"Werewolf?" "Therewolf!"

“If you keep fanning yourself like that, your hand will fall off, my dearest,” you heard your husband’s voice beside you, with that exasperating calm that only he could maintain in the height of summer. “Why don’t you ask one of your ladies-in-waiting for help?”

Instead of answering, you turned your gaze to three young ladies sitting at a respectful distance from you. They looked like three little flowers dozing in the shade of the awnings, their wrists moving so slowly that it seemed more fitting for an elegy than for a day of such heat.

You looked at Baelor again.

"They're fanning too slowly."

The corners of his lips curved slightly.

“You are too demanding, my sweet wife.”

You looked at him with the last trace of exasperation that the stifling heat had not taken away, and he, instead of laughing—which would have been an insult at that moment—silently pulled a white handkerchief from his black doublet, the edges of which were embroidered in red thread with intertwined figures that looked like a maze of vines, and in the centre, a B in Gothic script.

He wiped a bead of sweat from your temple that had begun to race down your skin, intent on reaching your jawline. The gesture was so sweet and so characteristic of him that you knew you could not hold onto that exasperation much longer.

The prince bowed his head and placed a brief kiss on the spot. At the same time, one of his hands seized your wrist—the one so desperate to bring you a little breeze—and stopped your movement. Then his fingers began to caress that spot, numb and aching from the use of the fan. You felt the chill of his rings against your heated skin.

“Would you like something cold?” he murmured against your skin.

“I’m fine.”

Baelor, not entirely satisfied with the answer, made a subtle gesture to which you paid little attention. He looked at you again.

“You just have to hold out for a few more hours and we can leave,” he said as he brushed a strand of hair from your face.

You paused. Your irises met those two-toned eyes.

“Shall we have a bath?” you asked, with more hope than you meant to show.

“A bath,” he smiled. “We can ask them to put mint leaves in the water, if you like.”

You were tempted to close your eyes and imagine the scene for a second: that sensation of cool water on your skin, the mint leaves dancing on the surface, your husband’s large hands caressing every inch of your body and his lips on your neck. All of that far removed from the cheers and the clang of steel, from the stifling humidity and the oppressive heat.

You refrained from sighing longingly.

“That would be perfect,” you said, a smile on your lips.

It was then that you felt it: a sharp, dull thud from within. The smile vanished instantly.

Apparently, that day, Valarr — that was what your husband had insisted on calling him, because he was convinced that the life growing inside you was going to be a little prince and not a princess, as you were convinced — had that energy so uncharacteristic of a day as hot as that.

"By the Seven, the baby is really out of control today." You placed a hand on your swollen belly.

Baelor looked down at your hand and quickly covered it completely with his own.

"He’s excited," he said in a soft voice, almost more to himself than to the others. "He likes tournaments, just like his father." He paused for a moment. “When he grows up, he’ll win them all.”

You tilted your head and looked at him more closely. Baelor had an expression he didn’t usually show in public, but only in the privacy of your chambers, when you let him rest his head on your chest to gaze more tenderly at your belly: a seamless blend of pride and something more fragile, more tender.

The horn blared, shattering your intimate moment, and you stifled a snort.

The maelstrom of voices, the sound of the fabric of the dresses brushing against one another, and the excited laughter swirled around the seats as the audience settled in, eager, ready to watch the jousts.

Likewise, you too settled in as best you could amidst that unbearable heat and the bulge of your belly. Resigned, you opened your fan once more and fanned yourself, knowing you would spend the hours of the tournament repeating the same mechanical gesture.

Before the incessant sound of the horn died away, you heard the sweet voice of one of your ladies-in-waiting to your left.

“Here, my princess,” the young woman announced as she handed you a goblet. You raised an eyebrow.

“But I haven’t asked for it, my lady.”

"It was Prince Baelor, my princess," she explained with a smile. You took the goblet at her almost insistent gesture. "Oh, and you dropped this." She bent down and picked up something, placing it on your lap. "Enjoy the tournament; if you need anything, I’ll be at the back."

You froze for a split second.

Then, you looked at the cup: it was full of cool water.

