#dornish reader

The first time it happened, you had not tried to have anything happen. You had not tried to draw the attention of Prince Baelor, in fact you hadn’t wanted to draw anyone’s attention. You had wanted to keep your head down and serve your queen as best you could, bringing the flavour of Dorne back to her. All you had wanted in that moment was a book from the library, just something to read, something to keep you busy, occupied while the queen did not need you. 

All you had wanted was a book—you didn’t expect what would happen, but it wasn’t entirely unwanted. 

***

            The stacks rise from floor to ceiling, stained wood shelves lined with spines of leather, old and new, the scent of dust and papyrus and ink a balm to your soul as you walk deeper into the stone corridors, one hand trailing over the shelves, the other fisted in the skirt of your light purple dress—pastels insisted upon by Queen Myriah. She said she wanted you in colour, bright amidst the darkness of the life she lives and you were not one to argue. 

            You pause at the back of the room, light from the windows shining, reflecting on the swirling dust motes, the drift patterns lazy, swirling and beautiful, reminding of the way the sun shines on the windswept sands on the markets of your home. You can’t help the smile that threatens to grow as you remember Dorne, home. As you remember the life you left behind in Starfall, the life that was warm and bright and kind—nothing like the darkness that surrounds you now. Nothing like the black and deep red, the greys and shadows. 

            The silence heavy and suffocating. You miss the laughter and cheering and the joy, but at the same time, you love being here. You love being with Queen Myriah, someone who knows your world, where you’re from, the beauty but also the strain. Someone who understands the need for solitude, the need to get away. 

            To make your own life. 

            You shake your head, stopping before a shelf, pulling a book down, the cover a tanned and dyed blue leather, gold script spelling out a history of waterways, of the myths of water, something sacred and alive and everything. You look at the cover and smile, remembering the stories whispered of the sky, of the river that flows through the stars, the rivers of time, the story accompanied by twirling and dancing and laughing. That’s why you look around, moving the book to the crook of your arm, skirt lifting with one hand as you twirl, only once you believe yourself to be alone. 

            Dance was the thing you and your sisters valued, the thing that excited you. The act of dancing was everything because in it you did not have to be anyone but you. There were no masks, no games of pretend, no titles. You could flirt and tease and it was in the name of the dance, only the dance. 

            “May I cut in?” calls a deep voice, one that sends a shiver down your spine at the same time that shame and embarrassment warm your cheeks. You stop suddenly, stiffening and turning around, only to see the beauty of mismatched eyes and a sly smile. 

            Prince Baelor Targaryen—the Hand of the King. 

            “I am afraid not, Your Grace,” you answer, your gaze looking down at the floor, at the cracks in the stone, anywhere but those perfect mismatched eyes that set a flutter in your heart from the moment you first saw him on your arrival to the Red Keep. “My partner was this book and the dance has concluded. I must get back to my duties.”

            You look up, gauging the distance between you and him, how easily it will be to get away when you notice the black spreading across his eyes, the way his pupils flare, gaze focused on you, only you. 

            And then you smile. 

            “Perhaps next time, my prince,” you remark, stepping towards him, steps slow and measured, “you can dance with me. As long as you can promise to be far more entertaining than the book.” And then you sweep from the room, the smell of jasmine lingering behind you and the eyes of the Hand lingering upon you, watching your retreat. 

***

The second time it happened was not an accident. No, you had made it your mission to win Baelor’s affections, his love. But not at the cost of yourself. That was something you would never endanger, never risk, never forfeit for no marriage, no love was worth your honour. Honour was all one had, after all at the end of the day and you could not risk. 

The second time it happened, you were prepared, awaiting him. Awaiting what you knew you could do, what you were good at. 

What had caught his attention to begin with.

***

            “I have been looking for you, my lady,” you hear Prince Baelor call, the sound of his voice sending a jolt down your spine as you turn slowly on your heel to face him, conscious of the brightness of your dress, the lower cut of the neckline and the necklace so chosen for the way the pendant falls, heavy, resting in the middle of your chest, eyes drawn down. Desire, you remembered your sisters saying, was the true way to a man’s marriage bed. 

            “Were you, Your Grace?” you ask, one hand resting on the shelf beside you, fingers trailing idle shapes upon the wood grain, your other hand swishing your skirt as if in a nervous habit but truly one designed to draw his eyes. 

            “I was,” he answers, stepping towards you, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, the motion causing you to swallow hard, swallowing down any soft words that would slip past from the affection you have for him. “I’m seeking my dance.”

            “And can you promise to be more entertaining than any book upon these shelves?” you ask, eyebrows flicking up as you turn towards the shelves and the book spines. 

            “I can,” he says and you shrug, a gentle movement, meant to highlight the curve of your neck, the slope to your shoulders. 

            “Very well then,” you answer, offering your hand to him, which he accepts, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to it, one that sends a sharp stab of heat deep inside of you, one that has you stifling a gasp at the feeling of his lips upon your skin. And then you step forwards, your one hand resting upon his, the other resting between his shoulders, his hand resting on the side of your waist. 

            And now it is the game of flirtation that you know you quite well. The game of the dance. 

            “Do you often dance in libraries, my lady?” he asks you, eyes focused solely upon you, the intensity of his stare, the gleam reflecting back at you strange, desirous and strange. 

            “I find it best,” you answer, conscious of the way your pupils must be expanding, telling him of the desire his touch creates within you, “for it’s away from prying eyes. It’s private, quiet. Peaceful.”

            “How do you like serving for my mother?” he asks and you stiffen in his grip, smiling once at him, fondness tainting the scheme at the memory of the old queen holding your hands and speaking of Dorne, of her family, of the sun. 

            Of the brightness. The thing you brought for her. 

            “I love it,” you breathe, your gaze drifting from him to the ground, to the floor, anywhere but on him. “She’s the kindest person I have ever met and the brightest. She carries the sun in her skin, the warmth in her voice. Serving her is like I’m still home.” He lets go of your hand, his grip coming to rest on your chin, turning to gently back to him, his eyes dropping to your lips, tracing the shape of them as if committing them to memory, his thumb idly rubbing a soothing pattern on your skin. 

            “She speaks the same of you,” he answers, his voice low and husky, almost breaking, the contact too much for him, the softness of your skin unlocking feelings he has not had in a long time. “She says she wishes you were her daughter, that you are like the one she was never blessed with.”

            “She must tire of sons,” you retort, your attention once more focused on the game, on the prize to be won. “All that…masculinity. She must want to be reminded of the softer side of the world. The kinder.”

            “And are you?” he asks you, pupils flaring out across his eyes, grip tightening upon your waist, fingers digging in not painful, but a reminder of his presence, his touch. “Softer? Kinder?”

            “Perhaps,” you whisper, the word lingering between the two of you as you step back, placing distance between the two of you which he prevents from forming, stepping back, closer, as if needing to be close to you as you need to be him. “But only my future husband will ever know.” 

            And then you step around him, sweeping past, far too fast for him to catch your arm like he wants to. Far too fast for him to catch you and pull you to him, press his lips to yours and erase all thought of any other man. 

            Your future husband will be him, he decides watching you go, unaware of the smile on your face as you realize that you will have exactly what you wanted.  ***

The third time happened when you were not free, but rather when you were serving in your duties, walking with Queen Myriah, speaking of Dorne and the beauty of your homeland. The beauty of the sand and the sun and the warmth. 

The third time was accidental yet all too purposeful. You didn’t know it then, but Myriah had been playing her own game all along. 

Because she knew of your scheme and that Baelor wanted to be yours. 

And she wanted that too.

***

            “How is your mother, dear?” Queen Myriah asks you, glancing over at you while you walk, the other ladies clustered around you, the garden not far from sight, the two of you needing the sun, the heat, the memories. 

