#got x reader

The wedding was a punishment in and of itself. Aerion couldn’t wipe off that sneer in his face. He seemed somewhat satisfied with how beautiful you looked at that moment. But everyone from his family to the court can tell this whole match - this wedding - you - have slighted him and there is nothing you can do to not feel so small against him. Even as you share a dance, there is no warmth, just duty. 

The bedding was extremely painful. Made you almost wish you weren’t a maiden; there was no time for you to undress with the prince laying you on the soft mattress. Climbing on top of you, his breath reeking of wine. He tugged down his pants, lifting your gown; there was no gentleness as he thrusted in and out of you. You couldn’t muffle your sobs, hand reaching to grab his arm to anchor yourself. And when the deed was done, you just stared up at the ceiling, unable to hear the words he spoke to you before leaving.

The night was a haze with all the days blurring together. Aerion had kept his distance since, it’s not long before you felt like a ghost wandering the halls. Newlyweds were the talk of the court, whispers were exchanged of the sad bride you were becoming; gossip you pretend doesn't bother you. It didn’t help that your husband would just walk in front of you, taking quick steps, and at first you tried to keep up with him, but your sore legs served as a reminder, so you remained far behind. Breakfast and supper were spent by yourself in silence, unless his family took pity on you and invited you to sit with them. 

You have learned to put up with your husband, a fate you didn’t anticipate, but what else were you to do but tolerate it. Even when Aerion wasn’t angry, it always seems as if he’s mocking you. Lessons didn’t elude you, as your septa taught you; you were polite, courteous, laughing when it called for it, even tried to ask of his family’s history, anything to make the marriage more bearable. 

Your husband still visited your chamber and you knew exactly what he wanted. Who were you to deny him? You could only cling to his shoulders as he thrusts into you. Times he would push your nightwear up, exposing your nips to the cold air, whimpering when his fingers touched and squeezed your breasts. His pace all the brutal, but with each visit, the pain eases and your sobs slowly turn into moans as you learn to enjoy it.

Aerion has good days, they are rare, but you learned to cherish them when they came. One could swear he enjoys hearing himself talk. You learned not to contradict him, for your husband is a man built with pride that when you gently corrected him; a misplaced name or he confused a minor house. The prince will snap at you and you’ll be given the cold shoulder for the rest of the day. If there is a crowd, he’ll even make a joke at your expense. 

Every word felt like walking across glass. He is not a fool; Aerion knows every second that passes is you trying so desperately to please him. How your sweet words feed a little more and more into his vanity and when you call him my prince, something in him twitches. It all pleases him in ways he doesn’t fully understand, even in a twisted sense, arouses him. He knows you have no family nearby to protect you, no allies to speak for you, only the Targaryen prince who no one dares to defy. 

Your husband who once looked at you as if you were nothing more than the air he breathed has begun to be seen more often. The quiet hours you had grown accustomed to are now shadowed by his presence. He would ask of the book you're reading that seems to preoccupy you so much, only to hum dully in response. And when you are allowed at court, able to finally exchange pleasantries with the other ladies. Your husband can’t help to corner you as soon as you take your leave, asking what has you in such good spirits. There is tiny amusement in seeing his brows furrow when you say it’s just idle talk.

Visits to your bedchambers have become so frequent, you grew to expect it. Acting gullible to his gaze while you arrange your hair in front of the mirror, pretending not to know what he’s here for either. You’ve grown shameful in how you seem to look forward to it.

It was all for duty, your only worth was to give him heir. But surely duty isn’t running through his head as you feel so good, your tight cunt squeezing his cock. It’s like it was made for him and only him. He says. And as you wrapped in the sheets, covered in sweat; you hum as he speaks on the weather, some foolish gossip he heard or an upcoming tourney. He stays the night, snoring softly beside you. 

There are other nights where your husband visits because he’s restless, complaining of his family or whichever lord happened to offend him that day. He lets you pour his wine as he rambles on. He would dare not say he simply came seeking your company. His eyes follow as you light the candles, he comments on it, of course, asking why don’t you leave it to your servants instead, not long before you feel the familiar tug at the laces of your night dress. Demanding you undress and you know better than to refuse.

Sometimes he asks if you miss your family. When you admit you do, confusion flicks across his face. You have risen in station, married to a Targaryen prince; a maiden’s every dream. Aerion finds himself more annoyed than he should whenever you mention how you miss your home.

You belong to him now, your place remains by his. It doesn’t matter how tedious or late such events are. You remember all too well how furious he was when he asked where you were and he was informed you had returned to your chambers, too tired to stay. Aerion bursted into your place later in the night, blaming you for his foul mood, he had to entertain some drunk old fool all alone. As long as he is there, you must accompany him, is that not what wives do for their husbands.

Just like his love, Aerion must be the most jealous man you have ever crossed paths with. There can be no reasonings; it’s like wildfire, it spreads and there’s nothing you can do but wait for it to die down. You are stuck in its path, having to just endure it.

When tournaments are held, you are seated among the royal family watching your husband. There is no definitive proof but you feel his gaze flicker at you through the steel of his helm. And there is the semblance of proof, when he lifts his visor and you’re met with a smug smile meant only for you.

Before the tournament begins or after it, he demands you to be in his tent. He acts like he doesn’t need your praise or sweet words of encouragement. When it’s all over, he comes to you still in armor, the smell of blood, sweat and dirt clinging to him. The dirt of the field stains your gown when he pulls you close, insisting you should celebrate his victory, his mouth clashing into yours.

You’ll never forget the day when one simply asked for your favor. He was a boy from some minor house. And even if your husband was in denial of any feeling of attachment he had towards you. The mere act was seen as an insult, you pitied the boy long before and the gods must have been cruel to make him face your husband next. When Aerion struck, he didn’t target the shield but rather the legs of the horse. The boy was flinged from his horse landing face first into the ground, you gasped along with the crowd. Even from a distance, you can see the boy’s face all bloody and mangled as they dragged him away.

Aerion’s jealousy has become the talk across king’s landing, yet no one dares to say it out loud. A glance from another man across supper will have him feel a sick rage of jealousy. Tightening his hold on the goblet and you feign as you can’t feel his other hand gripping your thigh beneath the table. He’ll even squeeze your fingers a little too tightly when he thinks you’ve spoken to some other lady-in-waiting for far too long. The only reason his wrath is so restrained is due to his father. 

Aerion pretends he is above it all, acting indifferent but it burns in his eyes. His jealousy sometimes can seem ridiculous even childish yet you are always there to reassure him. Yes, Lord Tyrell made you laugh, but no one can ever be as charming as him. Yes, you spoke with lady Royce for a while, but no one is more of a pleasant company than him. You’re even careful not to clap too eagerly to another during tourneys, according to your husband, none of them could perform as well as he does. 

Your servants have gotten used to lowering their eyes when entering your chambers. The prince has become a common sight,  laying beside you, chest bare, an arm draped around you and hair tangled. If you shift, he stirs as well. An unfortunate lesson was taught when you left your husband waking up alone, for you were informed your maid ran out in tears; met with a foul mood Aerion during breakfast time. 

Aerion also being drunk is another common sight. He is far more affectionate, clinging to you. Yet you are still careful, his temper is still unpredictable, his jealousy if even possible is more intense, and his words are much harsh. Sometimes he looks at you, almost like he is bewitched, brushing your hair aside so he can take a better look.

Aerion cannot not touch you now. A hand will trail up your arm or toy with a strand of your hair yet in the same breath, Aerion insists he has no care for you. He’ll not hold your hand even when he wants you to follow, gripping your wrist instead. Do not try pushing his hand away unless you want a furious Aerion. His affection is, in many cases, rough. Gripping your face when he wants your attention or when he’s kissing you. The servants try not to stare when they are dressing you and see the hickies and bites laid across your skin.

Aerion would rather face a terrible death than admit he seeks your approval. He’ll tell stories or a jest and his head turns you, waiting for your laugh or nod. Aerion also surprisingly knows when something is wrong, it can’t be because he watches you so often. He knows how you twist your ring when you’re anxious or how you seem more lost in thought when nervous. He’ll ask, sounding more irritated than concerned. Aerion wishes to fix it, but his version of doing so is finding someone to blame for it then taking it out on them. 

Silence treatment is a death wish. It didn’t matter what Aerion did. Using silence as your weapon will drive this man mad. You remember all too well when he threw a cup at the wall right beside your head when you refused to answer him. Aerion didn’t apologize, he never does. He simply moved on with the day, as if nothing had happened. 

Aerion loves to spoil you. Dressed in his house colors, your dresses sewed with silks, hair pinned with adorned clasps. The first gift was a necklace with a dragon pendant, his sigil. He jests the gifts made you less plain beside him, yet his eyes linger with hunger whenever you wore them. But heaven forbid you wear anything from your own house or worse, do the offense of wearing someone else’s gift. No he doesn’t care if it was a family gift, he’ll throw it out the window or in the open sea without you knowing. 

And yet, with all of this. Aerion swears it’s not love. He is too proud for that. Love is a weakness. Love is for fools and singers. He can easily replace you. Find another lady from wherever who can do the simplest task of warming his bed and bearing him heirs. Yet Aerion finds himself noticing how your eyes twinkle in the moonlight, what rings you like to fiddle with when you are nervous, and your soft scent of lavender that lingers even when you leave. 

There was a time when fever struck. It seemed simple at first. Aeron didn’t even seem all that concerned, but when you became bedridden, and there was a slim chance of you not making it out – Aerion began to panic. He was truly unruly, the maesters were threatened while they worked, the servants were accused of poisoning you. There was such a scene, Maekar himself was forced to intervene, forcing his son from your bedside so the maesters could actually do their work. Dragons do not die of weakness, he kept telling himself. You must not. You will not. And when the fever finally broke, the realm seemed to let out a sigh of relief. Maekar was even unsure if you had tamed his son or drawn him deeper into madness. 

There is no separating you and Aerion. What began as a cold, loveless marriage had turned into something you are unsure what to call. For now, the man, the prince you married will never claim he loves you, and he’ll always remain cruel. But you know he would kill for you. He will force a lord into his knees if he was to make a joke of your expense. He not only wants you, desires you, but he needs you, like the flower needs the rain. You must only say the word and he’ll fulfill it and maybe that is all what a person wants. And with nothing else to do, you have grown to also care and love this cruel man. 

When you see him sitting like that, it's hard not to get excited and jump on him.

And poor Dunk doesn't really know why you're suddenly so passionate, climbing onto his lap as if you were conquering a mountain, kissing his neck and whispering sweet words of praise onto his skin, fragrant with his masculine scent. But who could possibly be so foolish as to refuse your attention?

“L–love?” He clears his throat as he calls for you, his long fingers caressing your lower back as he simply lets himself be pampered by you, chirping like a happy little bird, “may I ask the reason for this sudden outburst of affection?”

He is such a gentleman and just so good.

“You're so handsome and big, Dunk,” you tell him in awe, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

And he blushes, of course, tilting his head away from yours so he can look you in the eyes, searching for some sign in your expression that might suggest you are just teasing him, but why would you tease him about that?

Your lips are plump from all the kisses you've showered on his skin, taking your time on every freckle and mole and scar you find on his upper body.

“Does that— does that arouse you?” Dunk asks, his voice dropping sheepishly as he speaks. 

You smile coquettishly, your fingers caressing his warm, flushed cheek. “It arouses me to see you like this and to know you’re mine.”

All yours.

He considers all the men who would love to be in his shoes, with a glass of fine wine in one hand and the other appreciatively caressing the finest ass in all of Westeros, as you, the most stunning woman in the world, bounce on his lap like a savage beast, drawing out hoarse moans from deep within his throat with every twirl of your merciless hips.

The fat tip of his cock drags heavily inside you, forcing its way open through your tight, gummy walls. He's so deep you can feel it in your fucking throat.

“That's it,” is never shy to keep whispering praises at your neck, kissing affectionately the point where your shoulder meets your collarbone, running his tongue over a drop of sweat rolling down your skin and moistening it some more with his saliva. He really loves when you take control and simply having to sit back and enjoy the view. “You do it so well, my love. Fuck— still so bloody tight— uhh— just like that”

Barely does his deep voice stand out above the lewd sounds of your sexes joining, flesh slamming against flesh, so wet, so filthy.

“So fuckin’ big,” you whine out, yet you take every inch of him all the way down like the good girl you are, sitting nice and pretty on his lap, your bum pressing down on his heavy balls. Your hands squeeze his broad shoulders, seeking to catch his gaze amidst the shadows of the night. “Dunk—

“Hmm?” he hums in response to your little cry immediately, croakily. Then he kisses your neck, your forehead, your nose, and your lips, “I’ve got you, love. I always got you. So good for me.”

And from there, he'll take care of the rest. He'll drop the cup of his dear wine to get a good grip on your plump buttocks, squeezing your hips, rocking you up and down on his cock, up and down, like a weightless little doll.

Your man is so strong, yet so gentle with you.

Dunk can't stop kissing you! He kisses your tear-streaked face clean to taste the exquisite blend of your teardrops and sweat. He loves the taste of you.

He is devoted to satisfying and pampering you, so naturally your pleasure comes before his own. He ensures that you finish at least twice before he does, a set of intrusive fingers stimulating your sensitive clit, pressing between your soaked folds, sucking on your perky nipples.

“You're so small, so gorgeous... all mine, y–yeah?”

His cock is stretching you out so much that if you look down, you can see the outline of it poking out from the inside of your belly every time he thrusts all the way in. 

Dunk glances at it too, and that's all it takes to push him to climax. 

He cums so much that he quickly fills you up. Your abused cunt is oozing with cum, greedily milking him absolutely dry and sucking in as much of his seed as she can. 

He stood beside his parents in his uncles solar of the Red Keep, hands slightly clammy clasped behind his back, listening as Maekar Targaryen and his wife were announced. The doors opened, and in swept heat from the late summer air, and with it, noise. A child’s cry.

High, pleased babbling echoed against the stone walls.

Valarr’s spine went rigid.

Maekar entered first, tall and imposing, his wife followed, smiling warmly, and in her arms.

Valarr blinked.

You were smaller than he expected.

Wrapped in pale silks, white threaded with faint red embroidery, you were all soft curves and bright, curious violet eyes. Your hair was fine and light, silver-blond catching the sun pouring in through the high windows. You made an indignant sound when your mother shifted her grip, little hands fisting in protest before settling again.

The adults exchanged greetings. Polite words, and familiar courtesies.

Valarr barely heard them.

He was staring at the little dragon wrapped in her mother's embrace.

“You remember my brother, Prince Baelor, of course,” Maekar was saying, gesturing to Valarr’s father. “And this is his wife, and his son.”

Introductions continued, and then.

“And this is our youngest,” your mother said, voice warm with unmistakable pride. “Our daughter.”

She tilted you slightly forward, inviting admiration.

Valarr swallowed.

You stared back at him.

Your gaze fixed on him with startling intensity for someone so small, eyes wide and unblinking. A slow smile spread across your face, gummy and delighted, as if you’d found something you very much approved of.

Valarr had the absurd thought that you looked…pleased. As though he were a novelty.

“Well,” Baelor chuckled, “she seems like a lively one.”

“She always is,” Maekar’s wife replied fondly. “Especially when there are new faces.”