Next, you looked at your leg: Baelor’s handkerchief, with crimson figures embroidered around the edges and his initial adorning the centre.

You turned your gaze to your husband, who already had his eyes fixed on the list with a perfectly neutral expression—and one that was innocently admirable for someone who had just given himself away.

You drank in the same way, and, along with the water, you swallowed your pride because, after months of marriage to Baelor, you realised that those gestures were entirely his own and that, surely, he knew you better than you knew yourself.

You set the goblet aside and, next to it and without thinking, your fan.

This time you didn’t let the thick air dry your sweat; this time you wiped it away with your handkerchief, with the same calm sense of someone who has finally decided to stop fighting the summer heat.

Now it was you who fixed your gaze on the pitch.

The colours of half the continent fluttered in the boxes, and the stands were swallowed up by all manner of flowers—an enthusiastic decision by the decorator, which had provoked incessant sneezing amongst the spectators and the horses.

The tournament had been organised to celebrate yet another year of the kings’ marriage and, consequently, the full annexation of Dorne to the Crown.

Daeron II and Myriah Martell presided from the royal box with that kind of calm dignity that comes from celebrating the historic milestone that was an alliance cherished by the realm.

Baelor was seated three chairs to the king’s left, the place that was rightfully his as heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone. Ever since the tournament had begun, he had been watching the arena with the focused, slightly bored expression of someone who had been to enough tournaments to know when each rider would fall before they actually did.

However, this time, Baelor was wearing a dark doublet studded with rubies rather than his steel armour. For the first time, he was not living up to his nickname. Today he was not breaking spears, today he was watching them being broken.

Baelor had announced this to the Small Council two weeks earlier.

It had been a premeditated decision and contrary to his father’s opinion, who was always keen for his eldest son to demonstrate his skill with the hammer on such occasions — as if anyone doubted the prince’s worth.

The reason Daeron had heard: Baelor would not be attending, so as to allow young knights to demonstrate their skills in such an important tournament.

What Myriah had understood: it all had to do with the figure now sitting beside her son.

You were seated to Baelor’s left.

You were bathed in silver jewellery; the earrings weighed heavily on your ears and your necklace — a gift from your mother on your wedding day — adorned your bare neckline.

You wore a sky-blue dress with wide sleeves and silver embroidery, a dress that had required two weeks of alterations and three separate conversations with your seamstress, because your stubbornness had made you insist on wearing those garments despite your prominent bump. The result had been dignified and comfortable; ‘cool’, however, was not an adjective you would have used to describe it.

Baelor had noticed it even before you left the Red Keep to head out into the countryside — just as he had noticed every change, however slight, since you’d been pregnant, because, apparently, to your husband, you were now made of glass — which was why he wasn’t down there.

He had no intention of spending that day in the lists when he could be exactly where he ought to be: sitting by your side, watching for every little gesture that might betray tiredness, pain or discomfort, as if that were a battle far more important than any joust.

He could have won another tournament in any other year.

Moreover, he was curious to see who might have been his rivals.

It was then that Ser Gwayne Oakheart entered.

He had a presence so commanding that it stood on its own, an impeccable reputation built over decades of loyal service, and a habit of doing what he believed to be right without regard for what was expedient.

He was a man of principles, and this afternoon his principles had led him to win most of the afternoon’s jousts with a fluidity that had drawn shouts and applause even from the most demanding stands.

Now he rode around the perimeter of the field, his visor raised, the silver leaves carved into his breastplate glinting in the morning light, and that sly smile of someone who knows he has the crowd in the palm of his hand for the rest of the tournament.

Baelor watched him complete the first quarter of the circuit. Then the second, and so on until the end.

As the knight slowed his pace in front of the royal box, the prince looked at him with polite attention, settling into his seat and twirling the rings on his fingers.

Ser Gwayne looked towards the dais.

His green eyes swept over the faces of the ladies-in-waiting, strategically placed there by fathers with well-calibrated ambitions, their skirts adorned with those wreaths of flowers that hoped to be worn by some handsome knight.

Then they turned to Queen Myriah, who wore a stern yet calm expression, enough to remind any sensible man where overly bold knights ended up.