            “She is doing well, Your Majesty,” you answer, smiling a small smile, looking down at your clasped hands, her last letter telling stories of the balls, of the plans they were creating for your nameday when you would travel home and be with the people like you, the ones with sun in their blood and sand in their skin. “She’s very eager for my nameday, plans abounding, Your Majesty.”

            “She was always one for a spectacle,” Myriah says, her tone fond, smile fonder as she reaches for your clasped hand, taking it in hers and giving it a squeeze before letting go and gathering her skirts once more. “I much expect she’ll have a marriage on her mind for you as well. I should reach out to her about suitable matches for you.”

            “Oh, Your Majesty, I think my marriage is the last thing on my mother’s mind. She still has three other daughters before me to marry off,” you reply, a faint blush colouring your cheeks as you step out onto the lawn of the Keep, the garden just up ahead. 

            “You’d be surprised how much your marriage has become a topic of conversation among people,” she remarks, pausing before a bench, waiting for one of the ladies to set her cushion upon the stone before settling down upon it, gesturing you to sit beside her. 

            “I do believe I most likely would, Your Majesty,” you answer and are rewarded with her smile as she watches the yard, watches her grandsons practice swords, granddaughters playing at proper court, her eyes assessing. 

            “I always wanted a daughter,” she says, tone thoughtful, attention slowly but surely turning upon you. “And I have had four daughters-in-law, four wonderful girls who were wonderful for my boys but not me. Not a one ever cared for me, they viewed me as a nuisance. Even Dyanna…although, she might just have been too tired after all those births. But still…two of my sons are in the marriage market again and I find that I want my next good daughter to be one who values me as well. Interesting, no?”

            And the smile she gives you, the flick of her eyebrows up tells you that she knows of your game, your scheme. But more than that. 

            She approves. 

***

The fourth time was at a ball, one where you found dancing and music. A dance thrown by Queen Myriah to celebrate your nameday before you set off for Dorne, for Starfall, for your family and whatever your mother had arranged to surprise you. 

The fourth time was when the pieces were set. The game put in its final position. All the players were aimed at the same goal; they just weren’t set to achieve it the same way. 

And that was always trouble.

***

            “I thank you for the dance, my lady,” a lord says, a smile gracing his face as he bows, stepping back from you, bowing once before turning and walking away, leaving you with a smile. The dance was wonderful, the lord skilled at the footwork, his touch light and gentle, never demanding or trying to drop lower, touch what he had no right to touch. This lord was respectful. 

            Kind even and it made you smile. 

            “Are you trying to drive me mad, my lady?” You hear Baelor behind you, his voice quiet and composed but a thread of pain, of uncertainty runs underneath. 

            “No, Your Grace. I am not. I simply enjoy dancing…although none of these can match a dance in the quiet, in the private,” you remark, turning to him, lips curving of their own accord. You notice the way his eyes glimmer with want and pain, a contradiction that he lives, attention focused solely on you. Not the deep purple of your gown, not the gold bangles on your wrist, or the dangling pendant which has directed three lords to only stare at your bosom for the entirety of their dances. No, Baelor looks at you. 

            And it is why you want him, why you have tried to make him want you. Why you have tried and you hope succeeded, but you fear have failed. 

            “Then let me dance with you before you leave,” he whispers, the words torn from his throat like a plea, no regard for the people around you or the whispers that will linger in the court. No. 

            He only sees you. 

            “Of course, Your Grace,” you answer, curtsying once, lips curving up in a smile soft and kind and gentle, one that is only for him. He takes your hand, holding it tightly, the metal of his rings cool against your skin, the contact of his calloused palm against yours sending warmth running through you, his attention making it worse, making it hotter. 

            His other hand comes to rest on the side of your waist, his grip possessive and protective all the same time, a warning to the lords that he has chosen you but a promise to you that your schemes have worked. That he wants you as you want him. You let your other hand rest upon his back, the touch of your hand spurring him to hold you tighter, hold you closer, the music drifting between you two, words failing. 

            “You know I do not leave forever, correct, Your Grace?” you ask him finally, your gaze flicking up to him from where it has been resting on the way your hands look joined together, fingers interlaced. 

            “I do not want you to leave at all,” he answers, his eyes locking onto yours, gaze begging you not to look away. To stay with him. Stay looking at him, only him. That he will break if you look away. 

            “What if you came with me?” you ask, head canting to the side just slightly as the two of you weave around the other dancers as if they were not there at all, as if the two of you are all that exist in the world. 

            “It is not proper,” he says, his voice breaking just slightly before he composes himself again, stealing his expression back into the mask of the Hand of the King. The perfect heir. “I am not your husband nor betrothed. It would ruin us both.” You lift your hand from his back, coming to let it rest on his cheek, the feel of his beard scratching against your palm, the contact of his skin sending electricity through you, feelings of longing coursing through your veins. 

            “Then let us be ruined,” you whisper, letting your hand drop to the top of his shoulder as the dance comes to a close and he remains a stone. His answer given in his silence and you nod, pressing your lips together, tears stinging your eyes. 

            For all your scheming, for all the queen’s scheming, you have not been enough. And you shall have to live with that. 

            “Very well, Your Grace,” you whisper, swallowing hard and looking down, away from the beauty of his stare and the unrelenting plea in those mismatched eyes, one of a forest and one of ice. Perhaps you should have trusted the ice blue, the coldness of his mask. But you didn’t. “Thank you for the dance.” And then you step away, step back, turning, biting your lip against the tears that threaten to fall as you run from the hall, run from the shame of what you said, of what you did in front of everyone believing that he cared for you as you cared for him. 

            But you were foolish. And you let the cries come as you walk through the halls, your hand muffling your sobs. Your leave cannot come fast enough, escaping to your home, to your mother, to whatever marriage she’ll have planned, a Dornish boy no doubt. A way for you to excuse yourself from Queen Myriah’s service, to remain at home and far away from him. 

            And the way it feels like you’re dying, heart cracking. 

            “Idiot,” you whisper, breath hitching with a sob and you press your hand harder against your mouth, your other resting on your stomach as if you can hold yourself together but the sobs prove too much and you stop, leaning against the stone of the palace, letting the tears fall, shoulders shaking with the force. 

            It is why you don’t hear the footsteps behind you, your sobs too loud to your own ears to register the heavy footfalls of Baelor, his own sadness threatening to overwhelm him when he sees you crying over him. 

            “My lady,” he breathes when he reaches you, turning to you to face him, your body shying from his touch and his heart cracking at the sight. Even more so when you turn your face away from him so you cannot see him. “My lady, please look at me,” he pleads, placing his hand upon your cheek, turning you to face him but you fight it, tears flowing faster at his touch, at the warmth. 

            “No,” you cry, hiccupping, body shaking with the force of the word. “No, I have been a fool and I will…I will n-not engage in my n-nonsense f-further.” You try to pull away from him, but his one hand holds you tightly in place, the other still resting on your cheek, his thumb tracing patterns on your cheekbone. 

            “You have not been a fool,” he answers and you turn to look at him, your eyes made more beautiful by the tears and he did not think that was possible, but he finds he loves you no matter your state. “I want to go with you, to be ruined, but I will not let you be ruined. I will do my best to marry you.”

            You look at him, disbelieving and he sighs, looking left and right before crashing his lips to yours, the gesture catching you by surprise, your lips parted, his tongue slipping in, claiming ownership of yours, stroking it in ways that has warmth pooling in you, lower and lower, dripping down like honey, the feeling like fire in your veins as his hand slips from your waist to your hip holding firm, fingers digging into your clothed flesh. He groans into your mouth at the feel of you, the taste of you and then he’s pushing you back against the stone wall, one hand coming to rest on the stone wall, holding him upright because this is all he has dreamed of. 

            You are all he has dreamed of. 

            But too soon he pulls away from you, breathing heavily, resting his forehead against yours, closing his eyes briefly, reveling in the closeness. 

            “When you come back,” he breathes, “you will be mine, as you wanted. Mark my words, my lady. We will be each other’s.”