Your attention did not waver. Your small hand lifted, fingers opening and closing in a clumsy, curious motion.

Valarr shifted his weight.

This was fine. Perfectly fine. You would be admired, cooed over, perhaps passed to a septa or attendant. He would smile politely from a distance. That was the proper order of things.

He relaxed, just a fraction.

And then Baelor said, far too lightly, “Valarr.”

Valarr felt dread bloom instantly.

“Yes, Father?” His words coming out to meek for a prince of his stature.

“Why don’t you greet your cousin properly?”

Before Valarr could respond, before he could so much as draw breath to suggest an alternative, Maekar’s wife laughed softly.

“Oh, would you like to hold her?”

The room seemed to tilt.

“I-” Valarr began, his mind urging him to refuse his uncles good wife.

It was too late.

You were already being transferred.

Your mother stepped closer, carefully placing you into Valarr’s arms with practiced ease, as if handing over a bundle of linens instead of a living, breathing child. Your weight was unfamiliar, warm, solid, and alarmingly fragile.

Valarr froze.

His arms locked in place, instinctively stiff, elbows tucked awkwardly at his sides. He stared down at you in open panic, acutely aware of how many eyes were on him.

You blinked up at him.

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then you reached for him.

Your tiny hand latched onto the front of his doublet with startling strength, fingers curling into the embroidered fabric just below his collarbone. Valarr inhaled sharply.

“Oh,” Baelor said, amused. “She’s taken a liking to you son.”

Valarr did not move, and you tugged harder.

The Targaryen crest, three-headed dragon molded from steel, pulled under your grip. Valarr watched in horror as the stitching around it strained.

“I think-” he said faintly, “I think she has to strong a hold on me.”

You made a pleased sound, babbling happily as you tightened your grip and brought the emblem closer to your face, examining it with grave seriousness. Your other hand joined the first, fingers patting and scrunching the sigil as though testing its texture.

Someone laughed.

“Careful,” Maekar said dryly. “She’s strong.”

Valarr believed it.

He looked up helplessly at his mother, who was smiling far too serenely.

“Support her head Valarr.” she reminded gently.

Valarr shifted one hand, too fast, then stopped again, terrified he’d done it wrong. You wobbled slightly, offended, and let out a sharp sound of protest.

Valarr’s heart leapt into his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted instinctively, as if you could understand him.

You stared at him, then promptly shoved a fist into your mouth and chewed on it, apparently satisfied.

The adults laughed again.

Valarr flushed.

You, meanwhile, were delighted.

Your attention drifted back to his chest, to the shining emblem that had caught your eye in the first place. With unwavering determination, you tugged again, harder this time.

The thread held, barely.

“Oh-no, no,” Valarr muttered under his breath. “You cannot-”

You could.

With a triumphant little noise, you yanked, and Valarr felt the stitching give way slightly beneath your grip. Not fully torn-but loosened enough to make his stomach drop.

“She’s stealing from you,” Baelor boomed in laughter.

Valarr looked up sharply. “She’s taking the emblem father.”

“It seems fair,” Maekar said. “She is a Targaryen after all.”

Your mother laughed softly, eyes shining. “She’s always liked shiny things.”

Valarr looked down at you again.

You were beaming now, utterly content, clutching the piece of metal like a prize you’d won through sheer will. Your chubby fingers were red from gripping it so tightly.

He should have handed you back.

He should have insisted.

Instead, something strange happened.

You leaned closer, entirely unprompted, and pressed your forehead briefly against his chest, a clumsy, affectionate bump. Then you sighed, a soft, sleepy sound, and settled.

Still holding the sigil.

Valarr went very still.

The room seemed to fade at the edges.

You were warm, and real. Breathing softly against him, your tiny weight anchored in his arms as if you belonged there. His panic dulled into something quieter. His awareness heightened, careful not to drop you.

You trusted him.

For reasons entirely beyond his comprehension, you trusted him.

“Well,” his mother said softly, “I don’t think she intends to let go.”

Valarr swallowed.

“I-I don’t think I can move,” he admitted.

Maekar’s wife smiled at him, something knowing in her expression. “You are doing just fine my prince.”

You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip, fingers still curled in the dragon’s heads stitched over his heart.

Valarr thought, distantly, that he would remember this.

The weight of you.

And how, for the first time that day, he hadn’t minded holding onto a babe.

Valarr realized, belatedly, that the problem was no longer holding you.

The problem was that no one seemed inclined to help him stop.

You had settled fully now, cheek pressed against his chest, breath warm through the layers of his doublet. Your fingers remained tangled stubbornly in the loosened embroidery, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for you to keep hold of him.

Valarr stood there, acutely aware of every inch of himself, his posture, his breathing, the tension in his arms. He had never been more conscious of the fact that he was alive and responsible for something far smaller and more fragile than himself.

“I think,” he said carefully, after a long moment, “she is…asleep.”

You were not, not quite, but your eyelids had drooped, lashes resting against flushed cheeks, your mouth slack in the way of someone very close to drifting off. One hand still clutched the sigil. The other had gone lax, resting against his collarbone.

“She does that,” your mother said cooed. “Decides she’s comfortable and refuses to be moved.”

Valarr attempted to shift his weight again, just enough to ease the strain in his arms.

You responded immediately.

A small, displeased sound escaped you, sharp and indignant, and your fingers tightened. Valarr froze mid-motion, heart hammering.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, absurdly earnest.

This time, you opened your eyes.

They were a pale, bright violet, too clear, too knowing for someone so young. They focused on his face, studying him with an intensity that made Valarr’s breath catch.

Then you smiled.

A small, satisfied curve of your mouth, as if to say: There. Don’t do that again.

Baelor laughed outright.

“Oh, she’s clever,” he said. “Look at her. She’s got you trapped.”

Valarr shot his father a look that was half plea, half accusation.

“She’s-she’s holding my clothes,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Maekar stepped closer, studying the situation with a measured eye. He reached out, fingers brushing gently against your hand.

You did not release the sigil.

Instead, you drew it closer to yourself, little brows furrowing in displeasure.

Maekar paused.

“Well,” he said slowly, “she’s claimed it.”

Valarr stared at him. “She cannot have it.”

“Why not?” Maekar asked mildly. “It’s hers as much as yours.”

Valarr opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He had no answer that wouldn’t sound ridiculous.

Your mother hid a smile behind her hand.

“She’s never taken to strangers like this,” she said. “Usually she fusses.”

Valarr swallowed.

“I’m not-” He stopped himself. “I mean, I don’t-”

He trailed off, at a loss.

You shifted again, settling more securely in his arms. Your head tucked just beneath his chin now, breath puffing softly against his throat. Valarr stiffened instinctively, then forced himself to relax, lowering his head just enough to keep you steady.

He could feel the warmth of you through the fabric. The slow, steady rhythm of your breathing.

Something quieted inside him.

“Valarr,” his mother said gently, stepping closer. “You may hand her back now if you like.”

He hesitated.

He did want to, or he truly did. His arms ached, and he was painfully aware of how ridiculous he must look, standing there, rigid and wide-eyed, holding a baby who had apparently decided to take possession of him.

And yet, he looked down at you again.

Your fingers had loosened slightly now, grip slack but still determined, the metal sigil in between your touch. One foot stuck out from the folds of your linen enclosure, kicking faintly with contentment.

You trusted him, completely. Like how a small cat would nap near its siblings.

The thought landed with surprising weight.

“I think,” Valarr said slowly, “she’ll be upset.”

As if to prove his point, his mother reached out carefully, attempting to slide your fingers free from the the sigil.

You woke fully at once.

Your grip tightened. Your face scrunched, and a sharp, offended cry burst from you, loud enough to echo off the stone walls.

Valarr startled.

“Oh-Seven-” He pulled you closer without thinking, one hand coming up to support your back. “No, no-please don’t-”

Your cry cut off mid-sound.

You blinked and sniffled.

Then settled again, apparently appeased, cheek pressed firmly against his chest.

The room went silent.

Then Baelor laughed again, softer this time.

“Well,” he said, “it seems she’s made her choice.”

Valarr stared straight ahead, cheeks burning.

“I didn’t-” he began weakly.

Maekar gave a low huff that might have been amusement. “She’s stubborn,” he said. “Takes after her brothers I reckon.”

“Gods help us all,” your mother murmured fondly.

Valarr felt oddly proud.

The realization startled him.

He had done nothing to earn it. He had simply…existed. And yet, something about the way you clung to him, unbothered by rank or expectation, made him feel, as ridiculous as it was, chosen.

Minutes passed. Conversation resumed around him, drifting to safer topics. Valarr remained still, barely daring to breathe too deeply in case it disturbed you.

He adjusted his grip minutely, learning your weight, how to support you without startling you. The tension in his shoulders eased by degrees.

Eventually, your breathing slowed again, deeper now, unmistakably asleep.

Your mother watched closely.

“She’s truly out,” she said softly. “Now might be our chance.”

Valarr nodded, careful.

He shifted, slow and deliberate, loosening your grip finger by finger with infinite patience. You stirred but did not wake, lips pursing briefly before relaxing again.

The sigil slipped free at last.

Valarr exhaled, relieved.

But when he began to pass you back, something unexpected happened.

Your hand shot out again.

This time, instead of grabbing the piece of metal, your fingers curled around his.

Valarr froze.

The contact was brief, and clumsy, but it sent a strange jolt through him. Your grip was weak, barely there, but the intent behind it was unmistakable.

Don’t go.

He looked down at you, heart doing something uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

Your mother paused, watching the moment with quiet interest.

“Oh dear...she’s going to be a handful,” she said softly.

Valarr managed a breathless laugh. “I can tell.”

Eventually—carefully, gently—you were transferred back into your mother’s arms. You protested faintly, a soft sound of displeasure, before settling again against her shoulder.

Valarr stepped back, arms suddenly empty.

The absence felt…strange.

He smoothed his doublet automatically, eyes flicking to the loose threads that once connected the metal symbol of his house. The sigil sat askew now.

He didn’t fix it.

“Well,” Baelor said, clapping a hand lightly on Valarr’s shoulder, “you’ve survived.”

Valarr nodded, still staring at you.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I think I have.”

As your family prepared to depart, Maekar paused beside him.

“She likes you,” Maekar said, matter-of-fact.

Valarr glanced at him, startled. “She is but a babe.”

Maekar’s mouth twitched. “Even so.”

Valarr looked at the dragonian symbol in his hands, then he lifted it up towards his uncle, "perhaps she might search for this when she awakes."

Maekar slowly took the sigil from the young boy, thanking him quietly.

They left soon after, the solar returning to its usual stillness. Valarr remained where he was long after the doors closed, fingers curling unconsciously where yours had been.

He looked down at his chest, the lack of the dragon symbol apparent.

Valarr thought, with quiet certainty, that he would never forget this.

And though he did not yet know why, he suspected it would matter.

—

The journey from Summerhall to the Red Keep was loud with celebration, though none of it felt particularly official to you, only familiar.

Your father indulged you shamelessly.

When you lingered too long admiring the view from a rise in the road, he ordered the caravan slowed. When you expressed even mild interest in a ribbon from a passing merchant, it appeared in your hands before the day was done. He listened when you spoke, smiled when you laughed, and waved off any suggestion that you were being spoiled.

“She’s allowed,” Maekar said flatly, daring anyone to disagree.

Your brothers hovered like they always did.

Daeron walked at your left, satchel of wine in hand. He was relaxed but watchful, ready with a joke or a steadying hand. Aerion stayed closer than necessary, sharp-eyed and territorial, correcting servants before they could fumble and scowling whenever someone stared too long.

“She doesn’t need all this,” you said at one point, gesturing to yourself and at the attention.

“She absolutely does,” Aerion replied. “And more.”

Attendants fussed endlessly.

Your hair was brushed and rebrushed. Your sleeves adjusted. Your jewelry inspected, removed, returned. At one point, an older attendant fastened a small trinket at your neckline, a simple piece of metal sewn into a ribbon, shaped like the three-headed dragon of house Targaryen.

You touched it absently, as you always did.

Your favorite.

No one remembered where it had come from. You certainly didn’t. It had simply…always been yours it seemed. You liked the way the jagged metal felt beneath your fingers, worn slightly dull with time. It calmed you.

Behind it all, your mother watched.

She said little, but her gaze was sharp and measuring, tracking every indulgence from the attendants. She saw how easily you were loved, and how easily that love might become leverage.

And quietly, without your knowledge, she decided.

You would be betrothed to Valarr Targaryen. for why should her daughter, beloved by the realm, settle for anything other than the heir of the heir.

—

Trumpets announced your arrival.

The Red Keep rose before you, pale stone glowing in the afternoon sun. Courtiers gathered, and servants hurried.

You felt it, even if you didn’t flinch.

Your father rested a hand briefly at your back. Your brothers closed in slightly. The attendants fluttered, whispering reminders.

Inside the keep, Valarr Targaryen was being given the vaguest instruction of his life.

“Be attentive,” his mother told him calmly. “She is important.”

Important could mean anything.

Valarr smoothed his doublet, fingers brushing the sigil at his chest out of habit. The old one had been replaced many years ago, but his hand still went there without thinking.

“You’ve met her before,” Baelor added, almost as an afterthought. “Once.”

Valarr looked up sharply. “I have?”

Baelor smiled faintly. “She was very small.”

The memory struck like heat.

Tiny hands, the warm weight. The dragon tugged loose beneath her grip.

Valarr went still.

“I remember,” he said quietly.

—

You entered the hall with sunlight caught in your hair, laughter soft on your lips as Daeron murmured something in your ear. You looked unguarded, and entirely yourself.

Valarr saw you immediately.

And then he saw it.

The trinket at your neckline.

The dragon.

Not the polished sigils worn by courtiers, but a small, slightly worn, metallic mold, attached with a silk bow and silver chains.

Valarr’s breath caught.

His gaze dropped without permission, tracking the familiar shape, the way the ribbon and chains pulled ever so slightly at the edges.

You noticed his stare and followed it down, fingers lifting automatically to the trinket.

“Oh,” you said lightly. “This?”

You rubbed the embroidery between thumb and forefinger, absent, affectionate.

“Well, my prince, I’ve always liked it. ever since I was a child.” you continued. “I don’t remember where it’s from. It’s just…mine.”

Just like that.

Your fingers curled around it.

Valarr felt as though the room tilted, the same familiar feeling from when he held you as a boy all those years ago.

—

Conversation carried on around you, but Valarr heard very little of it. His attention stayed fixed on your hands, on the unconscious way you held the sigil when you laughed, when you listened, when you grew thoughtful.

At one point, you leaned closer to him to inspect the one on his chest.

Your fingers brushed over the smooth metal.

The motion was instinctive, and terribly familiar.

Valarr’s pulse jumped.

Years ago, you had done this exact thing, clutched the dragon over his heart with all the certainty of someone who knew what they wanted and refused to let go.

You did it now without realizing.

Valarr swallowed hard.

“You favor that trinket,” he said carefully.

You smiled at him. “I suppose I do. It makes me feel safe.”

The word struck deeper than it had any right to.

—

Your mother noticed.

She watched Valarr’s expression shifted, how his composure cracked just enough to let something genuine through. She saw the way he looked at you as if seeing a memory made flesh.

She said nothing, although she didn’t need to.

Your father further discussed something Daeron said, while Aerion shot Valarr a warning glance from across the table.