He paid them little heed: that day he was being crowned the best knight of the tournament and he wanted to continue proving it without ending up with his head on a pike.

Finally, they paused at your figure, standing imposingly to your husband’s left, like a treasure made up of a hundred gold dragons guarded by steel.

He rode up to the foot of the dais. When he stood before it, his regal eyes fixed upon it, he leaned forward from the saddle with a defiant expression and extended his mustard-and-green-striped lance towards you: princess by name of the Seven Kingdoms, wife of Baelor Targaryen and future mother of the child of the heir to the Iron Throne.

“My princess,” Ser Gwayne spoke in a steady tone, as though the blood of a reckless man did not run through his veins, “I trust you will forgive my boldness.”

Baelor felt something in his chest which, after a moment of genuine bewilderment, he identified as indignant surprise. You remained still in the seat, your hand halfway through wiping away your sweat.

“But I thought that, if I fought today with the favour of two Targaryens, perhaps I might have twice the luck.”

The field fell into an expectant silence, and for a few seconds the only sounds were the chirping of birds and the air rustling through the leafy branches of the trees and flowers.

You blinked twice.

You processed his words.

You wondered if it was really happening, if it was just a dream or simply a hallucination caused by the extreme heat of the day.

You even wondered if that proposal was really meant for you or for someone who, surprisingly, bore the same features as you.

But no, as far as anyone knew, there was only one heir to the Iron Throne; he had only one wife and was expecting only one child.

You opened your mouth, but, as if the words had died in your throat, you closed it again.

You looked around. Everyone was staring at you, but you searched only for the one pair of eyes that weren’t on you at that moment and that you needed most.

Baelor continued to stare straight ahead as he slid the rings on his fingers up and down, insistently. His chin was raised and his eyes had darkened, looking almost jet-black.

With no help from your husband, you turned your gaze to the sides. That day you weren’t wearing a wreath of flowers, as all the women in the boxes were, because you thought that, given your condition, no one would approach you.

You had greatly underestimated men.

You clutched the fabric of the handkerchief in the palm of your hand.

The audience was plunged into silence, eyes wide open and waiting with bated breath to see what would happen next.

Daeron II looked at you with a wary expression, his eyes darting between you and his son, who stood right beside you, not moving an inch. Meanwhile, Myriah also looked at you with the same gleam in her eyes as a woman who understood just how uncomfortable it was to be dragged by force into a situation like that.

Five, six, seven seconds of complete anticipation passed.

Finally, with the composure of someone who had spent far too many hours with her septa learning the proper manners of courtly behaviour, you rose with the limited ease afforded by your condition of the past six moons and approached the edge of the dais with slow steps.

“You are very generous, Ser,” you said in a tone that was utterly courteous and inscrutable. “It would be an honour.”

You placed the handkerchief on the tip of the spear—the one with the edges stained with red designs and your husband’s initial in the centre.

A wave of applause and whistles swept across the field, and that oppressive silence vanished in a matter of seconds.

Ser Gwayne flashed a smile that shone like the sun, took the handkerchief, tucked it into his gauntlet, clicked his spurs and rode off with the quiet satisfaction of having done the right thing.

You sat back down in your seat. You looked back at Baelor, who still had his gaze fixed on the front.

He didn’t say a word to you about it all day.

Not even when Ser Gwayne won every joust and earned the honour of naming the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Not even when he saw you accept the gift and, in the next moment, place the crown of pink lilies in your hair, only for it to sit askew because no one had measured the shape of your braids and it was a little too small for you.

But even though he hadn’t said a word, you already knew what was going on.

You’d known it ever since he’d stopped making the occasional comment about how he thought the joust would end—and getting it spot on—or when, on the carriage ride back, he’d simply offered up fleeting replies whilst gazing out of the window, when he’d always devoted himself to listening to your comments and critiques of the day’s events whilst caressing you and playing with your fingers.

That had been even more refreshing than that glass of water, because since you’d married Baelor, you could count on one hand the times he’d been jealous, and you wouldn’t even use all the fingers.

You’d never admit out loud that you loved seeing your husband like that.