***

The fifth time was no manipulation, no scheme, no people playing sides, playing games. It was the finale, the wedding, the ceremony. The pledging to be his, always. Him pledging to be yours, always. The fifth time was the final time. 

But also, the first. 

And gods was it glorious.

***

            The chambers are dim, lit only by candlelight, the sun long since set, the ceremony drawn to a close. It had been a beautiful ceremony, Queen Myriah—who insisted you call her good mother—was smiling broadly, proudly, her game having been successful. A good daughter won who would value her as well as her son; and one who carried the scent and sights of home. 

            King Daeron had been full of pride as well to see his son so happy, smiling in a way that he had never seen on him before. A smile so full of pride and joy that it was strange, but wonderful. King Daeron saw himself in Baelor, himself when he married Myriah. 

            And Baelor had done nothing but smile at you, at the way you laughed and danced and teased. He did nothing but watch you with that same intensity that had made you want him from the first moment you saw him, since he asked to dance with you in the library. He twirled you, refusing to let anyone else cut in, preferring to hold you close, his hands resting upon your waist, your hips. Anywhere you would let him. 

            You had thought that it was you who played that game. 

            But he had been the one to make the opening move. All for the moment now, the moment where he takes you to the chamber, pressing you against the stone wall, the door scarcely closed behind the two of you, his hands on your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he presses his lips to yours, tongue stroking yours before sucking it into his mouth, his one hand rising, fingers toying with your breasts, feeling them through the bodice of your wedding gown. 

            He delights in the moan you let out, the sound vibrating through him, resulting in him pressing closer to you, letting you feel how painfully hard he is for you, your legs opening at the first brush of his hips, letting him step in, slotting in between your legs like he is meant to be there. 

            “Do you. Have any idea. How long I. Have wanted you?” he rasps, voice husky as he pulls away, desire so strong, burning like fire in his veins, in yours. 

            “Since the. Dance in the library?” you ask him and he shakes his head, looking at you with pupil blown eyes, desire thick in his stare. Lust and love and need—the intensity he’s been staring at you with all along. 

            “Since you arrived,” he answers, his head dipping, tongue stroking from the base of your neck, up to just under your ear, his teeth tugging on your earlobe just gently, delighting in the mewl that leaves your lips as you shift, nowhere truly to go when you’re pressed against him and the stone wall—a rock and a hard place indeed. He lets his hands drift down, reaching around to your back, pulling you flat against him, the way you shift against him causing him to groan, the need to be inside you overwhelming him. 

            “I watched you greet my mother in that purple gown studded with…what looked like stars and I thought you were the most beautiful thing in the world. I had never seen your equal…and then,” he pauses, pressing his lips to your neck, beard scratching at your skin in a way that sets your blood aflame, a burning coil winding tight in your lower stomach, a need to have him. He nips at your neck, teeth pulling at the skin just slightly before letting go, his tongue flicking against it, soothing the irritation he has caused before pulling back, his hands drifting to your ass as he continues, “then I saw you in the library, dancing and imagine my surprise when you seemed to want me back.”

            “I thought I was scheming to get you,” you breathe, eyes pupil blown to match his, squeaking when he palms your ass, rutting himself against your still clothed heat and his still clothed cock, unable to stand the distance between the two of you. 

            “You never tricked me into this,” he breathes, crashing his lips against yours again, a war of tongue and teeth and desire while he lets his hands rise, tracing every curve of your body before tearing the gown in two, his mouth never leaving yours, leaving your bare before him. You step forwards, pressing your bare body against his and he groans into your mouth at that fact. He pulls away and gestures off to the bed with one hand, eyes matching in their desire. 

            “Bed. Now,” he breathes and you comply, grabbing his hand and tugging him with you and sitting down upon it, your hand letting go of his before both reach for the laces of his breeches, untying them and freeing his cock from the confines of the cloth while he sheds his doublet and places his hands on your waist, lifting you just enough to throw you back against the bed, his body climbing over yours, desire-filled eyes looking down at you, lips puffy, swollen with kisses. 

            “This is all I’ve dreamed of since our dance,” he whispers and your hands reach to his back, pulling him down to you while you wrap your legs around his hips. 

            “Then shut up and fuck me, darling,” you breathe and he wastes no time in complying with orders, teasing your entrance with his cock before pushing, as gentle as he can be, groaning, his head falling forwards. 

            “Gods! You feel. So good,” he groans out while your breath hitches in response both from the sensation of being filled and the utter abandon in his voice when he speaks. And then you are nothing but a pool of sensations as he thrusts in and out of you, in and out, every thrust punctuated by his staccato chant of “Love. You.”

            His thrusts speed up, every one having him sheathed inside you fully, hitting a spot inside of you that has you seeing stars, your walls clenching around him, leading him to to groan, voice cracking every time, every time he tries to tell you that he loves you. 

            It is not long before you both are spent and he lays beside you, your back against his chest, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other free, the hand playing with your hair, twisting and twining it. 

            “So my flirtations truly had nothing to do with this?” you ask him now and you can feel his smile, an innate sense of awareness over him. 

            “On the contrary, love,” he whispers, letting of your hair and instead leaning in to press a kiss against your neck, one of tender love. “They had everything to do with it. You simply did not trick me into this. I wanted you. I love you.”

            “And I you,” you whisper, fighting against the sleep that grows, nestling in his arms, contentment growing within you, safe in his arms, forever. 

            “I shall love you forever,” he whispers before following you into sleep like he will follow you everywhere. 

***

In a game, we are told that there is always one winner. But in this game, the game of flirtations, of hearts, there was no loser. 

You had feigned a sudden, violent ague — a fever that left you shivering and pale beneath your linen sheets. Your kin had whispered prayers to the Mother, leaving bowls of chilled water by your bedside, never questioning the convenience of your affliction. They did not see that the fever burning through your veins had nothing to do with sickness and everything to do with a quiet, devastating grief.

While the court sailed north, you dragged your weary body out of bed and walked blindly to the Water Gardens. You sat upon the very same pink marbles tiles where Baelor had once held your elbows, lifting you out of a formal curtsy with a desperate, gravelly murmur. The music of the running water no longer sounded hollow; it had transformed into a relentless, agonizing requiem.

You closed your eyes, and the torture grew vivid. You could see the Great Sept, cold and cavernous, far away in that gray city of ash and mud. You could pitcture the heavy, golden Targaryen chains draped over Baelor's broad shoulders, the three-headed dragon snapping proudly on the banners above his head. You imagined his hands — the same warm, calloused hands that had reverently peeled the silk straps from your shoulders in the dark — now laced through the pale, pristine fingers of Lady Jena Dondarrion. You imagined the High Septon invoking the blessings of the Seven, binding the Crown Prince to a woman of the Marcher lords, while a kingdom cheered for a future that tore yours to ribbons.

Five months bled into one another. The scorching summer gave away to a milder autumn, but the chill in your chest never truly lifted. You moved through the court like a specter, wearing a mask of polite indifference that would have made the most seasoned diplomat proud.

Then, on a night when the moon was swallowed whole by heavy storm clouds, a messenger arrived. He wore the orange and sun-pierced livery of House Martell, but he did not approach the Great Hall. He found you in the shadowed gallery overlooking the dry moats, his eyes darting nervously around the stone corridor. Without a word, he slipped a small parchment scroll into your palm. It was sealed with a dollop of unbranded, anonymous black wax — no dragon, no sun, no sigil. A secret paid for in gold, delievered by a man whose true loyalty belonged to ghosts.

You retreated to the absolute isolation of your bedchamber, locking the heavy oak door behind you. By the flickering, amber glow of a single tallow candle, you broke the wax.

The scent hit you before the words did. It didn't smell of the sweet jasmine or crisp freshwater of Dorne. It smelled of iron, soot, and the distinct, stale ink of the Red Keep. Baelor's handwriting was unmistakable — heavy, regular, and hurried, the strokes pressed so deeply into the parchment that the paper was nearly punctured. It was the script of a man writing in the dead of the night, stealing moments from a crown that was already trying to suffocate him.