And you, utterly unaware, tilted your head toward Valarr, curiosity bright.

“You’re very quiet,” you observed. “Is court always like this?”

Valarr smiled faintly.

“Not usually,” he said. “I don’t think it’s ever been quite like this.”

Your fingers tightened on the dragon again.

Valarr knew then, with quiet certainty, that this was no coincidence.

You had found him once before, And somehow, you had found him again.

—

Valarr told himself it was coincidence the first time.

The Red Keep was enormous, after all, vast halls and endless corridors, gardens that folded in on themselves, staircases that led nowhere and everywhere at once. It was entirely reasonable that paths might cross. Entirely natural.

He repeated this to himself as he rounded the corner of the eastern gardens and nearly collided with you.

You stopped short just in time, skirts swaying, breath slightly quickened as though you’d been moving fast.

“Oh,” you began, then blinked. “My prince.”

Valarr straightened instinctively, his court etiquette snapping into place before he could stop it.

“Princess,” he greeted.

You rolled your eyes immediately.

“Please don’t,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “I was trying to escape that.”

He followed your gaze.

Daeron and Aerion stood several paces behind you, mid-argument, clearly in the midst of deciding who was more responsible for whatever irritation had driven you off. Daeron gestured animatedly; Aerion’s arms were crossed, expression sharp.

Valarr’s lips twitched.

“I take it they’re the cause of your flight.”

“They always are,” you said lightly. “One of them decided I needed guarding inside the Red Keep of all places.”

“An unforgivable offense,” Valarr agreed playfully.

Your laughter surprised him.

It was bright, and it eased something tight in his chest. You shifted your weight, fingers lifting unconsciously to the dragon trinket at your neckline, rubbing the worn thing between thumb and forefinger.

Valarr noticed.

“I won’t keep you,” he said, though he made no move to leave. “Unless you’d prefer my company to theirs.”

You tilted your head, studying him.

“I think,” you said after a moment, “that I would.”

Daeron noticed them. He paused mid-sentence, gaze snapping to Valarr. Aerion followed a heartbeat later, eyes narrowing.

You turned just enough to wave them off.

“I’m fine,” you called. “Go bother someone else.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened, and Daeron sighed theatrically.

“You’re certain sister?” Daeron asked.

“Yes,” you replied. “Unless you’d like to argue in front of the prince.”

That decided it.

Your brothers retreated, reluctantly, casting Valarr one last look that was all warning.

When they were gone, the garden seemed quieter.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “They mean well.”

“I know,” Valarr replied. “I imagine I will be similar if not the same if I were to ever have a sister.”

That earned him another smile.

You walked then, not formally, just drifting along the garden path side by side. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It settled easily.

Valarr found himself glancing at you when you weren’t looking, to preoccupied with the budding flowers or bugs on the leafs.

At the way you moved without self-consciousness. At the way your fingers kept returning to the trinket, as though drawn there by instinct. At the faint crease between your brows when you grew thoughtful.

He told himself, again, that this meant nothing. he was being courteous is all.

The second time happened in the library.

Valarr had retreated there deliberately, seeking refuge from council murmurs and polite inquiries. He’d chosen a far corner, half-shadowed, shelves towering overhead, the quiet thick and blessed.

He was halfway through a page when he heard footsteps.

Light, feminine steps.

He looked up.

You stood a few paces away, scanning the shelves with open curiosity, an attendant hovering helplessly behind you with a stack of books already in her arms.

“Oh,” you said when you noticed him. “My prince, we meet again.”

Valarr closed his book slowly.

“Should I be offended,” he asked, “or relieved?”

You smiled, stepping closer.

“Relieved,” you decided. “I was hoping for something more interesting than titles about trade tariffs.”

He gestured to the shelf beside him. “History, then. Slightly more intriguing.”

Your eyes lit up.

“You read history for fun?”

“I don’t recommend it,” he said. “But it does grow on you.”

You leaned closer, scanning spines, and without realizing it, without even looking, your fingers found the dragon again.

Valarr’s breath caught.

The same motion, the same unconscious curl of your hand.

“You do that often,” he said quietly.

You glanced down, surprised, then laughed softly.

“Oh. That. I suppose I do.”

“Does it mean something?”

You considered.

“I don’t think so,” you said. “It’s just familiar, and it comforts me.”

Valarr looked away before you could see his expression.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I imagine does.”

You chose a book then, thick, well-worn. You tucked it under your arm.

“Borrowing this,” you said cheerfully. “I’ll return it. Probably.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he replied.

When you left, the space you’d occupied felt suddenly empty. Valarr sat there for a long moment afterward, staring at the shelf without seeing it.

Twice.

Coincidence, he told himself.

The third time made him laugh.

It was a narrow corridor near the royal apartments—one he rarely used, chosen out of habit more than intention. He rounded the corner quickly, deep in thought—

—and stopped short.

So did you.

For a heartbeat, you simply stared at one another.

Then you laughed first.

“This is becoming suspicious my prince,” you said.

Valarr found himself smiling before he could stop it.

“Either the Red Keep is smaller than I remember,” he said lightly, “or you’re following me.”

Your laughter rang out, a genuine one.

“I assure you,” you replied, “I’d have chosen a more dramatic approach.”

Something in Valarr loosened at the sound.

He relaxed visibly, shoulders easing, the careful distance he kept from most people slipping without effort.

And as you passed him, close enough that he caught the faint scent of summer on your clothes, he realized something unsettling. He hoped it would happen again. That you would always be their as he turns every corner. That you'd inhabit the spaces he so commonly ventured into.

—

Later that evening, as Valarr found himself choosing paths he might run into you on, he stopped short.

And laughed quietly to himself. Valarr did not mean to look for you.

That was the lie he told himself as he chose the longer path through the eastern wing the following morning, one that curved past the small terrace overlooking the Blackwater rather than cutting straight through the council corridor. He told himself he wanted air. Quiet. Space to think.

He did not tell himself he hoped you might be there.

The terrace was empty.

He felt an unreasonable flicker of disappointment before he caught himself and frowned, annoyed at the thought. Ridiculous. You had your own schedule, your own obligations, attendants, family, duties he barely understood. It was foolish to expect-

“My prince?”

He turned.

You stood in the doorway, sunlight at your back, one hand braced lightly against the stone as if you had only just decided to step outside. You looked surprised to see him, and then pleased.

“Oh,” you said, smiling. “There you are.”

There you are.

The words settled somewhere uncomfortably warm in his chest.

“I could say the same,” he replied, a little too quickly.

You stepped onto the terrace, skirts whispering softly against the stone. An attendant hovered briefly behind you, then, at your gentle insistence, retreated inside.

“Everyone keeps telling me where I ought to be, these days,” you said. “It’s exhausting.”

Valarr huffed a quiet laugh. “They do that.”

You leaned against the balustrade beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you without touching. Below, the water moved steadily, indifferent to courtly fuss.

Your fingers lifted to the dragon trinket again.

Valarr watched the motion.

“You always go to your neck, when you’re overwhelmed,” he said before thinking better of it.

You blinked. Looked down.

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

You considered that, rubbing the sigil thoughtfully.

“Hm,” you murmured. “I suppose I do. Although my prince, you shouldn't stare at a ladies chest so much, some may find it indecent.”

He could feel the teasing notations behind your words, but he didnt entertain it further. Settling instead to cough into this fisted hand and wait for the warmth of his cheeks to wear off.

—

The feast that evening was unavoidable.

Your nameday demanded it, music, laughter, long tables heavy with food, and a sea of eyes eager to measure, compare, and whisper. Valarr entered with practiced composure, scanning the hall without conscious intent, finding you immediately.

You sat with your family, your father at the center, your brothers flanking you like loyal guards. You looked radiant, not because of your finery (though that was impossible to ignore), but because you were comfortable. At ease. Laughing openly.

Valarr realized, distantly, that he was smiling.

“Careful,” Baelor murmured beside him. “You’re staring son.”

Valarr straightened. “I was not.”

Baelor’s expression said everything.

Valarr, wanting to ignore his father, made his way toward the high table, intending to sit where protocol dictated. Halfway there, you glanced up.

Your eyes met his. You smiled small, and unmistakably meant for him.

Valarr changed course without even noticing he’d done it. By the time he realized, he was seated beside you.

Your brothers exchanged a look. Daeron raised a brow, and Aerion narrowed his eyes.

You, blissfully unaware, leaned closer.

“I was hoping you’d sit here my prince,” you said.

Valarr felt the words settle into him like a promise.

“Was that so?”

“Yes,” you replied simply. “You make this all fuss feel much less loud.”

Conversation flowed easily, about things he had truly no interest in. Although when you would talk he'd find himself straining his ears just to hear you a little clearer. You spoke of Summerhall, of books you’d borrowed and not yet returned, of how strange it felt to be celebrated so publicly. Valarr listened, found himself answering with more honesty than he ever offered at court.

At one point, Aerion leaned in.

“So,” he said, tone deceptively casual, “dear cousin, how long have you two known each other?”

Valarr hesitated.

You answered first.

“Oh, not long brother,” you said. “We just keep running into each other.”

Daeron snorted. “Funny how that happens.”

Valarr hid a smile behind his cup. Your fingers found the trinket again as laughter rose around you. He noticed how you stilled slightly when someone down the table laughed too loudly. How your grip tightened just a fraction.

—

After the feast, Valarr told himself, again, that he would sleep early. Instead, at the dead of night, he found himself wandering. The corridors were quieter now, torches casting long shadows across stone. He passed servants and guards, nodded politely, turned corners without thinking.

And then, there you were.

Seated on a window bench, skirts gathered around you, moonlight painting silver into your hair. You looked up at the sound of his steps and smiled as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

“Do you ever sleep?” you asked.

Valarr laughed softly. “Rarely.”

You shifted to make room. He joined you without hesitation. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence was companionable. Comfortable in a way Valarr had rarely known.

“I think,” you said at last, “that the Red Keep is playing tricks on us.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” you continued. “It keeps putting you in my way.”

Valarr glanced at you, amused.

“Or,” he said lightly, “you’re really following me.”

You laughed. “You’re impossible.”

He liked the way you said that.

Your hand drifted, again, always, to the dragon at your neckline. You rubbed the thread slowly, thoughtfully, eyes distant. Valarr watched, heart tight.

“You don’t remember where you got it,” he said.

It wasn’t a question, you shook your head in response.

“No. I’ve asked before. No one seems to know. It’s always just been with me.”

He swallowed.

“Do you mind that?”

You considered.

“No,” you said finally. “Some things don’t need explanations.”

Valarr thought of a baby’s grip, of laughter, of a torn sigil mended too carefully to discard.

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “Some things don’t.”

Later, when Valarr finally did return to his chambers, he paused before the mirror. His gaze dropped, unconsciously, to the dragon over his heart.

He smiled faintly.

Across the keep, you slept with the trinket curled in your fingers, unaware of the pattern you were weaving.

And somewhere between chance and intention, between memory and instinct. The prince who kept finding you realized something dangerous. He didn’t want to stop.

—

Valarr did not believe he was flirting.

That was the first and most critical misunderstanding.

From his perspective, he was being thoughtful. Attentive in a way befitting someone who had been told, rather unhelpfully, that you were important. He listened when you spoke. He answered when you asked. He made sure you were comfortable, and safe.

None of that, in his mind, constituted flirting.

It did, however, result in him saying things like—

“You…walk very quietly.”

You paused mid-step, turned to look at him, and burst out laughing.

“That is a compliment?” you asked.

Valarr felt heat rush to his face.

“I meant,” he said quickly, “that you move without-without drawing attention. It’s…efficient.”

“Efficient,” you repeated, eyes bright with amusement. “How flattering.”

He winced. “That came out wrong.”

You smiled anyway, and that somehow made it worse.

From then on, it only escalated. Valarr overthought everything.

Every word was weighed twice. If he spoke too much, he worried he’d bored you. If he spoke too little, he feared he’d offended you. If you smiled for longer than a heartbeat, he went quiet, convinced he’d said something foolish and you were being kind about it.

You, meanwhile, assumed this was simply how he was. Polite, reserved, and earnest Valarr, in an almost awkward way.

You found it endearing. Everyone else found it obvious.

Daeron noticed first.

It happened during a late afternoon walk along the inner ramparts. You were speaking animatedly about a book you’d borrowed—still hadn’t returned, Valarr noted—and he was listening with the kind of focus usually reserved for council matters.

Daeron watched him for a long moment, then leaned closer to you.

“He looks at you like you’re the only person in the keep sister,” your brother murmured.

You blinked. “He does not.”

Daeron hummed skeptically.

Aerion noticed next, and was far less subtle about it.

“So,” he said one evening, arms crossed as Valarr approached. “Is this intentional?”

Valarr stiffened. “Is what intentional?”

“This,” Aerion gestured vaguely between the two of you. “The constant proximity. The hovering around my sister.”

Valarr opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I am not hovering,” he said finally.

Aerion’s gaze sharpened. “You haven’t been more than three steps away from her all evening.”

You laughed, nudging Aerion’s arm. “You’re imagining things brother.”

Aerion looked unconvinced, but said nothing more.

Your father noticed.

Maekar watched the way Valarr adjusted his pace to match yours, during your now daily strolls in the garden with the prince. The way he angled his body toward you, shielding it, he obviously did so without realizing it. The way his expression softened when you laughed.

He had said nothing.

Your mother noticed, and smiled.

She noticed the unconscious gestures. The way your fingers always found the dragon when Valarr was near. The way his eyes followed that motion, every time, as though it were something precious. If it was any man she'd have him beheaded for looking at the princess in such an inappropriate manner.

She did not intervene.

Valarr, meanwhile, was miserable.

He stood in his father’s study one evening, hands clasped tightly behind his back, pacing in short, agitated turns.

“I don’t think she knows I like her,” he said finally.

Baelor looked up from his writing, expression unreadable.

“She doesn’t?”

“No,” Valarr said, running a hand through his hair. “She’s kind. She laughs. She speaks to me easily. I think she assumes I’m merely, being polite.”

Baelor studied him for a long moment.

“You escort her everywhere.”

“Yes, but—”

“You seek her out daily.”

“That’s coincidence.”

Valarr hesitated.

Baelor set his quill down.

“Valarr,” he said gently, “my son you are courting her in plain sight.”

Valarr froze.

“I am?”

Baelor smiled.

“You compliment her, terribly,” he added. “You grow flustered when she teases you. You go quiet when she smiles at you too long, and you look at her like she already belongs beside you.”

Valarr stared at him, horrified.

“That’s-” he stopped, swallowing. “That’s obvious?”

“To everyone but you and her it seems,” Baelor replied.

Valarr sank into a chair, covering his face with one hand.

“She deserves someone-,” he muttered. “-Someone who knows what he’s doing.”

Baelor chuckled softly.

“She deserves someone who sees her,” he said. “And you do.”

The realization hit Valarr slowly. Every interaction replayed itself in his mind with new clarity.

The garden. The library. The corridors. The way you smiled when you saw him. The way your fingers curled around the dragon without thinking.

He had been courting you.

Not with grand gesture, with care. The next time he saw you, he was acutely aware of it.

You approached him in the courtyard, sunlight warming the stone beneath your feet. “There you are,” you said easily.

Valarr’s heart stumbled. “Here I am,” he replied.

