, the thought entirely bittersweet, naerys will not be alone. i know baelor will love her, even if he cannot love me. 

“give me but a moment,” baelor breathes, his hand warm on your jaw. he cups the side of your face, but you shirk away from his touch, staring instead at the firm line of his shoulder underneath his doublet. “i only need to gather my thoughts, that i might… make you understand-”

he steps away from you, and your shoulders sag in relief. he watches that too, with a distressed expression, though you still do not look at him.

you do not need to pain yourself more by gazing upon his handsome face, another reminder of that which you cannot have. his eyes, that used to watch over you with such tenderness. his mouth, that you would kiss senseless. his beard, the way it felt against the sensitive skin of your—

“do not pain yourself,” you cut in, worry and fear clamping down around your mind suddenly. it feels achy and unsettling, making your heart speed up again. “it is not worth hurting yourself over. o-or giving yourself a headache.”

you can only think of once or twice before all of this that baelor had been afflicted with headaches. usually it was late at night, after he spent all day squinting at parchment and scribbling until his hands were spoiled with ink. he would rub his temples and wince, and you would try to encourage him to come to bed with you.

it had felt so very tender, so sweet, when he would listen. you would feel uplifted with a special, unique sort of ardor, almost infatuated. you would think to yourself of how there has been no one to guide him away from his work when the hour was too late, no one to warm his bed beside him in many years. 

you would be glad that you were there now, that you might be the one to do so. the thought was sweet as honey, sticking to your mind and your heart and not fading away. it feels as though it was only yesterday.

“my head has been in pain ever since that maester summoned me-”

“you should rest,” you supply, blinking your tears away. this time, they do not fall. a small victory, one you will cherish for now. “you will feel much better if you do.”

it goes unsaid—your words as spoken as a wife might.

“please,” baelor says. your name must feel foreign on his tongue. “i only wanted to ease your mind. you have been so worried, i thought perhaps… if you thought i was making progress-”

“of course, your grace. i understand completely.” your words are spoken, perhaps for the first time ever to baelor, without any feeling behind them. “i… wish to return to my chambers. am i permitted?”

baelor sighs again, almost painfully, his hands coming to the side of his head, rubbing gently. your fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and help ease his tension yourself. he had once told you that you could make any headache of his disappear entirely. 

now you are merely the cause of them.

“i know what you are thinking. it is not that-”

“please,” you say, the word almost a whimper. “if you want to ease my mind, let me leave. i want to be alone.”

you don’t. it is entirely a lie, you think, the thought almost driving you to laughter. now you are the one dabbling in false truths.

you want your husband. you want his arms around you, to bury yourself in his chest as you had this morning. you want his comfort—because you know it is the only thing that will make you feel better. comfort from the one who has caused, at least in part, this pain. 

you shall settle for that daybed by the window for now. you thought you were ready to abandon it, but it is yet another jest from above. your prayer to the father comes to mind. 

you cannot be so upset, because it could always be worse. he has protected naerys, protected baelor. 

perhaps what you truly needed was someone to pray for you. 

baelor takes a step back, blinking at you as you detach yourself from the wall. his eyes are as lovely as always, that startling blue of the sky when it rains and the brown that reminds you of the soil of your garden.

“you may leave, if you desire. i’ll not keep you here against your will. and i mean to come find you, when you are ready to see me,” baelor says.

polite, like always. if you stay very still for a moment, you can almost pretend nothing has happened. 

but you are not still. your hand has not stopped trembling since you entered his chambers.