My light, my distant sun,

I write this to you while King's Landing sleeps beneath a shroud of choking fog. The air here is heavy — it reeks of coal smoke, horse rot, and the damp filth of the Blackwater. It is an ash-heap of a city, cold and unyielding, but whenever I close my eyes, the only thing I can breathe is the scent of the night-blooming jasmine that hung thick over your skin.

Everything here is a theater, a grand and terrible farce. I walk these dark, stone corridors wearing the invisible mantle my father gave me, playing the dutiful heir to lords who watch my every blink for a sign of weakness. I sit at the high table next to a woman who possess all the proper grace of her bloodline, but not me, she is nothing more than a phantom. Jena is dutiful, she is gentle, but her bed is an arctic waste. My body performs the actions required of a prince, but my soul remains trapped beneath the surface of that sunken pool, tangled in your fingers, drowning in a warmth I will never feel again.

I miss your laughter. I miss the fierce, reckless way your skin burned against mine under the moonlight. They call me the 'Hammer' now. They cheer my name in the yards; they say I am the perfect knight, the flawless shield of the realm. But the truth is a pathetic thing: I am a man sliced in half. I wander the Red Keep looking for your ghost in every patch of shadow.

Tell me the fountains still sing. Tell me you do not utterlu despise me for the golden chains I allowed my father to wrap around my wrists. Send me a word. A single stroke of your pen, a torn scrap of silk — anything to prove that what we held in the dark wasn't a fever dream I invented to keep myself from breaking. A single word from you would be a fire capable of burning away the winter I carry in my bones.

Yours, in the dark and for all my days,

Baelor

A single tear slipped from your chin, hitting the parchment with a soft click, causing the ink of his name to blossom into a dark, illegible smudge.

Your chest ached with a physical, crushing agony. For two days, you kept the letter hidden beneath the velvet lining of your jewerly casket. Every night, when the castle grew silent, you would pull it out, tracing the rough indentation of his signatures with your fingertips until the paper softened and frayed at the edges.

You sat at your writing desk. You dipped your quill into the black ink, the tip hovering mere inches above a blank sheet of parchment. Your heart screamed at you to write back. To tell him that you were drowning too. To tell him that your gown felt like a shroud and that you hated Jena Dondarrion with a passion that frightened you.

But as you looked out the window, watching the fierce, unyielding dornish sun break over the Red Mountains, the proud blood of your ancestors reasserted itself.

Baelor belonged to the Iron Throne. He had made his choice beneath the fig tree; he had chosen the peace of the realm over the desert sands. To answer him would be to fee a rot. It would condemn you to a life of pathetic yearning, waiting for scraps of ink from a married man, turning you into a tragic secret rather than a woman of worth. You would not be his solace while another woman bore his heirs and wore his crown.

With a hand that trembled but did not falter, you brought the edges of Baelor's letter to the open flame of your oil lamp.

The parchment caught instantly. The fire licked hungrily at his desperate pleas, turning his professions of love into curling, black ash. You watched it burn until the heat bit at your fingertips, letting the remains fall into a brass bowl. You did not write back. You left the Prince of Dragonstone to his silence.

Years came and went, rolling over the red sands of Sunspear like a slow, unrelenting tide. The wounds of youth do not truly vanish; they simply bury themselves deep beneath the surface, covered by the calluses of a life that must be lived.

To honor you family, and to finally banish the persistent ghosts that haunted every shadowed archway of the Water Gardens, you had accepted the suit of a young dornish lord. He was a man of noble blood and steady character, possessing a ready smile and hands that were always warm. He did not look at you with the consuming, desperate hunger of a dragon, nor did he demand a passion that would burn your world to the ground. Instead, he offered you something you had desperately starved for: stability, respect, and a quiet, unshakeable devotion. In his bed, you did not find the intoxicating, reckless fire of that summer night, but you found peace.

From that gentle union, the Mother blessed you with two daughters. They became the center of your universe, the light that finally chased away the lingering shadows of your grief.

The eldest was eight now, a fierce, willful child who ran through the courtyard with the untamed spirit of a sand snake. You had named her Nymeria, in honor of the legendary warrior queen who had once led ten thousand ships to the shores of Dorne, refusing to bend her knee to anyone.

The second daughter had been born three years later, on a night when the moon hung like a heavy silver coin over the sea — a night that cruelly mirrored the very evening you had surrendered everything to Baelor. When you first held her in your arms, looking down at her soft features, a name had slipped from your lips before your mind could stop it: Baela. Your husband had smiled warmly, believing it to be a polite, diplomatic nod to the ruling Targaryen dynasty that had brought peace to the realm. Only you carried the secret, bleeding truth: every time you called your youngest daughter to your side, you were speaking a piece of the man you had forced yourself to forget.

Then, the heavy black wings of Maester's raven brought word from the north, shattering the routine of Sunspear.

Lady Jena Dondarrion was dead. She had succumbed to the childbed fever after delivering Baelor's second son, the infant Prince Matarys. The court of King's Landing was instantly plunged into a suffocating shroud of black velvet and solemn prayers. For months, the songs in the capital ceased, and the iron bells of the Great Sept tolled for a woman who had worn a crown but never truly possessed her husband's heart.

Eight months had bled away since the funeral pyres had burned to ash when the royal fleet appeared on the horizon of the Summer Sea.

King Daeron II, ever the cautious diplomat, grew anxious. He feared that the sudden death of the Dondarrion lady might loosen the fragile ties between the Crown and the proud Marcher lords who guarded the borders of Dorne. He feared that the old, bitter hatreds of the Reach and the Stormlands might spark anew if the realm felt fractured. And so, he dispatched his greates weapon of peace: his heir. Baelor returned to Dorne not as a young, reluctant groom bound by his father's commands, but as a seasoned man in his thirties, a grieving widower, and the newly appointed Hand of the King.

The afternoon of his arrival, the Water Gardens were alive with the bright laughter of children and the gentle rustle of silk as courtiers sought the cool sanctuary of the shade. You sat beneath a woven canopy of a vine-covered arcade, your eyes fixed entirely on your daughters.

Nymeria, true to her namesake, was already attempting to scale the slippery marble base of a serpent-headed fountain, her small leather boots gripping the pink stone. Little Baela, only five years old, sat quietly in the grass nearby, her tiny fingers preoccupied with arranging fallen, crimson bougainvillea petal into small, neat circles on the edge of the shallow water.

"Nymeria, get down from there before your father sees you", you called out, your voice a practiced blend of maternal warmth and firm authority. "You will ruin your shift".

"Let her climb. She possesses the true spirit of her namesake".

The world seemed to stop spinning. The breath caught violently in your throat, freezing the blood in your veins.

That voice. It had not changed. It was only deeper now, carrying a resonant, gravelly weight that was no longer born from the physical exhaustion of the training yards, but from the invisible, crushing mantle of a man who ruled a continent.

You turned your head with a slow, agonizing deliberation, erecting your courtly spine as you did so.

Baelor was standing a mere three paces away. He had discarded the heavy, suffocating velvets of the north, dressed instead in a loose dornish tunics of black and crimson silk, left open at the collar. He wore no golden chains, no heavy rings. His rugged features were more hollowed out than you remembered, the sharp line of his jaw hardened by years of grief and statecraft, and a few faint streaks of silver now caught the sunlight in his dark, cropped hair.

But his eyes — those striking, mismatched eyes, one the deep brown of his Martell mother and one the piercing violet of Old Valyria — were exactly the same. They locked onto yours with a sudden, desperate intensity that threatened to undo years of carefully built peace in the span of a single heartbeat.

You forced your body to rise, smoothing down the folds of your deep azure gown. Lowering yourself into an absolutely flawless, icy curtsy, you kept your gaze cast downward.

"My Prince", you spoke, your tone perfectly measured, devoid of any warmth. "Welcome back to Sunspear. Dorne shares in the grief of your loss".