You smiled at him, that same unguarded smile, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“Can I walk with you?” he asked. You didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

And as your fingers drifted, once again, to the familiar trinket at your neckline. Valarr thought, with equal parts terror and certainty.

Seven help me. I am in love with her.

—

The solar was quiet in the way only old stone rooms could be, thick walls holding in the warmth of the afternoon, shutters half-drawn against the sun. Baelor stood near the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back, gaze fixed not on the city beyond but on the reflection in the glass.

Maekar did not sit. He never did, not when something mattered.

“You wished to speak brother,” Maekar said, arms crossed, voice level. “So speak.”

Baelor turned slowly, studying him. He had known Maekar his entire life, knew the set of his shoulders when he was bracing, the way his jaw tightened when he expected to be challenged.

“This concerns your daughter,” Baelor said evenly.

Maekar’s expression hardened at once.

“Then you should choose your words carefully.”

Baelor inclined his head slightly. “I intend to.”

Silence stretched between them.

“She is remarkable,” Baelor continued. “Unaffected by court in a way few are."

“She is young,” Maekar replied sharply.

Baelor did not argue that.

“I have no intention of rushing anything,” he said. “But I would be remiss not to acknowledge what is already plain.”

Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “Plain to whom?”

“To anyone with eyes,” Baelor said quietly. “Valarr, most of all.”

That did it. Maekar let out a low breath through his nose, something between a scoff and a warning.

“My daughter is not a consolation prize for a prince who happens to notice her,” he said. “Nor is she a political convenience.”

Baelor held his gaze steadily. “I would never suggest my niece to be that.”

“She has brothers who would tear this keep apart for her,” Maekar went on. “She has a father who has bled for this family. I will not hand her over lightly.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Baelor replied.

Another silence.

“She is fond of him,” Baelor added carefully. “Even if she does not yet know what that means.” Maekar’s jaw tightened.

“And what of Valarr?” he asked. “Is he fond, or merely intrigued?”

Baelor did not answer immediately. “He is…earnest in his affection,” he said at last. “In ways that do not always serve him well. He is thoughtful to a fault. He remembers things others forget.”

Maekar’s brow furrowed. “Such as?”

Baelor hesitated only a moment. “She wore something today,” he said. “A small dragon. Worn with age.”

Maekar stiffened. “That trinket,” Baelor continued, “once belonged to Valarr. Or rather, she took it from him.”

Maekar stared. “She was a baby,” Baelor added. “She grabbed the sigil from his chest and would not let go. We thought nothing of it at the time.”

Maekar said nothing. “Valarr did not forget,” Baelor finished quietly.

The silence that followed was heavier than before. Maekar turned away, pacing once across the room, boots striking stone. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

“She does not remember,” he said. “She knows nothing of that moment.”

“No,” Baelor agreed. “But she repeats it.”

“She touches the dragon whenever she is overwhelmed,” Baelor said. “Without knowing why, and my son, Valarr notices every time.”

Maekar closed his eyes briefly.

“That does not mean I will give my consent,” he said. “I have seen what the crown does to good men. I will not watch my daughter be swallowed by it.”

Baelor nodded. “Nor would I.”

Maekar looked at him sharply. “Then why are we having this conversation?”

“Because,” Baelor said gently, “whether we sanction it or not, something has already begun.”

Maekar’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“She deserves a choice,” he said.

“So does Valarr,” Baelor replied. “And he has made none lightly.”

Maekar studied him for a long moment. “You speak as though this is decided.”

“No,” Baelor said. “I speak as a father who sees his son walking into something that matters, and I am speaking to another father who would burn the realm before seeing his daughter harmed.”

That, at least, Maekar understood.

“She will not be pressured,” Maekar said firmly. “She will not be paraded. If Valarr wishes anything from her, he will earn it."

Baelor smiled faintly. “I would expect nothing else.”

Maekar turned toward the door, then paused. “If he hurts her,” he said without looking back, “he will answer to me. Crown or no crown.”

Baelor met his back with calm certainty. “He knows.”

Maekar left without another word.

Baelor remained by the window long after. Some bonds, it seemed, did not need memory. Only time.

—

By the final days of your nameday celebrations, the Red Keep no longer felt like a palace.

You had lost track of how many feasts had been held in your honor. How many gifts had been pressed into your hands. How many times servants had bowed too deeply or courtiers had smiled too brightly, their eyes lingering just a moment too long.

Your father indulged you through all of it.

When you complained of sore feet, he waved off protocol and had chairs brought where there should not have been any. When you grew tired of sweet wines, he ordered something lighter without question. When you asked to walk the ramparts late at night, he assigned guards but did not forbid you.

“She’s had enough ceremony for a lifetime,” he said once, flatly.

Your brothers hovered relentlessly.

Daeron teased you about the attention, about how often your name was spoken in halls not meant for it. Aerion said less, but stood closer, watched harder.

Attendants fussed like it was their sole purpose in life. Everyday their were new gowns, new ribbons, new jewels, and endless adjustments.

—

Valarr had never hated celebration more.

Not because of the noise or the spectacle, he had been raised in it, but because celebration demanded visibility ,and with visibility came the scrutiny. And over the course of the week, every look he cast your way felt noticed.

He had not intended for things to become so obvious.

He had not intended to escort you so often, to linger so long, to learn the rhythms of your presence the way one learned music, without effort, without realizing it had happened.

Yet here he was, standing beside you again as musicians played softly in the gardens, torchlight flickering against stone.

“You look tired,” he said, immediately regretting it.

“I am,” you admitted cheerfully. “But it’s a pleasant sort of tired.”

“You’ve been generous with your time,” Valarr said.

You laughed softly. “As if I had a choice.” Your fingers, like oppositely charged magnets attracted towards the sigil at your neck.

Valarr’s gaze followed the motion before he could stop himself. You noticed this time.

Instead, you smiled. “You keep looking at it,” you said.

“I-” Valarr stopped, then exhaled. “I’m sorry, it’s familiar.”

“So you’ve said.”

He hesitated. “Do you ever wonder where it came from?”

“You've also asked that many times," you laughed lightly. “It is all the time I wonder, but I don’t mind not knowing.”

He wondered if you ever would.

—

By the sixth evening, no one pretended anymore.

Servants seated Valarr beside you without asking, musicians timed quieter songs for moments when you two would grace the dance floor. Courtiers bowed a fraction deeper when addressing the two of you as a unit.

—

It was late when you found yourselves alone in a quieter corridor, the sounds of celebration distant. Torches cast long shadows; the keep felt hushed, expectant.

“Valarr,” you said suddenly.

He turned to you at once. “Yes?”

“You’ve been…different,” you said carefully. “This week.”

His heart stuttered. “Different how?”

You considered, fingers worrying the three dragon’s.

“Like you’re thinking several things at once,” you said. “And none of them are simple.”

He laughed quietly. “You’re perceptive.”

“I have good teachers,” you replied.

Silence settled.

“There’s something happening,” you said slowly. “Isn’t there?”

Valarr’s instincts screamed to protect you from it, from politics, from expectation, from the weight of what was coming.

“Yes,” he said honestly. “There is.”

You looked up at him, searching his face. “And does it frighten you?”

He met your gaze. “Yes.”

That answer surprised you. “And yet,” you said softly, “you’re still here.”

Valarr’s voice was very quiet. “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

—

Baelor stood beside Maekar in the high gallery overlooking the hall below. The music swelled. You stood among the guests.

“And if she says no?” Maekar asked bluntly.

Baelor did not look away from the scene below. “Then we listen,” he said. “And Valarr will learn to accept it.”

Maekar nodded once. “She will be told tonight,” he said. “Not as an order.”

“No,” Baelor agreed. “As a possible match for the future.”

Maekar exhaled slowly. “My daughter deserves nothing but joy,” he said.

Baelor’s gaze shifted, just briefly, to Valarr, standing close at your side, speaking quietly. “She may have found it already brother.”

—

The final feast of your nameday week was grander than the rest. Banners hung high. The hall glowed with torchlight. The air buzzed, not with celebration alone, but anticipation.

You sensed it. Something about the way servants moved more carefully. The way your mother adjusted your sleeves herself. The way your father’s expression was unreadable.

Valarr felt it too.

When he offered you his arm, his hand trembled just slightly. “Whatever happens,” he said quietly, “I hope you know-”

The music swelled suddenly. A hush began to ripple through the hall. Baelor rose, and your father straightened.

Somewhere deep in your chest, the dragon trinket warmed beneath your fingers.

The hush had crept over the celebrations.

Conversation softened, laughter thinned, the musicians’ tempo slowed until even they seemed to sense it, bows drawing more gently, notes stretching longer than intended. One by one, heads turned toward the high table.

You felt it before you understood it.

Your fingers tightened around the dragon trinket at your throat, the familiarity pressing into your skin. The warmth there steadied you, even as something in the air shifted.

Valarr noticed immediately.

He had been speaking to you, something small, something meant to distract, but the moment Baelor rose, his words faltered. He straightened without thinking, shoulders squaring, expression composed with effort rather than ease.

Your father stood as well.

Baelor waited until the hall was fully still before he spoke.

“Lords and ladies of the realm,” he said, voice carrying easily through the vast space. “We gather tonight to mark the close of a week of celebration, one honoring the nameday of a daughter of House Targaryen, my lovely neice.”

A polite murmur followed.

You felt suddenly visible in a way you had not all week.

Baelor continued.

“It is fitting,” he said, “that such a celebration should also look forward, toward the future of our house, and the bonds that will strengthen it.”

Valarr’s heart began to pound. slow and heavy.

This was it.

He had known it was coming. Had felt it circling the edges of every conversation, every look, every carefully chosen word. And yet, the reality of it struck him all at once, sharp and breathless.

You glanced at him then, not in fear, more so in question.

Oh his sweet girl, he wishes he hide you away now, to not bother yourself with these pagentrys. But he could not, all he could do now was squeeze your hand slightly under the table.

Valarr met your gaze and held it, Whatever happens, his eyes seemed to say, I am here.

Baelor turned slightly, gesturing.

“It is with the blessing of both families,” he said evenly, “that we announce a betrothal.”

Your breath caught.

Maekar spoke then, voice firm and unyielding.

“My daughter,” he said, “has been raised with choice, with care, and with the understanding that her happiness is not a thing to be traded lightly.”

Your heart thundered.

Valarr’s chest felt tight.

Maekar turned fully now, his gaze sweeping the hall before settling, briefly, deliberately, on Valarr.

“She will be wed to a man who has shown her respect,” he continued, “who has sought her company without demand, and who understands the weight of what it means to stand beside her.”

A pause.

Then Baelor finished it.

“To my son, Prince Valarr Targaryen.”

The hall erupted.

A whirl it was, all the whispers rushing like wind through banners. Gasps, and murmurs. The rustle of silk as courtiers leaned closer, already weaving narratives in their minds.

You did not hear any of it, you were staring at Valarr.

He was staring at you.

For one suspended heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between you.

Your fingers clenched around the dragon.

Valarr swallowed.

“I-” you began, then stopped.

Daeron reacted first.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply through his nose, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

“Well,” he muttered, just loud enough for Aerion to hear, “that explains a great deal.”

Your mother reached for your hand. You realized then that she had known.

“How long?” you whispered, not looking away from Valarr.

She squeezed your other hand gently. “Long enough.”

Baelor raised his hand, the hall gradually settling again.

“This betrothal,” he said clearly, “is made with the understanding that it honors not only tradition but prosperity for the realm.”

Valarr felt his lungs finally draw breath.

You turned toward your father. Maekar’s gaze softened carefully.

“My dear girl, you are not commanded,” he said quietly, meant only for you. “this is an offering.”

You looked back at Valarr. He had gone still, utterly still, waiting.

“I accept,” you said. The words felt solid in your mouth.

The hall erupted properly this time.

Cheers, applause, exclamations too loud to track.

Valarr’s breath left him in a rush so sharp it nearly made him laugh. He bowed his head, briefly, respectfully, then turned back to you.

His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Almost reverent. “Are you certain?”

You smiled. “Yes.”

Your fingers relaxed, then, without thinking, reached for his sleeve.

Just for a moment, the same way you had when you were a babe.

—

Later, much later, you stood together on a balcony overlooking the city, the noise of celebration dimmed by distance.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Finally, you laughed softly. “So,” you said. “I suppose this explains why everyone’s been looking at us strangely.”

Valarr huffed a breath of a laugh. “I was told I was courting you.”

You glanced at him. “Were you?”

He considered. “Yes,” he said honestly. “Very badly.”

You laughed again, leaning closer. “I didn’t mind.”

Moonlight caught the dragon at your throat.

Valarr reached out, hesitant, and careful, and brushed his fingers lightly against it.

“You took this from me once,” he said softly.

You blinked. “I'm sorry?” Clearly not understanding his words.

He smiled, warm. "You were only a few moons old, when Lady Dyanna had me hold you, you found the symbol on my chest so captivating you had to have it. So you did, taking it right from my doublet."

Your face grew slightly red, facing the view instead of the prince in front of you. To ashamed to think you had done something so egregious in your early years. "Did I really?"

“Yes,” he said. “And I think I’ve been waiting for you to return it ever since.”

You did not pull away, some bonds, after all, did not need memory.

Only time.

You suddenly hear a chorus of laughter that draws your eyes up from the deep maroon to where your sister has her seat at the end of the table. Her entire face is filled with glee, mouth stretched wide and her eyes shaped into little squints. Any other observer would not catch the tremble in her hands, nor the way that her grin does not meet her eyes, nor the way her gaze never goes past where Aerion sits beside you in a stubborn attempt at forgetting your existence altogether.

You bring your hands away from the table and begin to thread and twist your fingers together in the hope that some kind of movement might distract your frenzied mind.

Across from you, your father picks at the lamb in front of him. His mouth is set in a hard line. You are not sure what bothers him, but you imagine it is probably in some way related to you.

Your eyes drift away from him and back to your sister. She lifts her hand and puts it on her betrothed’s shoulder. You cannot bring yourself to sneak a glance at Baelor’s reaction to the show of affection for you fear that you might see something there you could not shake.

Lyanna has not said a word to you. It has been two days since she saw you kiss her betrothed. Every instance you have tried to corner her in the hall or approach her in her chambers or seek her out after meals, she has always evaded you with curt words and carefully controlled mannerisms. She does not show her anger to you, nor does she allow herself to feel any other emotion she has so clearly hidden from you. She cannot even bring herself to look at you.

It hurts more than you could care to admit. Despite the fact Lyanna has never been or ever will be your full sister, she has always been there. In this tumultuous life, she has always been your one and only constant. The one person who did not look at you with outright scorn. Now, you find yourself wishing that she could at least look at you. You would bear her anger easily if it meant ridding yourself of this cold indifference.

You cannot blame her. You cannot fully say that if you were in her position, you would not have immediately gone to father and had her removed from the castle. You tell yourself that perhaps Lyanna did harbor some kind of fondness toward you, but another part of you thinks that she is just biding her time to ruin you the way only a sister could. Irrevocably. 

The fear prickles at the back of your neck and keeps your body from completely relaxing. You feel like a hare in the midst of a den of dragons, each person out for the kill. You shift in your seat uncomfortably and notice in your peripheral your nervy behavior has brought unwelcome attention.