It was more fun to try and prolong the situation, not out of cruelty, but because you didn’t know when it would happen again.

Your shared chambers fell silent when the last handmaiden left the room after the creak of the large wooden door.

You were sitting on a chair next to the bathtub placed on one side of the room. You had freed yourself from the confines of that dress that was constricting your skin and now wore only your white chemise, which reached down to your ankles. Your hand moved back and forth, slowly touching the surface of the water. It was warm and, just as your husband had promised, the mint leaves floated aimlessly.

You heard Baelor take off his cloak and drape it over the back of the chair. He loosened the clasp at his neck.

Usually, he didn’t do that himself, yet that evening, he was doing it, with the methodical calm of someone whose mind is occupied by something that is taking up more space than expected and causing him to be oblivious to his surroundings.

As if his mind were filled with the persistent image of a white handkerchief with red trim and a wreath of flowers tilted over his wife’s hair.

“What a lovely evening,” you said with a sigh of satisfaction after dousing the nape of your neck with that crystal-clear water.

He didn’t look at you.

“Aye.”

You did look at him.

“The tournament was very well organised.”

You heard the metallic clink of his silver brooch as he set it down on the table.

“Lord Penrose has improved since last year.”

“You mean Elaena,” you corrected. You smiled slightly when you saw that Baelor still wouldn’t look at you. “She’s spread the word well; she’s managed to gather some fine knights.” You paused. “Ser Gwayne rode very well.”

No one spoke for a moment.

“He rode well,” said Baelor.

“He’s a fine knight; I’m sure he’ll win greater tournaments in the future.”

“Hm,” he murmured, still not looking at you. “That was a very kind gesture, the crown.”

You smiled.

“Very chivalrous,” you remarked, almost as if it were of no importance. “It’s the first time I’ve been crowned and asked for a favour at a joust; it made me happy.”

This time, Baelor turned.

You hadn’t moved: one hand was still skimming the water with your fingertips, the other resting on your swollen belly. On your head, the crown of lilies, now sitting perfectly because your braids had been undone; a decision you’d made consciously and which he was choosing not to comment on. You wore an expression of innocence so carefully crafted that it seemed as though you’d been practising it your whole life just for him.

He leaned against the table and looked at you from across the room.

The moonlight streamed through the window, casting a more imposing silhouette of your husband.

“Are you going to take that off?” he said, nodding slightly towards the crown.

“What?”

He let out a perplexed snort and looked away again.

You managed not to laugh.

“Ah, the crown,” you said. You touched the flowers with your fingers, just as you had done that afternoon in the royal box. “I was thinking of taking the bath with it on, in honour of Ser Gwayne’s lovely gesture.”

Baelor looked at you again and crossed his arms.

It was a posture that, in the Small Council, conveyed honour and princely authority, whereas in private, in your opinion, it suggested he was trying to appear calmer than he actually was.

He took a deep breath and you saw his jaw clench slightly.

“You are the Crown Prince’s wife,” he said in a serious tone.

You nodded: “I am.”

“Pregnant, too.”

You looked down at your belly. The six moons were already noticeable beneath any garment. You looked back at your husband.

“Quite noticeably.”

He lifted his chin and leaned further against the small wooden table, which seemed to be the only thing keeping him from losing his temper.

“And Ser Gwayne Oakheart, with his reckless boldness and his spotless reputation, has decided that you were the fairest in the whole field, after having asked for your favour.”

You blinked twice and settled back in your chair.

“That is what he did, yes,” you said, calmly. This time the pause was barely a second. “Do you think he was wrong?”

Baelor tilted his head to one side. In the dim candlelight, the contrast between the violet and brown of his eyes—now darkened—was barely discernible.

After a few seconds, Baelor approached you with measured steps. The sound of his boots was muffled by the carpets; yet, even though you could not hear that tinkling, authoritative sound, you felt a shiver run down your spine.

When he stood before you, he lowered his gaze just as you raised yours. Your gazes merged into one.

He raised his hand and traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, then moved upwards, drawing an imaginary line to your cheekbone. His fingertips were rough, worn from the use of weapons, and yet you knew full well that he was the person who could convey the most tenderness when he caressed you.