Baelor took a sharp step forward, his eyes drinking in the sight of your face before drifting down toward the grass. Nymeria had frozen on the fountain, staring at the tall stranger with fierce curiosity, while little Baela looked up, blinking her wide, innocent eyes at the prince.

"Nymeria and...Baela", Baelor murmured, and when he pronounced the second name, his voice trembled slightly, a low vibration of sudden, painful understanding washing over him. He looked back up, his eyes searching yours with an aching vulnerability. "They have their mother's incomparable grace".

"You are kind, Your Grace", you replied, the words dropping from your lips like smooth, cold pebbles. You erected a towering wall of formal politeness between you. "I trust your voyage across the Summer Sea was smooth, and that the warmth of our sun might offer some small solace after the tragedy that befell House Dondarrion".

Baelor flinched. The icy formality of your words struck him as cleanly as any lace he had ever faced in the lists. He let out a ragged breath, closing the distance between you until he was close enough that you could smell the faint, familiar scent of leather and salt that always followed him. He completely ignored the watchful eyes of the courtiers whispering under the distant arches.

"You never answered my letter", he whispered fiercely, his jaw clenching as he fought to keep his emotions bound behind his courtly mask.

"The dead do not write letters, my Prince", you answered, your voice dropping to a sharp, quiet hiss, your chin lifting in defiance. "The girl you left by the blood-orange trees years ago died the morning you wed another woman. I am a wife, and a mother. I have no words for ghosts".

Baelor clenched his fists at his sides, his chest heaving beneath his linen tunic. There was such a raw, bleeding agony in his mismatched eyes that a terrified part of your soul wanted to reach out and smooth the lines of exhaustion from his brow.

"I beg of you", he pleaded, a desperate, broken sound that no lord or knight had ever heard from the lips of the Breakspear. "I am only here for three days before the governance of the realm drags me back to the dark. Meet me tonight. By the secluded pool. Just once. Only to speak. Please".

You looked past his shoulder to where your daughters were playing, then you looked back into the eyes of the only man who had ever truly known the texture of your soul. Every ounce of pride and anger you had nurtured for years screamed at you to turn your back and walk away. But love — that stubborn, catastrophic entity you had tried so desperately to burn to ash — refused to die.

"Tonight", you whispered, so softly the wind nearly stole it away. "When the moon reaches the crest of the fig tree".

Without waiting for his response, you gathered your daughters and walked away, leaving the Heir to the Iron Throne standing alone in the afternoon heat.

The midnight hour found the Water Gardens drowned in the exact same silver light that had blessed your youth more than a decade ago. The moon hung high and cruel, casting long, sharp shadows of the palm trees across the pale marble walkways. The air was thick, nearly suffocating, saturated with the heavy, sweet perfume of night-blooming jasmine and the damp chill of the rising mist.

When you reached the secluded pool — the deepest, most isolated sanctuary hidden behind a thick wall of ancient fig tree — you saw that Baelor was already there.

He had completely discarded the rigid, formal tunic of the Hand of the King, leaving it forgotten on the dry stone. He stood at the edge of the dark water wearing only a loose shirt of white northern linen, unlaced at the throat, his broad shoulders squared against the night. The moment the soft, rhythmic rustle of your silk gown broke the silence of the gardens, he spun around.

There were no words. No formal greetings, no polite inquiries after health or family. The heavy burden of the Iron Throne, the whispers of the Small Council, and the ghosts of his late wife and your husband vanished into the humid night air.

Baelor crossed the distance between you in two long, desperate strides. His large, calloused hands — the hands of the realm's greatest champion — camp up to frame your face, his fingers tangling roughly into your hair. He pulled you to him with a feral, terrifying desperation that spoke of years of starvation, of years spent wearing a mask of gold and stone while his soul slowly withered in the muddy, crowded streets of King's Landing.

His lips slammed against yours.

The kiss was entirely different from the sweet, tentative passion of your youth. It was a violent, bruising collision of teeth and tongues, a desperate attempt to claw through years of separation. It carried the bitter taste of his grief, the burning heat of your buried anger, and the terrifying realization that despite everything, the fire between you had not lessened; it had simply been compressed into a lethal, volatile explosive.

Together, without breaking the kiss, you tumbled over the lip of the pool.

The shock of the lukewarm water swallowing your bodies caused you both to gasp, the heavy silk of your red gown instantly becoming an anchor, wrapping around your thighs and pinning you to him. Baelor's hand were frantic, sliding down your spine, finding the delicate laces of your fress and tearing them free with a reckless diregard for the expensive fabric. He peeled the wet silk from your body, letting it drift away into the dark corners of the pool like a discarded skin.

When your naked flesh finally met his under the silver surface of the water, it was an absolute conflagration.

"Gods", Baelor groaned against your throat, his voice a broken, gravelly ruin as his lips traced a path of fire down to your collarbone. "You are real. Tell me you are real".

He lifted you by the hips, pressing your back against the smooth, damp marble of the pool's edge. Your legs automatically coiled around his waist, locking him close, anchoring your entire existence to his rhythm. Every single touch was deeper now, heavy with the weight of years of living. He was sturdier, his chest scarred from tournaments and battles, and you were no longer a slender maid, your hips wider, your body fully bloomed.

When he drove himself inside you, a sharp, gasping cry left your lips, lost to the steady splash of the nearby fountains.

The union was fierce, nearly desperate. He loved you with a quiet, terrifying savagery, his chest heaving against yours, his mismatched eyes wide and loked onto your face under the moonlight. The brown eyes of Dorne and the violet eye of Valyria bore into your soul, stripping away every lie, every pretense of your quiet, comfortable marriage. Every deep, driving thrusts was an unspoken vow, a claim stamped into your skin, a reminder that no matter whose name you bore or whose bed you shared, your soul belonged to the dragon.

You arched into him, your nails drawing red crescent moons into his shoulders, riding the wave of a devastating, familiar ecstasy that you had denied yourself for a third of your life. You cried out his name — not his titles, not the name the smallfolk cheered in the streets, but the secret name of the boy who had stolen your heart under the orange trees.

You achieved the peak together, a shattering, blinding explosion of heat that left both of you trembling, clinging to one another in the water as the ripples slowly smoothed out against the stone walls.

For a long time, the only sound was the synchronized, ragged breathing of two lovers refusing to let go. Baelor buried his face in the crook of your neck, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours, his arms wrapped around your waist so tightly it nearly bruised.

Slowly, as the adrenaline began to fade into a heavy, sweet languor, Baelor lifted his head. His features were softened by the afterglow, but his eyes were filled with a sudden, sharp intensity that made your heart tighten with an instinctive fear.

He took your wet face in his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheekbones.

"Come with me to King's Landing", he said, the words rushing from his lips like water breaking through a dam, heavy with an agonizing hope. "Don't say no. Listen to me. I have lived years in that tomb of a castle. I have done my duty to my father, to the realm, to the succession. I am the Hand now. I have the power".

You stared at him, your breath catching.

"Bring your husband", Baelor continued, his eyes pleading with a desperate fervor. "I will grant him vast estates in the Crownlands, a seat of high honor on the council, titiles that will make his house envied across the Seven Kingdoms. Bring the girls. Nymeria will be a lady of the court, and Baela...Baela will grow up by my side. I will give them everything. I only need you near me. I cannot ride back to that gray city knowing you are spending your days in these gardens alone. I need to see you in the corridors. I need to know we breathe the same air".

The silence that followed Baelor's desperate proposal was heavier than the pink marble of the Water Gardens. His words hung in the midnight air — gilded, intoxicating, and utterly lethal.

You stared at him as the silver water lapped against his bare chest, and for a fraction of a second, the foolish girl you used to be screamed at you to say yes. You imagined the dark grandeur of the Red Keep, the feasts, the bittersweet thrill of crossing his gaze in those cold stone corridors, knowing he was only a few chambers away. But then, the fierce Dornish pride coursing through your veins — the very same blood you had passed down to Nymeria and Baela — reasserted itself with devastating clarity.