“If I did not know better,” Aerion’s voice is hardly more than a mumble as he speaks this to you from where he sits at your side, “I would think you were not happy about our betrothal dinner.”

You turn your head in his direction ever so slightly, if only just to keep your eyes planted on him at all times. Your throat bobs dryly as you force yourself to swallow. It feels like sandpaper. You twist your lips into a smile to hide your unease.

“You are very astute,” you say to him. “Though, it is less the dinner I’m worried about as it is the betrothal itself.” Screw it, if Aerion wanted you dead, he’d just have to get in line at this point.

He lets out a dry chuckle. He stabs a piece of near-raw lamb with his knife and you watch as red liquid comes pouring out of the meat’s pores, falling onto the gold plate in maroon rivulets. His jaw flexes beneath his skin. 

He does not look at you. His mouth barely moves as he speaks again. “If we are to be wed,” he mumbles, “I think there are some things we should make clear.”

You pinch the fabric of your dress together between your nails, willing yourself to rid them of their incessant shake.

“You are to be my wife,” Aerion bites out, “and therefore you will not show me anything but respect. You will lay down and take me in every sense of the word like the good half-breed whore you are.”

The words do not shake you. You had expected it, or at least some version of it. Your eyes go back to your sister. She’s smiling at Baelor like she really means it. It is not fake compassion, it is genuine affection. Even if she does not care for him romantically, she can at least tolerate him. She will not have to “lay down and take” Baelor. Not in the way you will Aerion, at least.

Your eyes slide back to your betrothed. He’s taking a long drink from his goblet, his eyes shut in bliss at the liberation the liquid affords him. You watch as one droplet of the ruby libation slips from his mouth and down his neck and as it clashes against his pale skin and wonder what it would be like to see his entire neck covered in the same color.

Your eyes widen and you force them away from him the moment the treacherous thoughts enter your consciousness. 

The sound of a knife clattering against a goblet sends the table into a hushed silence at the same time. Your eyes get drawn to the middle of the table wherein Prince Maekar stands from his seat with a flourish.

You notice King Daeron’s eyes go from his son to across the faces gathered before they land on you. Something flickers in his expression. The taut wrinkles around his periwinkles eyes soften before they flit to the next person. 

You swallow thickly.

“I just want to say how wonderful it is that we are seeing the joining of the Stark and Targaryen in not one, but two unions,” Maekar says with a grin. It is an uncomfortable expression on his face. You get the impression it is not one he makes often. “I believe that the joining of my brother and Lady Stark, along with the union between my son and Lady Snow to be the start of a very long, fruitful legacy.”

Maekar taps his knife against his goblet once more before he sits down. Your father pats his shoulder in a friendly manner and they begin to speak in hushed, jovial tones.

You cannot imagine what you and Aerion look like compared to the happy couple at the end of the table. Are they just as miserable, down beneath their bright expressions? You cannot control your fleeting will to see your sister’s face in that moment and allow your eyes to dart over there.

What you land on instead makes your breath catch. 

One periwinkle, one brown eye stare at you from at the end of the table. His expression is soft, compassionate. His beard moves as his lips twitch upwards incrementally at the edges. You force your eyes away just as you notice Lyanna’s hand falling upon his forearm.

You suddenly feel horribly, violently ill.

It comes over you so quickly that your feet move before you can stop them. Your chair pushes out from behind you with a loud screech that sends eyes from every corner of the room landing on your figure.

“Is something the matter?” your father’s voice holds a warning in it that a part of you would ordinarily heed. In your current mind, however, all you can manage is turning your head away.

“If I could be e-excused, My Grace?” you look to King Daeron as you say this. His light eyes squint at your figure. “I suddenly do not feel so well.”

The lie tumbles from your lips so fluently that you are momentarily surprised by it. Lying to a king, no less. How far you have fallen.

“Of course, dear,” Daeron says, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. “Do you require any maesters?”

You shake your head mutely. Your skin feels flushed from the holes that your father’s gaze burns into it. 

You go to leave, stretching your slick palms across your gown as you spin away from the table. You try to escape without incident, but you do not move quite fast enough.

“Perhaps Lady Snow may require an escort to her chambers?” 

You turn your head to the side only for them to fall on Prince Maekar. He’s turned away from you, looking pointedly to his second eldest son, who’s currently slouched in his chair pretending he’s anywhere but here, you’re sure. 

You move to reply before Aerion can get the chance to. “It really is not necessary. I would hate to disturb the dinner for some stomachache.”

“Nonsense,” Maekar replies with a grin. His son still isn’t looking at him, instead stirring the maroon liquid in his goblet idly. His lips pull slightly down at the corners, his eyes narrowing with thinly veiled annoyance.

“Aerion?” he finally beckons. His second son finally looks at his father, then he looks at you.

He rolls his eyes away, and apparently emboldened by the maroon liquid in his goblet he says, “she can escort herself just fine. She’s got two legs and a sound mind, does she not?”

At the response, Prince Maekar looks like he is just one moment away from launching across the table and throttling his son. 

You burn with mortification. Tears bead at your waterline and you force your gaze away from the shocked spectators. You duck your head and take a few steps away.

You are stopped again by yet another voice’s interference. Of the Gods Old and New, could you not be put out of your misery?

“—Brother,” you hear someone all-too familiar say from across the table. You shiver at the gentle lilt that rounds off his words, at the softened edges of kindness and wisdom that accent his word. It is the first thing he’s said in your presence since it happened. You do not turn your head. “I would be happy to escort Lady Snow.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to mentally will Prince Baelor from saying anything more. It will only make this worse, you think in vain. Can he truly not see that he will be killing any chance of a relationship with Lyanna by doing this?

Maekar barely raises his eyes away from where he watches Aerion. His eyes reflect confusion muddled by annoyance. He looks over at you and you try your best to convey to him the fact that this is the absolute last thing he should allow. But the words get lost in translation. Maekar shrugs and you hear the screech of Baelor’s chair pushing away from the table shortly thereafter.

You do not look at him as he joins your side, but you can feel the heat emanating off of him like the fireplace in your quarters. You keep your distance from him as you take the initiative to go to the doors of the dining hall. 

There is a quiet space between the two of you as you walk side by side through the halls of the Red Keep. Everything feels wrong. The fabric of your dress rubs gratingly against your skin. Your mouth is still coated in the plain wine from the dinner. A cold drip of sweat goes down your neck.

Nothing is said immediately. Nothing has to be. The silence does enough. You think that you can breathe easily knowing you will not have to breach it.

Then, comes his voice.

“I suppose I should apologise,” Baelor murmurs. He keeps his eyes stubbornly in front of him as he walks, avoiding your probing gaze. “It was… unbecoming of me to do what I did that day. I recognize that I have caused irreparable harm to your relationship with Lady Lyanna, and for that I am distraught. I never wished to cause you harm… you or Lyanna.”

You feel something inside you break. Saltwater pushes against your waterline, searching for the least bit of resistance to escape and fall across your cheeks. You do not allow it, clenching your jaw stubbornly. That would be saved for the comfort of your quarters.

“It is just fine.” Your voice sounds meek, not at all carrying the strength you had hoped. “We both made mistakes.”

You feel his eyes on the side of your face before you see them in your periphery. He freezes in his stride, and you pause, eyebrows furrowed.

“I…” he starts, his throat bobbing, “I do not wish to give you the impression what we did… I did not think of it as a mistake.”

You do not reply immediately. Your heart stutters painfully, fighting against the confines of your restrictive bodice. Everything within you aches. It is the very last thing you had wanted him to say. The scorn, you could handle. The fear, the anger, the disgust, the regret, that you could handle. The way he stood before you now, his heart in his hands, reaching out for you to take it within yours, scared the shit out of you.

He backtracks when you do not reply. He clears his throat. “And of course, I understand that this is not something that can continue. You are at much greater risk than I. I also do not want to be presumptuous…”

“Baelor,” you interrupt, taking a few steps forward. He stops. His eyes soften and a hand comes to cup your cheek. You clasp it within your own two palms, preventing him from making contact. You hold his palm between yours against his chest. He squeezes your hand.

“I cannot be your mistress,” you say. His mouth opens to combat the notion, but you shake your head and he allows you to continue. “You say it would not be so, but I would be in the eyes of everyone else. I am a bastard. I am not ashamed of that, but the world will never let me forget it.” A tear flees from your eye and you watch his eyes trace it down your cheek. “You helped me realize I am more than just my name. I thank you for that. But you must realize… we cannot… we can never exist together.”

You drop his hand. “Lyanna is a good, virtuous woman. I have no doubts she will make a fine wife and an even better future queen.”

Baelor shudders. His jaw clenches as if holding back every emotion from stealing across his visage. You take a step back before you are dissuaded.

“Good night,” you say softly. “I can make it to my quarters from here. Go back to your betrothed.”

You leave before you can see his face fall.

The thing about sisters is that no matter what happens to cause a rift, one will eventually come crawling on their knees asking for forgiveness. You had tried that. Multiple times, even.

Any attempt to reconcile differences between you and Lyanna had been dashed by impromptu dinner plans, arrangements with septas, and other hurried excuses. She needed space, she told you once. Well, you had spent plenty of time holed up in your room between now and then. She needed time, you had given it freely. She couldn’t ignore you forever… could she? 

No. You decide that morning as a young handmaiden helps tie a cerulean dress around your waist. You will not allow your one friendship to wither away because of some inane… horrible… thoughtless mistake. You and Lyanna, you were sisters. Men cannot come between sisters.

Just as you begin to ponder on how and where you will corner her, your handmaiden breaks through your thoughts with a soft, tremulous voice.

“Mi’lady, I heard Princess Daella has sought you and Lady Lyanna’s company this morrow over tea. Would you like an escort there?”

A grin sweeps over your expression before you can school it. The handmaiden looks startled at the sudden change from solemn contemplation to jovial exuberance. You school your features.

“Yes, that sounds lovely,” you say, barely containing your anticipatory grin, “take me right away.”

For the first time in the two days since you destroyed whatever buds of relationship had formed between you and Prince Baelor, a sense of hope and delight lead your strides. The servant girl shows you to a secluded part of the Red Keep, overlooking a small sector of the royal gardens. You slow your pace once you catch a glimpse of the two heads huddled closely together under the protection of a blooming hibiscus. 

One has soft, silver hair that is braided in a crown on her head. The other has dark rivulets that shine under the morning sun. Whatever it is they speak of, it fades as they catch your eye. Your heart sinks at the silence. Sinks even further as your sister regards you with cold indifference and as Daella smiles sympathetically.

You take a seat across from the two girls and dismiss your handmaiden with a quick nod. Another servant quickly steps forth to pour a steaming, honey-colored liquid into your teacup. 

You cross your hands within your lap nervously, looking between the two girls across from you.

“I appreciate you for thinking of me, princess,” you say once you realize no one else is going to say anything. “It is always a pleasure to be in your presence.”

Princess Daella offers a soft smile, but does not say anything.

“We were just speaking of our favorite childhood stories,” Lyanna says, her pale fingers curling around her cup possessively, as if even that she worried you would steal. “Do you want to hear the one I was about to tell Princess Daella?”

Your first instinct is to frown. Though it feels good to have Lyanna’s attention back on you, something gnaws at you. Her eyes. The expression reminds you of her mother. Her cruel words and her cold visage. You take a small sip of your drink to try to keep fear from twisting your features.

“Okay,” you reply even though the words feel like a hurdle to overcome, “I hope nothing too terrible.”

Lyanna does not reply. Instead, she turns to Daella. “She was always an unruly child. From the moment father brought her home, she was unfettered by social decorum. Father said she cried for three weeks straight, even the nursemaids couldn’t soothe her.”

“I had a cold,” you interject, hurt, though Daella’s lips curl with amusement all the same.

“A dire wolf with a cold,” Lyanna says with a laugh, before it halts in her throat as a devious thought forms. “Though I suppose that can be attributed to the fact you are only half one.”

You feel mortification burn at the fringes of your consciousness. Daella does not laugh at that. Her wide eyes flick between Lyanna and you, biting her bottom lip between perfect teeth.

“She was always outside. She often came home after dark, completely covered in mud, twigs, and leaves. Guards would sometimes not let her in at night because they thought she was some peasant girl.” 

You know where this story is leading. You avert your eyes to the sight of a large blue butterfly flitting outside the castle walls. 

“One night she was locked out,” Lyanna continues despite your discomfort, her dark eyes gleaming, “we found her in the morning. She was curled in a ball outside. And what did she have in her hand?”

“Please, Lyanna,” you say, something like desperation in your voice.

She ignores it. “She was so hungry, she ate a rat. All that was left of it when we found her, crumpled in her hand? The thin, pink tail.”

The princess’s face falls. A flush covers her cheeks, periwinkle eyes wide. She has never heard such a thing before because she has never experienced desperation. She has never heard of fear, of loneliness, of the kind of ostracization that led a young girl to kill and eat a rat. 

You keep your eyes on your lap even as Daella stands.

“I have lessons,” Daella says, though you think it is just an attempt to escape the stifling tension brewing. Or perhaps she was just disgusted by the story, understandable either way. 

The young girl ducks her head and shuffles away. Two handmaidens high-tail it after her in a flurried blur.

Silence falls like a blanket of snow. Frigid and impenetrable. You clench your teeth together so hard an ache forms at your temples. 

“Did you like that feeling?” Lyanna finally says.

Your eyes dart to meet hers. She does not look like herself. Something has come over her. Some kind of predatory delight. The face only a dire wolf could make–and you, the hare stuck between her paws.

“That feeling of disgust? Of mortification?” 

Your eyes slide shut. You feel blood rushing in your ears.

“Good,” she continues. Your eyes snap open again. “Because that is exactly how you made me feel when you kissed my betrothed.”

You hear a gasp from behind you. Your eyes dart to find a handmaiden staring with wide eyes. The kind of eyes one has when watching a man be impaled in a tourney. 

“Do not fret.” Lyanna’s lips curl to reveal two sharp, gleaming canines. “They won’t tell. Not if they want to keep their tongues, that is.”

An idle threat, but it serves its purpose. The handmaiden ducks her head, hiding her shaking hands by clutching them to her front.

“You truly are not going to tell anyone?” Your voice sounds soft, so unlike your usual grit. You have been defeated. Who were you to think Lyanna would accept you with open arms? She had never been so forgiving. Not to anyone, not even you. Hardened by the heat of the Red Keep to a figure you no longer recognized.

Lyanna lets out a sharp laugh. “Tell father? And what purpose would that serve me?”

You swallow thickly. “You could have me on the streets in two days. You could have me ruined, gone from your life.” 

You freeze as you consider the darkness lingering in her eyes, and realization crawls upon you like ivy tangling around your throat. “But… I’m exactly where you want me.” 

“And I thought you were the smart one.” Lyanna takes a long sip of her tea. “Took you long enough to realize that.”

“But why?” you ask, “are you not worried someone will find out?”

Lyanna leans forward on the table. Her arm, ice cold and ironclad, comes upon your hand. You tremble beneath the weight of her stare.

“You will not tell if you know what is good for you,” she tells you. “Because you are smart. You know what your future holds, and honestly? I’m excited to see how it treats you.”

You swallow thickly at the implication. You remember Aerion’s threat. Your mouth fills with copper as you bite your lip.