Finally, he brought his hand to the wreath of lilies and removed it with more care than might have been strictly necessary given the circumstances.

He placed it on the side table.

“He wasn’t wrong,” he said at last, in a low voice.

He ran his fingers through your hair tenderly and slowly, and the look of feigned innocence had vanished from your face because, no matter how elaborate your plan might be, Baelor could unravel it with just the touch of his fingers.

"No?"

"No," he confirmed.

You took a deep breath and clasped your hands in your lap. You felt your chemise getting wet from the water you’d carried from the bath to the fabric.

You tilted your head.

“You could have given me the crown yourself.” There was something softer in your voice now, intertwined with a touch of humour; nevertheless, there was no lie in your words.

Baelor’s hand tightened in your hair.

“I didn’t win the tournament.”

“You could have if you’d taken part.”

“It’s my parents’ anniversary; it wouldn’t be proper for the heir to take part.”

You raised an eyebrow. That had sounded more like an excuse than a reason.

“How convenient.”

Baelor looked at you with his two-coloured eyes and sighed. He ran his hand through your hair and let silence fill the conversation for a few seconds.

"Valarr," he murmured finally, in a low voice, and at last you understood his concerns. He didn’t want any surprises, he didn’t want any nerves. As always, he was overly concerned for your well-being.

"He likes tournaments…" you repeated the words he’d spoken to you hours earlier. "Just like his father. When he grows up, he’ll win them all."

The prince swallowed hard.

Perhaps what you really wanted was for him to have been the one to crown you.

Perhaps he, as your husband, should have been the one to crown you for the first time.

You struggled to your feet — instantly feeling your husband’s hands steadying you, as if you were performing the most arduous task in the Seven Kingdoms —, resting your hands on the edge of the bath and the chair, until you stood facing Baelor. Your chests were brushing against each other and your husband lowered his face slightly, almost as if his heart were inevitably compelling him to draw closer to you.

“Next time,” Baelor spoke calmly. He rested his forehead against yours. “Next time there’s a tournament, I’ll participate. And I’ll win. And the crown will be placed upon your head by the one who ought to do so.”

You smiled faintly.

"By the one who ought to do so" you repeated, sealing that promise.

Then, he kissed you.

His lips on yours were soft and still. It didn’t last long, just long enough for you to feel it fully, not on your skin, but somewhere deeper inside, in that place hidden beneath the layers of flesh where butterflies flutter energetically and the heart beats far too fast.

His hands slid down to the small of your back and you felt the warmth of his skin even through the linen.

When he pulled away, he didn’t pull away completely. His breath brushed your mouth, and for a moment neither of you said a word, for there was no need. Everything had already been said: you had already tempted him and he had already answered you in his own way, with that cold reserve of his that only appeared on those occasions that could be counted on one hand.

With your eyes locked, your breaths in unison, and your hands clutching his dark doublet, you smiled; and after that, you let out a genuine laugh—one that made you clasp your hands to your ribs, for it seemed that even laughing whilst pregnant was torture.

“If you think about it, it was you who gave your favour,” you remarked between laughs, and you saw Baelor smile and roll his eyes.

“It was my favourite handkerchief.” He raised one of his hands to where yours lay, resting on your ribs. “Don’t you feel even a little guilty about what you’ve done to your poor husband today?”

"I like seeing you jealous."

"You're cruel."

"I'm not cruel, I'm your pregnant wife, so be nice to me."

"I'm perfectly nice to you, my dearest."

You bit your lip, still wearing a mischievous smile.

"Ser Gwayne would have been nicer."

The prince rolled his eyes again and wasn’t sure if he was doing it because of the comment or because, after he’d done so, you started laughing again as if you’d pulled a prank.

You settled against his chest with the same calmness of someone who’d achieved exactly what they’d set out to do.

Baelor leaned over to test the water. It was still lukewarm.

He began to undress you with the unique tenderness he possessed, now caressing your neck with his lips and playing with the fabric, all perfectly within the bounds of propriety, without a trace of jealousy.

Meanwhile, the crown of lilies remained on the little table until the following day.