Slowly, deliberately, you pulled away from his embrace. Feeling the sudden chill of the night air on your wet skin, you stepped out of the pool. You gathered your heavy, ruined down of Dornish red, wrapping the wet silk around your body like armor, and turned to look down at him from the marble edge.

"No, Baelor", you said. Your voice did not falter; it was quiet, sharp, and steeped in the unyielding dignity of your land. "I am a free woman of Dorne. I will never be the secret mistress of the dragon, nor a melancholy keepsake tucked away in some dark corner of the Red Keep, a place for you to hide whenever the weight of your crown pressed too heavily on your shoulders".

Baelor flinched as if your words were a physical blow to his chest. "You would never be a secret to me—", he tried to interrupt, moving toward the edge of the pool, but you stopped him with a single, raised hand.

"My husband respects me, Baelor. He offers me a warm bed and an honest affection that I never have to hide from the world. And my daughters...Nymeria and Baela will grow up under the open sun of Sunspear, running free among the fountains, not in the suffocating shadow of your courtly intrigues and the venomous whispers of your Small Council. Would you have my husband accept lands and titles just to look the other way? Would you have my little girls become pawns of the Red Keep to justify my presence? You chose your throne years ago beneath the fig tree. You begged me then to not make you break, and I didn't. Now, leave me my dignity".

Baelor remained submerged in the water, the very picture of devastation. The greay Breakspear, the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms save for the King himself, had been utterly defeated by the pride of a Dornishwoman.

"I love you", he confessed, his voice cracking in the midnight silence — a sound so raw and broken it make your heart bleed. "I have never stopped. Not for a single day".

"I know", you whispered, and a single, scalding tear finally escaped your eye, tracking down your cheek as the first pale light of dawn began to bleed through the palm trees, painting the eastern sky in shades of bruised purple and gold. "And I love you. I love you so much that I would rather have you whole and far away, than watch you wither in regret at King's Landing. But love is not enough to make me your shadow. Goodbye, my Prince".

You turned and walked back toward the palace, your chin held high, never looking back. You left the Prince of Dragonstone alone in the cooling water, as the rising sun reminded you both that the time for secrets had run out.

Epilogue

Years drifted by, bringing with them the quiet settling maturity and a fragile, comfortable peace. Nymeria grew into a tall, fierce maiden, quick with a whip and possessing a sharp gaze that warned every young lord she would never bend. Little Baela grew with an innate, breathtaking grace; her wide curious eyes were always chasing the horizon, a bright spark of pure life filling the quiet corners of your world. You found your sanctuary in the routines of motherhood and the quiet afternoons spent watching your daughters grow in those same gardens. Baelor's memory became a scar hidden beneath your silker shifts — a dull, quiet ache that only truly woke during the nights of a full moon.

Then, on a crisp spring afternoon, a raven with pitch-black wings arrived from Ashford in the Reach.

Your husband entered your chambers, his face mortally pale, holding a parchment that carried tidings currently shaking the entire continent, from Storm's End to the Wall.

During the tourney at Ashford Meadow, to defend the honor of a poor hedge knight named Ser Duncan the Tall, Prince Baelor had ridden into a Trial of Seven. He had fought with his usual, flawless mastery, leading his men to a righteous victory. But during the final, chaotic clash, the heavy war-mace of his own brother, Maekar, had struck the Breakspear's helm. Baelor had walked off the field victorious, but the moment his squire removed the helmet before the cheering crowd, a piece of his skull collapsed. The Crown Prince had died on the field, his lifeblood soaking into the dirt of the Reach.

The moment your husband left the room to arrange the castle's mourning banners, your legs gave out.

You collapsed to your knees on the cold stone floor, pressing both hands over your mouth to stifle the desperate, agonizing sobs that threatened to tear your soul right out of your chest. With the last of your strength, you dragged yourself to the great window overlooking the Water Gardens. Down below, the fountains continued to sing their eternal, rhythmic melody, completely indifferent to the fading gold of a crown.

"Baelor...", you whispered into the empty room, his name nothing more than a breath of wind destined to be swallowed by the desert.

You had let him go. You had denied him for the sake of your pride, your duty, and the quiet life you had built. But in all those years, in the deepest, more secret part of your heart, you had always taken comfort in the knowledge that he was out there. Somewhere under that very same sky, breathing your same air. As long as Baelor drew breath, a piece of you was still alive in that silver pool.

Now, that comfort was gone forever. The Breakspear had fallen. The boy with the mismatched eyes, who had kissed your cheek by the blood-orange trees and held your wrists with trembling, teenage strength, no longer existed in any corner of the world.

disclaimers: the fic is bipoc friendly. i am bipoc myself, and this series is very self-indulgent and well for me. while all descriptors will be vague/neutral, i write mainly for me (screaming into the void lol) and i write what i wish i could read more of (aka with a tanner/darker complexion in mind). also this is my very first attempt at a one-shot/multi-part series, or at writing x reader, so feedback and critiques are welcome, especially for my prose, but don't be mean about it.

timeline to consider: takes place in 221 AC; daeron is 31 (not confirmed exactly when he was born, but I'm going with 190 AC); daenora is 7 (not confirmed when she was born, but I'm going with 214 AC)

word count: 3.4k

inspo: L'arte della gioia (2025),, Nosferatu (2024)

VOLUME ONE: i dreamed of you

Daenora had not yet parted with her mourning blacks since the death of her sister the year prior. She had told you the Stranger had marked her family for death, that He was coming for them all with a calculated patience; one by one down a list. 

It was better, she’d said, if He found her prepared then. 

You had not refuted her, had not explained the unpredictability of death and the fleetingness of life. Some lessons could not be taught with scripture alone, nor could they be softened by the words of the Faith.

She had wept into your arms all night until her breath broke, and you only held her, that was all you could do. You had tried not to cry yourself when she listed off everyone who had already died. Baelor. Valarr. Grandsire Daeron (whom she’d been named after). Father. Mother. Aelor. Aelora. An account of all her dead.

 “I will be lonely all my life, Septa,” she hiccuped and tried at composure. She had wiped her eyes and straightened herself with a dignity not meant for a girl so young. “I’ve no mother…no father.”

The words struck you in a place that had not quite healed over the years, and you found yourself mirrored in her: orphaned and at the mercy of your uncle. Though Daenora’s uncle at least had the decency to be more discreet with his intentions and had not delivered her to a motherhouse.

“You have me, sweetling,” you said. It came more fierce than you had intended and that caught you off guard. 

That had soothed her some, enough for her to reach for your hand and curl her small pinky around yours.

“Promise.” It had not been a question.

Your face warmed as she smiled, a small thing that took more effort than she would ever admit to. But you tightened your hold on her finger, “promise.”

“Always and forever, or Maegor’s ghost will come and haunt you for lying,” she whispered, a mischievous grin tugging her lips wide. She’d always smiled like that when you let her have her way, or in most cases, made her think she’d bested you.

And that promise was what would bring you to Summerhall.

Though it had not been so simple to keep you with her at first. Maekar had been opposed to Daenora’s wishes initially.

Daenora had screamed until she turned purple when Maekar had refused her pleading to have you with her.

“They’ve good septas in Summerhall, Daenora,” he’d said it without room for brokering a compromise.

“The septas there are dull!” Daenora howled. “They do not speak many languages like mine, they would not know how to make the numbers make sense in my head the way my septa does!” The tears rolled from her eyes, fat and sorrowful. “They would yell at me when I fail to tell the Norvoshi currency from the Pentoshi!”

You’d stood hidden in the shadows of the hall through it all; meek and pretending like your hearing failed you. But heat had rushed up your throat and settled in your face. Still you did not look up. 