“Besides,” she says, “I don’t give two shits what you do with my betrothed. Fuck him, kiss him, make him fall in love you with you. I don’t care.”

Your eyes widen and dart to meet hers. 

She’s grinning. Her canines catch the light of the morrow, casting a grim shadow across her maw. “Because I’m the one marrying him. I’m the one that’s going to be a queen. You? He’d never have you when he could have me.”

You stare at her grinning face blankly. It feels like something has died within you, some kind of childish naïvety. You had finally done it. Ruined the one person that loved you. 

Lyanna realizes this. She is enthralled by your suffering, the micro expressions flitting over your face. She stands once she’s had her fill of your misery. She waves a handmaiden to her side and saunters away. 

You stare at the two teacups left across from you in stunned silence. Loneliness is nothing new to you. It is as close to your heart as its own beat, and yet, you feel the hurt all the same. Perhaps you had never known true loneliness before this, only an illusion of it.

You leave once your tea grows cold and you feel that you can properly support yourself upon standing.

The walk back to your quarters is a daze. You stumble behind the door and shut it tightly behind you. You feel the urge to cry, but no tears come. The lack of emotion confuses you.

Lyanna is your sister, she had been raised as such (albeit with clear distinctions made between you two) and yet, you do not feel as though you have lost much. You have lost a friend, certainly. The only one you had. But you were beginning to think, perhaps, you did not really like friends. In theory, they are nice. It is quite fun to have someone to talk to that understands you on an intimate level, that cares for you. But in practice, they are just… messy.

They end up betraying you like you did to Lyanna. Or you just end up kissing them, like Baelor did to you. You muse on this thought as you call a handmaiden to fetch you a bottle of wine. She goes without question. She’d seen the argument, she knew best not to question your motives.

You take a swig of the wine and wipe the back of your mouth with your hand. Perhaps the problem with Lyanna is that she wasn’t a friend. You take another sip. You truly can’t remember the last time you and Lyanna talked about something you wanted. It was all about her, her, her. Another long drink. And what about that condescending look when you tried to fit in with her? She was just as bad as her father. She just didn’t want to admit it. Another drink. She didn’t deserve Baelor. You didn’t either, though. 

You are not sure how much time passes with you nursing this bottle of Dornish wine. It feels simultaneously like an hour as it does just a few minutes. You finish the bottle and put it down on the table. Or you think you do, but then it rolls across the floor so it must have not.

You stand and immediately regret it. Your head hurts. Everything is swimming around you. You have never felt this horrible in your life. You clutch your stomach as you hobble to the other side of the room.

You do cry then. It bubbles out of you like a fresh tap. Tears pour out of your eyes, your nose, probably every orifice on your face.

You stand there crying until you think you have released every bit of water in your system onto the hardwood floor. You turn your head and stumble, catching your hand on the dresser beside you to prevent yourself from falling. 

Everything is wrong. You thought it was wrong before, but it is worse now. Nothing will be the same again.

You hear something break through your self-wallowing and tilt your head toward the noise. It is so soft you barely hear it. You frown and drunkenly stumble to the left. You cannot pinpoint the noise’s direction.

It stops. Then, you hear it again.

As you focus on the noise cutting through your cotton-filled head, you realize it sounds like voices. You creep toward the source of the sound, and end up at your slightly cracked window. You peer closer out into the gilded garden and a stagnant air licks at your skin. The view you have of the royal gardens is half-way obscured by a large tree that branches and winds toward your window. However your ears are sharp and you can hear the click of boots falling against brick before you see two long shadows darting across the ground.

You sit underneath your window sill and pull your knees to your chest, relying on your ears to tell you who it is.

You cannot see the speaker, but you recognize the voice immediately. Baelor.

“…Nyke ju'thtnos gaomagon daor vēdagon ūja wï’zérys.” (I just do not think it wise).

Your drunken mind scrambles. There are only a few people he could be talking to that understand High Valriyan. Even fewer situations that would require use of it over the common tongue. Whatever it is he spoke of, it must have required secrecy.

“Kepa emagon ael'rheaedyā aep'prróvëdā jentorysor. Daorun kostion sagon tatagon.” The second voice is one you distantly identify as belonging to Prince Maekar. You can only tell because his voice carries a deep grumble. You can see his disapproving frown clearly in your mind’s eye. (Father has already approved the union. Nothing can be done).

You dig your fingers into your sides, trying desperately to make sense of what it was you were hearing. Union? Marriage — it must be. But which…?

They must have begun walking again. Their voices are more distant now.

“Zirȳ issa baz'thárrdza. Gaomagon Aeær’yónnā drēje wa'nthrys kesīr?” Baelor’s voice is soft, diplomatic. But it hesitates on that word… “baz'thárrdza.” Your drunken mind does not have to search for long to find the translation. It was one of the first you learned all those years ago—bastard. (She is a bastard. Does Aerion want this?)

Your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage. You close your eyes and will yourself to stop listening. To spare yourself from hearing Baelor’s true thoughts of you. Thoughts that were not yours to partake in.

“Muña issa rôll'ynngrys rȳ zirȳla grh'aevënos. Th'ínkéā skorī gaomagon ao cha'urreā abó'ûdhnos ón'ë’thva parr'éndhzza?” (Mother is rolling over in her grave. Since when do you care about one’s parentage?) 

There is a lapse in conversation. You think for a moment they have gone too far out of your hearing range. Then, Maekar’s voice comes again, louder, and no longer under the Valriyan ruse. You worry your lip hard beneath your teeth.

“Ah, but you do not care, do you?” his voice trails off with a disbelieving laugh. “You just want the girl for yourself.”

Your breathing gets halted in your throat. Your stomach rolls with sickness and anticipatory nerves. You cup a hand around your mouth, willing the nausea to dissipate.

“…It does not matter what I want.” Your vision swims before you. “I just do not wish for a mistake to be made.”

There is another pause. Then:

“I will think on it,” Prince Maekar says, and oxygen is finally permitted to fill your lungs again. “But it may be hard to convince father…”

His voice finally grows quiet and dies away. They have gone too far from your window to be heard. 

For a moment you continue to sit there, on the floor and against your window, staring into the darkness of your room. But then your stomach churns again, as tumultuous as the Narrow Sea. You do not possess the mental fortitude to continue thinking on the matter before your body decides it is time to head to the chamber pot.

The conversation you overheard has all but left you by the time King Daeron’s nameday comes a few days later. Preparations for the celebration begin before the sun has risen on the morrow. You have been dressed, have eaten, and have met more faces of nobles than you could possibly keep track of in a dizzying amount of time, until finally you are led to King’s Landing at midday.

The fanfare is signified through the sound of horns and laughter and the clanging of metal against armor. The noise only grows more raucous as you and the rest of the nobility are led to a private box overlooking the tourney stadium.

The red pelt hanging loosely around your neck feels a bit like a noose as you take your seat in-between your sister and Princess Daella. The thick black dress you are wearing does not help with this feeling of entrapment. Sweat accumulates in every fold of your body, some gathering at your temples and dripping down your cheeks.

When you chance a look at your sister, she does not look the least bit affected. The healthy flush to her cheeks could be attributed to the heat of King’s Landing, but it feels like a stretch. A handmaiden gently fans the side of her face, and Lyanna encourages her to move it more vigorously.

You avert your eyes away before she can catch you looking. Your eyes are drawn to the opposite side of the viewing gallery, where King Daeron sits beside his youngest granddaughter. He is laughing at something she’s said, his light eyes crinkled with amusement.

You furrow your brows and look away. In the lapse of action, your mind is able to finally drift to what you witnessed a few nights prior. The insinuation that your betrothal may not last. The fear that filled your chest that bled into hope into sadness.

Lyanna moves in your periphery. She’s leaned forward over the bannister as Prince Aerion charges on his steed toward his opponent. 

You clench your jaw and shut your eyes when the other man, a Tyrell, is unseated and sent flying down to the dirt with a sharp yelp of pain. Lyanna lets out a loud cheer that makes your ears throb. Aerion does a victory loop, absorbing the cheers from the crowd. The Tyrell man is helped to his feet, though his left arm lays limp and crooked against his side. You wince.

Across the field, your eyes get caught on the black and reds of the Targaryen flags. Four Targaryens in one tourney. It would make history. King Daeron himself had requested his two surviving sons to participate, and then a son of each of their choosing.

It was his name day, after all. And he was a king.

Your eyes get caught on one Targaryen in particular as he watches Aerion across the way. He is not in his usual finery. It is a welcome change to see him donning the dark armor of his past. He has removed his helmet for the time being, and you can see his face as it catches the sun’s rays.

He furrows his dark brows at his nephew’s strutting. You can see even from here the hard line to his lips, the quickness of his gaze. 

“Water, mi’lady?” a voice comes from your side. You turn to see a handmaiden there with a pitcher of water. You nod quickly, caught off-guard by the sudden questioning. 

The handmaiden fills your goblet and steps away to ask the next person.

“Your betrothed is a vision on the field.” Hot air cuts across your cheek as Lyanna whispers this to you. “Perhaps he may be persuaded to spend a night with me.”

“Go for it,” you say tersely. “I’ve heard Prince Aerion will take a lay anywhere he can get it. The easier, the better.”

Your sister burns a hole through your cheek through the weight of her glare. “Are you implying—“

You stand with a flourish before she can finish her statement. From behind her, your father shoots you a warning look. You do not heed it.

You are too hot, too uncomfortable, and much too bored. You need air. The next match is called out just as you make it to the bottom of the stairs, clutching your hands around your waist to make yourself look smaller. Unraveling the fox pelt from around your neck, you delicately dab the sweat away from your forehead and cheeks as you stand halfway hidden beneath a tree.

For a moment you stand there and watch as the world goes by without you. Children laugh and chase each other with small wooden swords. Ladies titter and swoon at their favorite contenders, or theorize on who may be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty. From what you overhear, Lyanna is a strong contender.

Just as you will yourself to go back to the stands, your eyes get caught on a figure approaching in your peripheral vision. His dark armor gleams underneath the red sun, his strides long and quick. You do not think he sees you, but then he turns his head and looks you right in the eyes.

He stops midstep. Stares. You feel a heat to your face that does not feel entirely wrought from the sun. The fox pelt settles softly back around your neck as you place it there, trying to will yourself to look somewhat put together and not at all like the wilted flower you feel like. 

Baelor does not seem like he is going to approach you. He is too chivalrous to go against your wants again. He does not want to upset you, though you think he might want to talk to you as much as you want to. 

You step forth from the shade of the tree and he turns his head, magnetized as your form is bathed in light. A smile curls at the ends of your lips as you raise your hand to give a small wave.

His lips curl to match your expression. Something lurks beneath his gaze, a question in the eyebrow he cocks in your direction. You move your head in a sweeping gesture, an invitation. You take a step back into the shadows of the tree.

Baelor reaches you in two quick steps. His armor rattles as he moves, his long sword clanking against his side. His mismatched eyes search your face as if looking for an answer to some kind of mystery.

“Not enjoying the tourney?” He does not seem the least bit offended by the notion as he asks this, rather, amused.

You look off in the distance in the practice of seeming coy. You do not wish for anyone to get the wrong idea by your conversation. “I suppose I am not one to enjoy public displays of violence.”

Baelor lets out a chuckle. You can’t help but smile a little at the throaty, unabashed sound. 

“How about you? Are you looking forward to your match?” You cannot deny that you are a bit curious. As a lady, you were always kept at a distance from the pastimes of men. You did not know much, but were always interested in the rites of masculinity.

He lets out a short laugh. “Mentally? I feel like a young knight again. Physically? I… have been better.” He looks down at his armor with a sarcastic grin. “I think I must appear the same as a fat lord on a hunting expedition compared to all these kingsguard.”

Your lips twitch with the force of smothering your laughter. You do not agree with the last analogy, but there is something to be said about the Lord Hand having to wield a sword again. From what you heard, many Hands of the King retire their swords the second they pick up the badge.

You step forward and lay a friendly hand upon his pauldron. “If it counts for much, I eagerly look forward to your match. Lyanna and I were raised hearing stories of the infamous Hammer and Anvil.”

Baelor lets out a long breath through his mouth. “I really do not feel any younger with that knowledge in hand.”

The unexpectedness of the statement and the realization of what you implied about your age and his, makes you let out a barking laugh. The noise startles him, but it is an expression quickly traded away as then a toothy grin spreads across his face. You eventually quieten your giggles, covering your mouth with your hand. 

“My apologies,” you say, though you know not what for.

Baelor watches you in silence. You swallow thickly under his heavy stare and cross your arms over your bodice. He snaps out of it when a voice calls his name from afar. He barely turns his head to face the noise, a veil crossing over his expression.

He turns back to you, his eyes somber. “May I request something of you?”

You startle at the question, your eyes widening at the possible implications. You trust Baelor, though. You nod, frowning at his seriousness.

“Never feel that you have to hide from me,” he tells you softly.

He does not allow you to reply before he turns his back and begins to stride away to where he was called. You watch him as he leaves until he disappears from view. A breath that you didn’t realize you held escapes from your lips. You rub the dewiness from your eyes and head back to the viewing box.

Lyanna barely looks up at you as you return. However, your father leans forward and sets his hands on either side of your chair.

“Where have you been?” His voice is low and vaguely threatening. 

You turn your head. “I had to get some air.”

A handmaiden comes by to ask him a question and he releases your chair and flops back into his own with a sigh. You turn back around just as two new competitors enter the jousting arena.

Your sister sees him before you do. “Oh, there’s Baelor.”

You angle your head to the side and you see him on his beautiful stallion—Vaegon, you recall—twirling his stick around idly. His opponent is a Lannister you only vaguely recognize. You had met him, but all details as to his personage have fled you.

The match moves quickly. Baelor unseats the Lannister without much resistance. Seeing the jousting stick put just enough pressure on the man without causing him damage makes you gain a new appreciation for Baelor’s wisdom and self-restraint. Qualities his nephew lacks.

The Lannister man scurries away as Baelor removes his helmet and grins to the cheering crowd. You hear King Daeron clap enthusiastically for his son.

As you watch him trot around the arena, flexing his legs and hips to guide his steed around sharp curves, something warm and fuzzy settles over your body. You shift to hide your unease at the feeling, crossing one knee over the other. Were you truly…? You shake your head and take a long sip of your water to chase away the feeling.

You were just lonely. That’s all it is. Or that is all you tell yourself. And yet as the matches fly by in quick succession, your mind keeps drifting back to that one picturesque moment when he removed his helmet. His face was still drawn tense with exertion, large rivulets of sweat dripping down the side of his temple and deeper into his armor, and his eyes were solely focused on Vaegon as he moved powerfully underneath him. You reminisce on how he bit his lip in contemplation, then raised his head to let the sun beat down on his skin and opened his eyes to his adoring subjects.

Something about the whole farce proves to be incredibly problematic for you. You know what arousal is, just as you know what sex is. It is the admitting part that makes you nervous. Were you truly so attracted to Prince Baelor that seeing him joust was enough to make you hot? It felt near blasphemous, like perhaps what you insinuated of your sister was actually true about you—that you were just easy.

You bite the end of your nail as the day draws to an end. King Daeron stands from his position on the far end of the box, his pale visage drawn ruddy with overwhelming delight. He gives a large speech about his appreciation of the name day celebration, that fades into a discussion on who it was who had impressed him the most.

“My grandsons, how youthful and strong they make an old man like me feel,” King Daeron says with a heavy sigh. He comes closer to the edge of the stage. He brandishes a flower crown braided of daisies, lavender, and calendula, and your sister tenses beside you.

“Prince Aerion, perhaps you may do the honor of choosing this tourney’s Queen of Love and Beauty?”

You shift unsteadily in your seat as your sister deflates. She believes her chances dashed at being selected. Aerion grabs the crown from his grandfather’s hand and leads his horse down the box’s side. 

He looks directly at you—stares so long that you think he might actually pick you. Then, something shifts on his expression. A smirk pulls at his lips. 

“Perhaps Lady Lyanna may take this laurel?” he offers, arm outstretched toward the silent ravenette beside you.

You do not allow surprise to take hold of your features, especially when you notice your sister turn her head victoriously in your direction. She’s looking for hurt to show through the cracks of your veil. You will not afford any weakness.

She stands with a delighted titter. Delicate white hands come to clutch the ends of her dress as she moves to the rail. She bends the knee and Aerion takes a long, torturous moment to place the crown upon her dark tresses.

You do not watch any longer as eyes and heads swivel in your direction. It is not a good sign for a betrothal to start in a betrayal like this, but it was beginning to seem you and Aerion had been doomed from its very conception.

You make it through the rest of the tourney unscathed. You dodge your father's questioning as well as concerned comments from Princess Daella and crude remarks from Aerion long enough to escape back to your quarters.

You suppress the tears that wish to escape and take a seat on your bed. As you put your weight down, you hear something rustle beneath you. You stand again, confused, and pull back your duvet.

What sits there, on the plush bed, makes your heart skip a beat and your breaths come out in stuttered gulps. Pinkish-orange hibiscus intertwined with vibrant lilies and snapdragon in a braided crown. Your fingers delicately brush the petals, a hand coming to cup your mouth in stunned awe.

As you lift it to rest upon your head, a slip of parchment falls to the floor. You bend to pick it up and read through the tears beading in your eyes.

For the true queen

— Baelor

Sleep does not come easily that night. Your drift between varying levels of consciousness, thoughts of sisters, betrothals, and princes. You wake with a start several times, your heart thudding against your ears.

By the fifth time this happens, you realize sleep will not be coming for you. You stand up from your bed and pull your comforter to hide the spot you once laid. The soft moon’s light streaming across the floor sends a shiver down your spine, worsened by the chill that erupts from the feeling of your feet landing on the cool hardwood. You move quickly to grab your thick wool-lined kirtle and draw it over your figure. 

Stepping outside your room, your eyes rapidly adjust to the warm light that flickers from each sconce on the wall, one hand drawing across the cool cobblestone walls. You weave silently through the halls of King’s Landing, hiding behind sandstone columns when kingsguard clank by. You reach the palace library with little delay, and you shut the heavy door behind you. 

The room is so silent one could hear a quill drop. Only one candle remains lit, flickering in the middle of one of the tables. You notice a book by that candle, as if sat out in preparation for your arrival. Moving closer, you brush your fingers across the worn leather cover. It has no title, and the pages are rustic and yellowed. 

When you begin to read, you realize with great surprise that the entire thing is written in High Valyrian. You contemplate not reading it, for it feels a bit like taking something that does not belong to you. Only nobles are taught High Valyrian in the first place, and to gaze upon an entire book written in the royal tongue feels close to treachery.

What was that saying, again? Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. You cannot prevent yourself from reading. 

You are not sure how much time passes as you parse through a few pages of the tome. You get utterly absorbed by the text, so much so that you do not hear the door open and shut behind you.

“Issa ao æn'njôyiñgtor yôûr'shëlfrys?” (Are you enjoying yourself?)

You leap to your feet. You spin around, but see only a figure cloaked in darkness. A very familiar silhouette, however. He steps forward into the amber circle of candlelight, and his features are brought into full focus. 

“Baelor.” Your voice comes out with more relief than you had intended. For a moment, you had been scared at the thought of someone less diplomatic stumbling upon you reading this ancient text. You turn your head to the book with an apologetic smile. “Ūja issa ju'thtnos zid'dhíngtor issar. Nyke ch'oúldñ'dva baelagon my’zélfrys.” (It was just sitting there. I couldn’t help myself.)

Baelor steps close until he is but an arm's length from your side. He sets a hand upon the book and turns to the first page. “The words of my grandkepa,” he murmurs in reverence. “I imagine my father or brother were doing some light reading.”

You study the side of his face as his eyes rove over the text. His dark eyelashes flutter and a soft breath huffs from his parted lips. He turns to you and you startle at the intensity in his eyes.

“Why are you here so late?” He is not accusatory as he says this, rather, he seems perplexed by your presence.

You rub your cheek and avert your eyes. “I could not sleep.”

Baelor lets out a huff of a laugh, and the air teases the tendrils of your hair. “That seems to be a common theme with you. Perhaps you should see a maester for some chamomile tea.”

“And what of you?” You grin, reaching forward to poke his arm. “Why is the Hand of the King awake at this hour?”

Something settles upon his face as he regards you. His eyes draw down your face as if painting a mental picture of your image. He turns his head back to the book forcefully, as if only realizing the impropriety of his staring. “I needed to retrieve a book to ease my worries. I find it helps to consult my ancestors on troubling questions.”

You nod at the somberness of his voice. You could not help but agree with the assertion that books made your worries often disappear. To get lost in a book is a treasure, a much-welcome break from reality.

“Did you…” Baelor clears his throat, unable to meet your eyes. “Did you like your gift?”

“Oh, yes, Baelor,” you say giddily, remembering the handwoven crown on your bed. You lay a friendly hand on his where it sits on the table. “It was absolutely wonderful.”

Baelor turns his hand up so that your palms touch. He clutches your hand gently, with enough restraint to allow you to slip away if you wish. You do not. “Aerion should not have done that,” he tells you, “it is a grievous insult to you and your union.”

You gnaw your lip beneath your teeth. “It was embarrassing, of course,” you say, “but… I cannot seem to make myself care beyond that.”

Baelor lifts his head to stare into your eyes. The candle’s warm light flickers across his face, something fond and raw in his expression. You step closer. 

“In truth, Baelor, I could not stop thinking of you.” 

His throat bobs as he considers the weight of your words and the tantamount confession strewn beneath the phrasing. 

When he does not immediately reply, you feel a rush of shame flood your conscience. “I am sorry.” Your heart pounds against your rib cage in fierce denial of his rejection. “I… should not have–”

You cannot finish your statement before his lips fall upon yours and a hand weaves across the side of your neck to cradle your jaw. You are now the one that is stunned. For a moment, your body simply does not respond. Then, life breathes itself back into your muscles and your lips match his pace. 

The kiss is not as juvenile and restrained as the one you shared so many days ago in the shadow of an empty corridor. This one is with full intent and determination to make a point. His lips are warm and all-encompassing. He tastes of sweet wine and hibiscus, and you realize that you have never loved the taste of anything more. 

Then, the moment is broken. Baelor pulls away slightly, his eyes drawing over the planes of your face as if he might never admire them this close again. A thin string of spit hangs like a lifeline between your two lips, stretched taut by the concern in his expression.

“I do not wish to cause you more difficulty.” His words are soft, devout. You can still taste the sweetness of his breath as he speaks quietly, only for you to hear. His hand gently strokes the part of your neck wherein your pulse thrums the loudest. “I do not wish for this to come between you and your sister, or you and Aerion.”

You let out a sharp laugh without intending to. Baelor’s eyebrows draw together. “Fuck them,” you say. Then, louder: “Fuck. Them.”

You lean forward to rejoin your lips to his, and he returns the initiative gladly. Soon you find yourself on the center of the table, your kirtle rucked up to your thighs, and the book and candle shifted to the corner of the surface. Baelor stands in the middle of your spread legs, one hand guiding your head to meet his lips while the other strokes your bare knee.

The heat returns in full force, a warm bubbling sensation rising from the bottom of your stomach to your chest. You drag a hand to the front of where his broach keeps his doublet together, fumbling blindly for some kind of give. 

Baelor breaks the kiss to unbutton his top. You drag your coverup over your skin, hesitating for a moment at your midriff, before releasing it over your head. What remains is your sheer shift and Baelor’s smock-covered-chest. 

You avert your eyes to the front of his white linen top, gently stroking his chest from where it peeks at the top. You cannot bear to see his reaction to your exposed skin, so you keep yourself occupied with tracing the defined line of his collarbone. Baelor does not let you continue the path as his large hand swoops to grab yours within his own. He cradles your hand to where his heart thrums underneath the cloth and the skin underneath, and you finally draw your eyes up to meet his.

His eyes are blown dark, so dark that you can no longer remember which is periwinkle and which is brown. A healthy flush covers the tips of his ears and his neck, and his mouth is parted to release short, panting breaths.

“Iksā gevie.” (You are beautiful).

The smile finds itself on your face as if it were always meant to be there, and you reach forward to stroke the fine, coarse tendrils of his beard. “Se ao.” (And you).

You can tell Baelor does not get complimented often for how he steps forward to bury his head into your neck, planting ticklish kisses across your exposed skin. You let out an airy laugh and move to bring your hand underneath his smock. His back is covered in corded muscle and healthy fleshiness, and he shivers as you bring your nails against his spine.

He pulls away to remove his smock. You watch as his stomach and chest are revealed to the silent library. For the first time since beginning the affair, you feel nervous. Baelor has literally and figuratively bared his skin to you, allowing you to be the one to see his battleworn skin, the curled, coarse hair that covers his pectorals and navel, and the slight pudge to his stomach. He has given all to you. Now, it is your turn.

You let your feet hit the floor and begin to lift the top part of your shift over your head. You are barely past your midriff when Baelor stops you with a gentle hand.

“You do not…” he starts, “you do not have to get completely bare if you do not wish it.”

You shift uneasily on your feet, threading the thin linen between your fingers. “I… I want to.”

Baelor strokes the skin of your wrist once more before pulling away. You remove the rest of your clothing without any other delay. You draw your arm to protectively stand beneath your breasts, but do not cover them. 

Baelor steps close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of his skin. He touches your upper arm and you shiver.

“You are made of what Old Valyria wrote songs about.” 

You turn your head bashfully. “I hope of the love songs, not the ones about war and destruction.”

Baelor lets out a grumbly laugh, his chest moving with the sound. You bring your hand to cup his where it sits upon your arm. You drag it to touch your breast.

“Do not be afraid of what I think,” you tell him softly, “I want all you can give me.”

Baelor’s throat bobs, but he heeds your request. He gently squeezes your breast, then draws his opposite hand to hold your neck as he kisses you. He finds himself in between your legs again as you attempt to squeeze them together. You feel a pool beneath your thighs forming, and you draw your lips from his to settle beside his ear.

“Perhaps you may take your breeches off now.”

He does not reply, instead his hand that was touching your breast draws down your hip and to the crevice between your thighs. The warmth there–the immediacy of the flesh against uncharted territory, makes you flinch. But Baelor does not remove himself.

You instead shift further back on your tailbone to accompany his adventuring fingers. He gently touches the outside of your hole and you shiver. He drags his fingers through your wetness so slowly it’s tortuous.

You shift in place and a small smile curls at his lips. “So impatient,” he tuts.

“It is not my fault,” you whine, “you have been nothing but a tease all day.”

“A tease?” He punctuates this by bringing his middle finger to circle your clit. You arch your back with a sharp gasp at the sudden overwhelming arousal that controls you like a puppet. “How so?”

You can hardly think, much less talk. To make it worse, he’s got a finger in you now, slowly pumping back and forth. It is too slow and too fast all at the same time. You squirm, letting out a soft groan.

“Seeing you all hot”--your words are broken off by a sharp moan as his finger is joined by a second–”and sweaty, riding your horse…”

He lets out a chuckle. “You really have been neglected, haven’t you? Getting all worked up over near-nothing.”

You can feel something delicious building in your loins, and you grab his wrist as he speeds up, not wanting him to slow or speed up, but hold the pace he was at infinitively. 

“I suppose no one can blame you,” he says, “I have waited far too long to help you.”

The feeling is close to making you burst. You arch your hips as a third finger joins the fray and suddenly everything goes white. You dig your nails into his wrist as you let the feeling take hold of you. You think this is the reason people do anything for sex; sell it, trade it, commodify it. For this one brief moment of physical enlightenment. Your mind scrambles and then settles, like falling off the edge of a cliff. Your stomach feels like nothing and then everything, and then you hit the bottom and everything is normal again.

Baelor removes his fingers and brings them to his mouth. You watch through hooded eyes as he sucks them dry. You feel a familiar stirring in your mons and energy revitalizes your movements. You stick your fingers in the front of his pants and pull his hips flush against yours. Eagerly, you try to untie his breeches, but he stills you with a gentle hand on your wrist.

“Allow me,” he says. He blissfully does not pull all the way apart from you to drag his fingers into his breeches. 

“Damned things,” he mutters as they fight against him. He finally pushes them hard enough to release his waist and they fall away. All that is left is his pulsing cock, staring directly at you.

You swallow thickly. This is what… this is what you are expected to fit inside you? It is so large, so much longer and fleshier than you had been expecting. Your–albeit brief–forays into the steamier literature on the male physique had not prepared you sufficiently for this moment. 

“It is…” Baelor pauses, and turns his head bashfully. You notice a red tint to his ears. “It is a touch larger than most men’s, I am told. I… do not want to hurt you.”

Your breathing stutters, but you shake your head immediately. “You will not,” you tell him sternly, “I know you won’t.”

He does not seem entirely confident in the statement. He stares at his cock like it is a disembodied curse, but it does not register his eyes as it stands tall and proud against his stomach.

You move your leg to hook around his back, bringing him flush against you. “I trust you.” 

It is all the encouragement he needs as he grabs it and lines himself up with your entrance. He looks at your eyes once more, as if giving you another chance to change your mind, before he enters you with one smooth thrust. 

You let out a sharp gasp that has Baelor immediately stalling inside of you. He pushes past his own overwhelming arousal to wipe his eyes down your face. You feel the sharp pain ebb into something primal, more raw and dizzying. You dig your fingers into the wood grain beneath you.

“Gods Old and New,” you say into the still air, “forgive me for my lust.”

Baelor lets out a soft laugh, taking your words as encouragement. He backs out of you then settles into a pace, in and out, in and out, in and out. You moan, grabbing at his back as he brings himself upon you, digging your fingers like blades against his ribs and spine.

Baelor vocalizes just as much, his eyes fluttering shut then bursting open when he hears you moan, as if the very sound awakened something within him. As your high approaches, he begins muttering something under his breath. You can barely hear it through your own fogged mind, but you can catch pieces of it.

“Bisa iksis iā irudy… Gevie… Gevie… Nyke dōrī jaelagon naejot henujagon,” he chants the phrases as if in a spiritual trance but you are his idol and he is but a lowly septa. (This is a gift... Beautiful... Beautiful... I never wish to leave).

You capture his jaw with your hand and bring him down to seal your consummation with a kiss. He returns it in full. It is messy, all tongue and teeth clipping and noses bumping. But it feels so fucking right. Everything does.

You pull away to let out a loud groan as your climax reaches its precipice. 

“Baelor,” you call out.