You had to be modest, let all praise wash over you. That is what the Faith rewarded, propriety and humility, no matter that what the child said was true. They would not find another like you, no matter how far they searched.

Even if they searched heaven and hell, you thought. But you stood as still as the stone statues whose marble feet you prayed at as the King and his Hand continued discussing.

“She’s lost enough already,” Lord Brynden explained. “Granting her this small whim may turn fruitful if you still wish for Aerion to have her.” He looked upon you then. 

“I will go where she goes. I’ll stay here too!” Daenora screeched, thumping her foot against the stone like an angry rabbit.

“Leave her here and other lords will have her for their sons. Press her claim when she bears them children.” Lord Brynden continued.

You could feel the heaviness of those red eyes that you avoided. It is not that you believed the rumors about the Lord, that he could kill with intent alone, but you never tested that theory.

You were never in the same room as him for longer than a moment, but you could always feel his gaze trailing you whenever you were instructing Daenora.

The memory of the first and only time he’d ever spoken directly to you rose in your mind unbidden. 

He’d overheard you teaching the girl High Valyrian and Rhoynish in the same lesson. She mastered her House’s tongue by five and was able to hold secret conversations with you in Rhoynish by six.

Soon you were moving onto teaching her Lhazareen, but the Hand had stopped those lessons.

“Do you mean to have the Princess speaking dothraki too before she turns ten?” He’d asked, no humor in his tone.

“Only if she wishes it, my lord,” you’d replied, head bowed, always bowed in deference. 

Daenora looked him straight in the face with a small grin, “she will teach me the Old Tongue, too.”

“Hmm,” he hummed and took one step closer to where you two sat. “Who is your lord father?”

“I have none, Ser. Gone days before my birth.” You said simply.

“Your mother?” He pressed.

You suspected he would keep pressing until he knew the last drop of information about you. That would not do. “I have no mother either. I am an orphan.” You hoped that would settle the matter.

“You were not born an orphan, girl.” He spat, “surely the holy women told you who your mother was!”

“They gave me no names, My Lord.”

“Bisa hunnane iksis issare qopsa,” (this donkey is being difficult) Daenora giggled. 

You put your hand over the girl’s and gave her a stern look which snuffed her giddiness. She returned to the tome before her, quill in hand for scribbling any musings or questions.

Luckily, the man did not speak High Valyrian, or if he did, he said nothing about Daenora’s quip.

Now, in the hall with him, with a crying Daenora, he seemed less rigid than he had then. There was something like pity when he looked at the girl. 

“Let her keep the septa,” Brynden continued.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Aerion is not a gentle man, best if she’s prepared for that. A soft mind would not survive him.” 

Maekar’s jaw tightened and he flexed his fingers at his side. “No, it would not.”

The King turned his gaze upon you, and sighed. “It is done then. You will see to Princess Daenora while she remains in Summerhall, instruct her well.”

You dipped your head, “Your Grace,” and took your leave with a beaming Daenora following close to your skirts.

“By the Mother’s mercy!” She cried out.

Or rather Lord Brynden’s, you thought but held your tongue. Daenora might hear you and she had a habit of parroting everything you said.

The travel to Summerhall passed in a blur of Daenora’s restlessness and the insistent call of a bird you swore had followed you from King’s Landing.

An honor guard awaited you; you went from the guardianship of one set of Targaryen men, to a new one.

Their banners snapped lazily in the breeze with the same rhythm as your skirts.

When they greeted you, the bird sang too, an ugly sound that sounded almost like garbled words. The song sent a shiver through your body and tiny goose pimples rose across your arms.

Had the wind not carried the sound sooner, you might have made meaning of it. But it was of no consequence now.

Daenora clung to you with one hand and kept the other close to her chest to keep her mantle from flying off her shoulders. 

The men flanked you and the girl, leaving the rest of Daenora’s household to follow (handmaidens mostly). 

No one else had come to greet you, not Daenora’s cousins, nor anyone from their court. 

You walked the rest of the path to Summerhall and blessed whichever thoughtful soul had fashioned the road and decided on flagstones instead of simply beating the earth flat.

Summerhall was nestled behind a belt of trees nearly as tall as the palace itself, long sentries that kept quiet watch.

It was a beast of ochre brick, tall windows, and horseshoe arches. 

From afar, it had the same architecture you remembered from Dorne, from the Water Gardens you visited only once on your journey toward Oldtown and the motherhouse.

It had been a dream. Warmth, the sweetness of the blood oranges on your tongue, and laughter. It was a vision you clung to even now, long after memories of your homeland had faded.

The closer you came, the more the Targaryen heraldry revealed itself. Dragon statues, dragons imprinted into the very stone you walked upon. Even the braziers were in the shape of a dragon, wings cradling the embers.

But the sun and spear of Martell was carved into the palace too, etched into pillars and latticework, in the doorframes and the shapes of the patches of shrubbery.

There was a tower near the west side and it too had the claim of House Martell, a large bronze bell etched with sun and spear. The wind was strong enough that the clapper clanged against the bell sending a hollow sound across the courtyard.

Daeron II had taken good care to honor his union with Myriah. It was romantic in a way, to have stone remember love in a manner that would outlive them for generations.

You felt a tug at your hand and looked down at Daenora.

“Is it empty? Will it only be you and me here?” She asked, suddenly shy. “I think I would like that.”

“No,” you said gently. “Your cousins reside here too.”

“The drunk one,” she muttered.

You gave her a warning look, she knew better than to speak so of others. 

“That is what they call him, septa, ‘The Drunken’.”

“You mustn't repeat everything you hear, Daenora,” you whispered.

She clapped a hand to her mouth, “Will Maegor’s ghost come for me for misbehaving?”

You nodded your head with convincing solemnity. 

“I will not call him so to his face, I promise!”

“That would be very wise.”

There was no curtain wall surrounding the palace, but guards paced the open courtyard,and you could see shadows lingering near the great arched windows.

At the very center of the courtyard was a large reflective pool, deep enough to cover you up to your knees if you stepped into it. Lily pads with blooming water lilies above them floated over the surface of the pool in a scatter. Beneath them, cream and red colored carp swam in slow movement, turning gold then carmine whenever the sunlight caught their scales.

“Daenora!” You called out to her when she reached into the pool sending the fish into a startled frenzy.

“They’re too fast for me,” she giggled and it sounded like the gentle tinkling of bells. “Do you think they are for eating?”

“No child,” you pat her hand dry with a linen square you kept in your skirt pockets. “They’re for decoration…or for looking at, not for eating. They’re poisonous.”

She looked at you with frightened eyes. “Can fish be poisonous? I didn’t know that, septa?”

“Yes, they can be,” you folded the square and slipped it back into your skirts. “There’s one with tiny spikes all over its body that puffs when frightened.”

Daenora puffed her cheeks and pointed to them, “like this?”

You tossed your head back and laughed, “yes that’s right! Daenora the puffer fish!”

She giggled at the nickname and pressed herself closer to your side, burying her face into the fabric of your robes. A soft sigh left her lips and she muttered something you didn't quite catch.

The palace’s steward approached when you reached the steps that lead into Summerhall. He was old and bowed at his waist. He welcomed Daenora on her cousin’s behalf. A cluster of servants came out from the shaded arches and made for the wheelhouse to bring your belongings in.

“This way,” he signaled for both of you to follow.

He walked fast, too fast for you to stop to admire the details of the castle. It all passed you in a blur: the painted ceiling, the intricate tapestries, and the stained glass of the windows. 

You would glut yourself on the beauty of Summerhall in due time.

The man guided you through brisk corridors and open galleries and then he stopped before a set of heavy wooden doors. 

His mouth was set in a line when he turned to you, “these are the princess’s apartments. Your chamber is adjoined to hers.” He pushed the doors and held them open for you. 

You ventured inside and Daenora pushed past you to one of the large windows in the antechamber. The ceiling here was vaulted and painted too. 