“I know, I know. Let go for me, love.”

You reach your release with a moan. You clutch your legs tightly around his still-thrusting hips, and drag your nails down his back. He follows soon after you, finding his home in your sweat-slick neck, groaning so loudly and guttural, it shakes your pulse. His hips slow as he finishes, before they finally stop altogether.

He pulls himself out of you and you feel liquid follow. You continue to lay there on the table, breathing heavily, for several moments. When you come to, Baelor is next to your head, gently dragging a cloth against your sweaty head. He has his breeches back on and his smock, and his eyes look so gentle and so reverent you feel like you could cry.

“Perhaps you should get dressed,” he murmurs, “I do not wish for anyone to see you now.” He drops the cloth and strokes down your cheek with his fingers instead.

His thumb drops to your lip and you bite it softly. A low noise escapes his lips, but he shakes his head.

“The sun is rising,” he tells you, “I do not think we have the time for a round two.”

“Will that be the jousting round?” you say breathlessly, “are you going to hit me with a big stick? Oh wait, you already did that.”

Baelor barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “You minx.”

You stand on the feet of a fawn. You collect your shift and coverup and dress in silence. When you are finally covered, you turn your head to see Baelor watching you.

Sadness falls over you as you watch his loving gaze, a hollow pit in your stomach where warmth used to reside. You draw your hands protectively around your waist.

“What now?”

Baelor’s eyebrows furrow. He takes a step toward you, arm outstretched. You allow him to touch you, but cannot fully bring your eyes to meet his. You are afraid of the rejection that may come.

“I believe that I have a long conversation with my father in my future,” Baelor says, bringing his hand to cup your cheek. “And I will not be stopping until he gives me what I have claimed.”

You lean your face into his calloused hand. “They will be angry.”

He draws closer still, his nose brushing against yours. “Let them.”

“And if they decide I am not worthy to be a princess?”

“It does not matter,” Baelor’s voice is soft as he says this, as if he had already considered this possibility. “For you will not be a princess. You will be a queen.” 

He seals his vow with a kiss.

It had been nearly the turn of three moons since your uncle did the unimaginable and called you by his deceased wife's name during what should have been a moment of bonding between lord and wife. three moons since you last spoke to your husband, or even stayed in the same room as him for longer than a few short minutes.

a woman your age could not know greater pain. knowing that perhaps your marriage was never entirely your own, nor your husband, but how could you live in that truth when you were not given the proper equipment to deal with such a thing? you were a royal princess by blood and many men would break oaths, alliances, and throw away their loyalty to everyone else for your hand, so how was it that a member of your family no less, could make you feel less than insignificant? you looked in the mirror all you saw was that you were not Jena Dondarrion, and little by little, it began to break you. your mind turned against you. you could barely eat and you barely slept because all you could think about was your aunt and impossible questions you were not sure you wanted the answers to.

you began thinking if you were chosen to be baelor's new wife because maybe you reminded him of her, perhaps not in looks, but in mannerisms maybe, maybe your laugh sounds similar enough where baelor can pretend it's Jena for a few seconds. maybe you were picked because you weren't as pretty as she was and baelor preferred it that way? you drove yourself to the brink of madness with these comparisons and second-guessing.

the morning after the incident your father demanded that all your belongings be brought to his rooms so that you could temporarily be relieved of your wifely duties (maekar really just wanted to keep an eye on you out of concern but he would never admit that) but gradually maekar began seeing changes in your personality and routines. seldom did you leave your father's chambers for the better half of a moon. you were always good at avoiding people maekar recalls, even if it was at your own expense. which meant you avoided the library because you can paint with your eyes closed how warm Baelor looks when he manages to escape his duties and hide away with you with a book. you avoided the grand hall because you knew Baelor would try to speak to you either while you break your fast or when you join him and your cousins (step-sons?) for supper. and much to your dismay, you avoid the gardens because each flower brings back the bittersweet memory of your uncle proposing to you in front of your favorite flowers. No place is safe you figure, so you remain locked inside your father's rooms.

for every memory in the Red Keep you have with Baelor, he is sure to have tenfold of memories with his first wife.

and that is where you go every time you close your eyes,

to your memories.

after you cry yourself to exhaustion or your father slips you milk of the poppy when the tears cease to quit, you replay memories to keep your mind from truly breaking.

If baelor cannot be what you need in the world of the living then in your memories he will be the most loving and devoted husband and in your sleep he will say I love you, y/n.

"Maekar please," baelor voice rings out across the stoney hallways, both brothers having just finished an unmemorable small council meeting, baelor picks up the pace as he attempts to catch up to his little brother whom he does not remember being so fast.

"Brother!" the dark haired Targaryen calls out once more but to no avail, any other highborn lord would be mortified at making such a display of himself but baelor cares not since only few know what is at stake. Panic begins to settle into baelor as maekar continues to give his brother metaphorically, the cold shoulder, and literally, his backside as he continues to walk down the long hall. baelor understands that his chances of reconciliation are slim but all he cares for as he damn near bursts into a jog, is to at least hear from his brother that his wife is okay. Baelor sighs as he halts in the middle of the hallway lined with knights, and as maekar continues to stomp further away from baelor, it's obvious where you get your stubbornness from.

baelor hates what he must do next, but when it comes to matters of his wife, he is willing to make the greatest fool of himself.

"Your prince commands you to halt!" baelor barks out the order with that uncharacteristically demanding voice, and immediately 4 knights come to place themselves in front of maekar who comes to a screeching halt, all their hands on the pommel of their swords because they all know who stands in front of them. baelor feels guilty using his birthright over his brother but he is also optimistic that some good might come out of this forced interaction.

"Fucking insolent mule-brained wretch..." Maekar darkly mutters under his breath as he very reluctantly turns to face his older brother and begins to walk in the opposite direction with a deadpan expression, inching closer and closer to his brother until they are around arms length from each other and the knights have to pretend they are not listening in. "Do you understand why I have yet to kill you?" Maekar begins, eyes narrowing in disdain for the man in front of him, and hands holding tightly onto the journals he holds to stop himself from jumping onto his brother until he's pulled off.

"I beg your pardon?" Baelor responds, having not expected his brother to open with such hostility.

"I mean truly, how idiotic can a man be? You dare call my daughter by another woman's name? Have you taken leave of your fucking senses, brother?" Maekar retorts, scarred face becoming increasingly red and knuckles turning white as he grips onto his journals.

"I do not wish to quarrel. I only mean to ask about the well-being of my wife." Baelor's eyes become filled with desperation and concern as he pleads with his brother, chest tightening at the idea of his beloved wife being upset over him. Maekar lets out a small huff, eyes rolling almost to the back of his head. "You have been asking for three godsdamned moons if your wife is okay and to answer your question, your grace, y/n is not fucking okay! Her constant wailing has been a stake in my side and she now refuses to eat or to even rise from bed. I haven't the faintest fucking idea how I am meant to help my daughter feel better when I already have imbecilic sons that also require my fucking attention!" and it is like a boulder being finally lifted off maekar's chest with a final sigh.

baelor heart breaks somehow even more, his brother's answer is the opposite of what Baelor wanted to hear and now he is discovering how his stupid mistakes are now effecting others. "I beg, please tell me what I might do to repair this. I can see this is putting a great st-"

"Do not even begin to imply my own fucking daughter is burdening me! because need I remind you she now sleeps in my rooms because of you." Maekar shouts and hisses, having to take a few seconds to calm himself down before seriously considering fratricide.

"I know, maekar. I do," baelor sighs out, running a hand through his short hair. "I live with the consequences of my own faults every morn, and every night I do not fall asleep next to y/n it pains me greatly. But it pains me even more knowing that what I feel is nothing in comparison to the grief I had caused." and the younger Targaryen scoffs at that, how noble baelor must think he sounds.

"You will see my daughter whenever she and I allow it and not a moment before. Now I must go before I harm the heir to the throne. Good day to you, brother." Maekar responds without giving his brother any opportunity to respond and finally, maekar is once again saved from being sent to the dungeons.

"My child," maekar calls out once entering his private chambers, walking to his desk to set down his journals on top of his large wooden desk, but once he turns to face you and sees an empty glass vial on the nightstand and your sleeping form hidden under the furs, he sighs and walks towards you. gently, he raises a few of the furs and can only stare at your peaceful face in admiration and unease.

how he wishes his own wife were still alive.

This cannot go on any longer. maekar thinks, at the rate you are currently going at, you will have consumed the Red keep's entire supply of milk of the poppy and make the gardens dry out. So, as a father maekar must think about what is to be done. On one hand, he would have allowed you to live with him for as long as you wanted, but on the other, he can only shield you from so much and at the end of the day, he is still a prince of the crown and has duties that would keep him from you.

for that entire night maekar contemplates like the battle strategist that he is. Thoughts of annulment come to mind first but a royal divorce is not something commonly practiced, baelor is sure to sniff you out if you were to move to a different wing of the keep, and maekar can't think of a third option until the sun peeks out over the Rhaenys' hill and it hits him dramatically like in the plays.

Summerhall.

only a day's ride away and not unfamiliar to you or your family. it was big enough for a woman of your station and you already had a few trunks and chests over there, though it had been awhile since you last stepped foot inside of summerhall. That morning when you eventually woke, maekar quickly explained his plan for you and immediately you agreed, claiming that a change of scenery would be nice for you. While presenting the idea to his parents proved to be a challenge, Daeron and Myriah had never seen their son so concerned and emotional, so they had no choice but to allow their favorite granddaughter to leave the warmth of the keep. that same day, you began packing your clothes and necessities. Your father had left to assemble a company and to ensure everything would be ready for your arrival so you took these few moments to enjoy the tranquility of the silence.

until it was no longer silent.

you let out a yelp of shock as the doors to your father's chambers burst open, you instinctively brace yourself with your arms covering your face but the moment you hear that one man's voice, you freeze. like a doe coming face to face with a wolf.

how you wish you could be the wolf.

"You mean to leave me?" Baelor breathlessly questions with a wild look in your eyes, having just knocked out two of your father's guards just for this moment.

For a long moment you both stand motionless, you almost can't believe he's standing in front of you. "How do you know?" is the only thing you can squeak out, you mentally slap yourself for sounding so small, so very terrified.

Baelor reaches you in four short strides and for a moment you think he really will raise a hand to you but what he does instead shocks you even more.

he falls to his knees and buries his face into your skirts, clinging to them as if you are a figment of his imagination and he'll awake any minute.

"I am nothing without you, y/n." your husband whimpers out, his entire body violently trembling and you could swear you feel a few damp spots on your skirts. "I belong with you.. I belong to you. I will abdicate the iron throne if you ask it, you may drain mine and the realm's coffers dry if that is what you wish but I beg you, please do not leave me."

"It is my father who wishes for me to leave." you respond in a neutral tone, though you can feel your resolve crack. so you stick to keeping both arms at your side because you know if you do not, your hand will somehow find itself caressing his skin, even if you are still mad at him.

"My brother is a fucking fool." Baelor hisses, finally looking up at you. his cheeks glistening with what you can only presume to be tears that silently fell. you've never heard Baelor swear before, since you were a girl he told you that he found such words has no necessity in the world you live in.

"Your father does not love you like I do. No lord in all of Westeros could ever hope to possess even half the love I have for you. I understand why I must be punished but you do not have to leave what you know to be your home." You feel tears prick your eyes and threaten to spill over but you cannot lie and say that this moment isn't exactly what you wanted.

"I care not for anything that is not you. I cling to your pillows every night, I-I spray your perfumed oils in the air so that I might remind myself of your smell... and I even order the kitchens to prepare your favorites every meal even when I know you shan't join me but please.. do not leave me." your husband begins to ramble, his voice strained and unsteady but you can tell he's earnest.

"Baelor... I-I..." you trail off, looking down at the man begging on his knees in front of you.

he lets out a shaky sigh as he nuzzles the side of his head on your leg, eyes fluttering closed. "Even hearing you say my name makes me feel as though I am being blessed by the Mother herself... please... I want to give you everything... more crowns, more gowns, I wish to give you children you can call your own.. I wish to be nothing other than your husband. I am not worthy of you but if you would allow me to prove just how much I worship you... ñuha rȳbasor jorrāelagon..."

his words send sharp pangs through your body, you desperately want to reach down and smash your lips onto his but there's still a storm brewing within you and you aren't sure what to lead with.

your heart or your mind.

"I can never replace your first wife," you whisper as you lock eyes with baelor. you'd almost forgotten how warm his eyes feel and you hate how much you've missed him. but you can't ignore how these past months have affected you so, nor can you forgive him so easily for his past transgressions.

baelor shakes his head at your statement, not to reprimand you or shame you but to dispel such thoughts from out your head.

"I was but a boy when I met Jena, but here I am before you, as a man full grown. You needn't ever compare yourself to her because I married either one of you at different points in my life. She is my past and I cannot help but love my children she has given me, but you..."

he pauses, finally rising to his full height to gently take your hands into his.

"you are my future."

"so please, Queen of beauty and of my heart... return to me and I will make sure you will never come to regret this decision." he murmurs softly, leaning down slightly and lowering his voice to something adjacent to a purr. tears begin to cascade down your face as you fling yourself onto Baelor, sobbing into his chest whilst your arms wrap around him. Baelor protectively wraps his long arms around your body and turns you so his back is facing the open doors. you feel soft kisses being pressed on top of your head, kisses that slowly chip away at the high brick walls you have surrounded yourself with.

"I love you, y/n" Baelor whispers into your hair, it would take all of the armies in Westeros to pry him off of you at this moment.

"I've killed men for less," suddenly a third voice appears but you both recognize it in an instant. your spiritual twin. your father.

he slowly walks up to you both as you two pull yourselves off of each other, his broad arms stretched across his chest with an un-amused expression and demeanor. "Brother," he simply greets, no real bite behind his words.

"brother," Baelor nods, holding you close by his side as you look up at your father with large doe-like eyes, visibly more scared than your husband. though you can't tell for sure who should be more scared.

"I see you two have made up." maekar observes with a cocked eyebrow, looking at the pair of you like insolent children about to recieve a scolding.

"we did." Baelor responds with a cheerful smile, pressing a firm kiss to your temple as you let out a small chuckle, wiping your face dry of any tears or half formed tears.

"ah." maekar responds with a curt nod, walking up to Baelor and silently motioning for you to take a few steps away from him. you already know what's to come but it seems as though your husband does not.

maekar delivers a quick yet powerful backhand slap to his older brother's cheek, seemingly not even breaking a sweat. "That's for upsetting my daughter."

Baelor's head whips to the side forcibly, letting out a grunt more in surprise than in any real pain but before he has even a second to recover, he feels himself being hit in the abdomen with much more force this time. (Baelor would later note that it indeed hurt, quite a lot.)

"And that's for making me hear about how you and my daughter fuck. Now both of you get the hell out of my chambers. I need a break from the both of you." Maekar grunts out, pushing his silver locks back into place and out of his face.

You cringe at your father's violence towards your husband but better him than me you think as you help your husband back to what is now your chambers again. how you've missed these walls but this time around shall be different.

you slowly begin to regain your self-confidence and resume your hobbies and all the things you loved before. though you may forever hold insecurities, you can now comfortably live with them and work on them.

and if all else fails, you'll let your father beat the shit out of your husband.