You squinted to make out the patterns; more dragons and more spear-pierced suns. You walked over to one of the windows and the sight stole your breath. It overlooked the gardens just below and the rolling grasslands and green hillocks beyond the palace.

“Supper won’t be set for some hours yet,” he explained. “You are welcome to make yourself at home meanwhile, rest if you must.”

You thanked him and began making your way to the door that would open to your chambers, but Daenora had other plans.

She waited until the door closed after the steward before tugging at your sleeve. 

“Let us go see the gardens, please,” she asked.

You did not decline her request for you too wished to see the gardens.

The princess’s apartments were on the second floor, and the princess took the stairs to the ground floor two at a time and you scurried after her trying to keep pace. You found yourself giggling when you reached the foot of the stairs. There was a headiness in letting yourself indulge in small pleasures.

Wind rushed to meet you, kissing your face and making the hem of your robes flutter about your ankles.

You stood at the edge of the courtyard and saw that at the center of it, beside the reflective pool, a dragon had been impressed into the flagstones, crowned with a sun and spewing a spiral flame that extended outward.

Further toward the west side of the palace there were smaller pools and cisterns, and smaller gardens.

Daenora followed you in that direction.

“There's a portrait here of Myriah from when she was a girl, before she wrinkled like a raisin.” Daenora commented offhandedly, as if she'd only just remembered it. Her eyes turned to you and her lips formed a sheepish smile. “I meant to say before she became old.” 

You tsked lightly, an attempt to hide that you found her remark amusing, and guided her toward the sept that rose between a maze of sorts made of wild flowers.

The sept at Summerhall was modest in size, large enough to fit near twenty souls at once. It had been built into the western tower, seven-sided with windows that reached high into the ceiling and down nearly six feet off the ground, each window a different shade of stained glass and each depicting a different face of the Seven.

This too was a wonderful place.

Your feet moved you toward the front of the sept from where you were able to take in the whole thing. There were benches lined against the walls and you and Daenora took the one beneath the window of the Mother.

The wind carried the warm breeze from Dorne and the cooler gusts from the stormlands in waves. There was a rhythm to it. A pulse that was enough to lull Daenora until she was half-asleep and slumped against your shoulder.

You hummed something half-remembered from your youth, something you had heard the Orphans sing whenever a healer came to your father’s house and tended to his consumption.

In the end, their treatment only eased his pain before he succumbed to the illness. The image still haunted you, the slack jaw, sunken eyes, the thin man who had once been tall and large and joyous.

What came after would haunt you even more. Every choice had been ripped from you before you even knew you might want something. But want you did, you wanted so much. To live, to see…to love.

Sunlight poured through the painted glass, sending fractured beams of color that danced across the sept and over you.

Daenora played idly with your fingers, then shifted away to get a better look at you. “Septa?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re an orphan like me,” she began. “But I know who my parents are,” she offered you a sympathetic smile, similar to the one you had given her when her Aelor had died. A smile that you’d hoped conveyed things words could not. “Do you truly not know yours?”

“I was given their names once,” you answered calmly and quickly. “But I have forgotten them.”

“Septaaa,” she teased in a singsong voice. “Years ago, you told Lord Brynden the good women of the Starry Sept had not told you who they were. I remember it, I remember!” She giggled at your slip, proud that she had some imagined leverage over you now.

 “You are before the Gods, you must speak true. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Do you think the Gods compel septas to speak whenever children demand it?”

“I do!”

She was too clever for her own good, but you did not argue. “I will tell you when you come of age.”

She frowned hard enough that her brows knit deeply, and pouted. “Are you afraid I will speak their names to someone. I won’t, I have no one but you anyway.”

You huffed out a breath and rose to your feet, “come, the supper table must be nearly set now.”

She took your hand without complaint and began to lead the way out the sept.

You walked the gardens slowly, taking in the beauty of the place, the flowers and the fruit trees.

Daenora had slipped from yours and she dashed ahead to the reflective pool, bracing her hands on the edge and staring at the fish darting from one side to the other.

“We should name them all,” she suggested in half-jest when you came to stand beside her.

You braced yourself over the pool as well and looked in. The carp were large and fast. They moved easily through the roots of the lily flowers and occasionally surfaced.

You had been so caught up tracing the movement of the fish that you had not noticed the figure moving behind you two. You only turned when Daenora gripped your hand and pressed herself against your arm. 

The man stood some feet away only looking at you two, lips parted as if the words refused to leave him. He was in a disarray, his hair looked as if it had been pulled out of its tie. His doublet had been loosened at the collar and the linen shirt beneath it stained red with what you presumed was wine.

You could not say who this was upon first glance. But the dragon head stitched to his collar marked him as a Targaryen man, and only one prince was famed for being in this state perpetually.

The drunk one, you remembered Daenora’s words.

“Ser–” he interrupted you before you could say more.

“We’ve met before,” he said softly, just loud enough for the words to carry over to you.

Your brows furrowed and Daenora clutched you tighter. “I do not recall, Your Grace.” It was true, the only time he had been in the capital had been when Maekar had been crowned. You were away with Daenora in Oldtown to celebrate Maiden’s Day festivities.

“You were here, walking these gardens,” he looked around as if recalling this imagined meeting. “You were wearing a storm with the Seven dragging from your waist and you were drowning them in this same pool.” His eyes were red rimmed and feverish and he took a few steps forward, perhaps willing you to remember you had been here before.

But that had never happened.

“I have been waiting for you,” he shook his head, hair falling into his eyes. “I dreamed of you,” he said helplessly.

And a bird called out from some unseen branch, a terrible sound to your ears.

Thank you for reading!!

Baelor had more pep in his step these past few months than he had in a year or so. He always did when his lady wife was pregnant. And she, the beauty from dorne, was only three months along but he was so happy to see her with child once again. And while she would be happy with any child, he was hoping for a girl.

Valarr and Matarys just grew up so fast. And their mother was still young enough to bear children, being of 35 years, four years junior to her husband. And Baelor so wanted a little girl. So combining all of that: YN agreed to another child.

Today she hadn’t joined him for breakfast, choosing instead to sleep in, and he was anxious to see her again. Even though he had seen her this morning in their bed and last night. A man who loved his wife, truly he was.

So he excused himself from his duties, and practically ran down the halls of dragonstone to his rooms. Entering to find his wife talking to her lady in waiting, a best friend she brought from dorne. This friend, Elarra, had been with YN since childhood and had been so excited to hear about the new baby.

“Oh Baelor! Have you been released to us?” YN asked when she saw her husband.

“I excused myself from my duties. I missed you.” He said and kissed her sweetly.

“Cheeky. You saw me this morning.” YN scolded lightly.

“Enjoy your loving husband, YN. Many women would envy you.” Elarra said.

“Is she kicking?” Baelor asked whilst resting a hand on YN’s swollen stomach.

“Yes. She is happy I’m feeding her figs.” YN said, gesturing to her plate of figs honey and cheese.

“I was thinking about our baby. How her eyes will be blue when we first see her.” Baelor said wistfully.

Elarra giggled. “My prince forgets that most babies have blue eyes when they are born.”

“Regardless, her eyes will be blue and will stay blue.” Baelor said with finality.

“Whatever you say, my love. What can I do you for?” YN asked.

“I was wondering if Elarra might leave us and we spend some time together?” Baelor asked.

“I don’t know… you did say that you shirked your responsibilities. Do you deserve to spend time with me?” YN said teasingly.

“Cheeky.” He said and kissed the crown of her head.

Elarra smiled and excused herself, leaving the two lovebirds alone. Baelor smiled and picked his wife up from her seat and carried her to their bed, YN laughing as he did so. When on the bed, he kissed her and intertwined his fingers with hers. She smiled into the kiss and brought her other hand to his cheek.

“Avy jorrāelan.” (I love you) He said finally and rested his forehead against hers.

“Inta Habibi. Inta roohi.” (You are my love. You are my soul) She responded.

And truly, they were two halves of a complete whole. Soulmates.