Echo by TheFrenchOracle
Summary : After years of hardship, you finally realise your dream of studying journalism at one of the country’s most prestigious university. Everything would have gone well, if not for your encounter with a tall, handsome man who just happened to be one of your professors.
Chapter 22
Tags : modern au/ age gap : Reader is in her late 20s and Baelor is in his mid 40s/ teacher-student relationship
Taglist : @marosemarry @blue-aconite @simonedk @depressedpolishgirl @tweebylamb @xglittergoddess
Donnel did not explain where you were going until you had been driving for nearly twenty minutes. You had been too stunned to ask. The city slipped past the windows in streaks of orange streetlight and reflected blue from the emergency vehicles still racing in the opposite direction. Your entire body felt strangely detached from you, as though you had left some essential part of yourself standing on the pavement outside your burning building. Rhaenyra was the only thing anchoring you. She was curled against your stomach inside the open carrier on your lap, her small body vibrating with a continuous purr. One paw rested over the edge as though she had personally decided you required supervision. You stroked between her ears with your good hand. Donnel had stopped to get her the carrier, insisting she would be more comfortable. You still could not believe she was unharmed. Apparently one of the firefighters had found her hiding beneath your bed before the flames reached your floor, terrified but unharmed apart from singed whiskers and a general air of profound insult. You had cried harder when they had placed her into your arms than you had when you watched your flat burn.
Now she pressed herself against you, warm and alive. You buried your nose briefly into her fur.
“Where are we going?” You asked.
Donnel glanced at you through the rear-view mirror.
“Summerhall.”
“What?” You frowned.
“Summerhall. Mister Targaryen’s brother’s residence.”
“Maekar?”
“Yes.”
You stared through the windscreen.
“Why?”
Donnel gave you a look that suggested the answer should have been self-evident.
“Because your flat was just set on fire.”
“It could have been electrical.”
“It wasn’t.”
You looked at him sharply.
“What?”
“The fire brigade found accelerant,” he explained.
Your stomach dropped. Donnel immediately seemed to regret saying it.
“They’re still investigating.”
“Accelerant.”
“Yes.”
You looked down at Rhaenyra. Her eyes were closed, entirely unconcerned. Someone had deliberately burned your home. The thought sat differently from the attack. The underground had been enormous, a terrorist attack involving dozens of strangers. It had been horrifying, but there had always been a tiny, desperate possibility that Bittersteel had merely chosen that train by chance. Even after the letter. Even after Baelor told you otherwise. Part of you had wanted to believe that you had simply been unlucky. Your flat was different. Your flat had your name attached to it. Your books. Your photographs. Your clothes. Your cat. Your bed.
Someone had gone there because you lived there. A tremor began in your fingers. You curled them into Rhaenyra’s fur.
“So he knows where I live,” you whispered.
Donnel’s mouth tightened.
“He knew.”
“Knew?”
“You won’t be going back there.”
You gave a small, humourless laugh.
“Obviously,” you said, giving him a deadpan look.
“I didn’t mean..."
“I know. Sorry.”
Donnel had been nothing but nice. It wasn't fair to snap at him. Silence returned.
“Why Summerhall?” You asked after a moment.
“Security.”
“Baelor has security.”
“Yes.”
“His house has cameras,” you pointed out.
“I'm aware," he said dryly, making you blush. "Summerhall is different.”
“How different?”
Donnel considered his answer.
“You'll see.”
You leaned your head back against the seat. You had heard of Summerhall. Everyone had. The Targaryens were not royalty anymore, not officially, but their properties remained famous enough to occasionally feature in architectural magazines and documentaries about the old dynasty. Summerhall had once been a royal retreat. Then the wars came. Then rebuilding. You had seen photographs online years ago. A sprawling pale-stone estate surrounded by woodland, belonging now to "Prince" Maekar Targaryen, though no one was supposed to use the title anymore unless they wanted an argument about constitutional technicalities. You knew almost nothing about Maekar himself beyond what Baelor had told you. You had seen photographs. A stern-looking man with white hair cut short and a beard, broad shoulders, heavy brows and the sort of expression that suggested he found most people at least mildly disappointing. You remembered joking once that he looked like he ate people for breakfast. Baelor had laughed.
“He’s softer than he looks.”
The memory hurt. You closed your eyes and breathed slowly. The ache in your ribs had mostly become background noise now, but fear made them feel tighter.
“How long?”
“About three hours.”
You opened your eyes again.
“Three hours?”
“Yes.”
“You’re taking me three hours away?”
“Orders.”
You stared at the back of his head.
“You really love that word.”
He smiled faintly.
“I’m aware.”
“Whose orders?”
He did not answer immediately.
You already knew.
“Baelor’s.”
“Yes. Right.”
Your pulse kicked. You looked out of the window. Of course. Of course this had something to do with him. Your phone had been buzzing intermittently since you left the street. You had not looked at it. It remained face down beside you on the seat. You knew there were messages. Tanselle. Rowan. Probably Dunk and Raymun. Possibly half the university. Possibly him. You did not want to know. Not yet. Rhaenyra shifted, pushing her head beneath your palm until you resumed stroking her.
“Is he there?”
Donnel’s gaze flicked towards you in the mirror.
“Not yet.”
Yet.
Your stomach tightened. You hated the ridiculous reaction your body had to the idea of seeing him. Anger first. Then fear. Then a longing so sharp it embarrassed you. You had spoken to him only hours ago. You had heard his voice. You had listened to him admit that everyone in his life thought he was an idiot. You had ended the call almost feeling human. And now, your home was gone.
The road grew darker as the city disappeared behind you. Streetlights became less frequent. Buildings gave way to fields and woodland. At some point, the adrenaline began to drain from you. Your head became heavy. Rhaenyra’s purring vibrated through your stomach. The heater hummed quietly. You tried to stay awake. You failed.
When you opened your eyes again, the car had stopped. For one disorienting moment, you had no idea where you were. Then the headlights illuminated a security gate. Not a normal gate. An absolutely ridiculous gate. Tall iron fencing disappeared into darkness on either side. Cameras rotated above stone pillars. A guard booth sat behind reinforced glass, and retractable metal barriers rose from the road in front of the car. Two guards approached. Donnel lowered the window. One scanned something on his phone. The other looked into the back seat, his gaze lingering on you. You felt strangely reassured. The barrier lowered and the gates opened. The car continued. You expected that to be it. It was not. There was another checkpoint perhaps a kilometre further along. Then another. At one, Donnel had to place his hand against a biometric scanner. You stared.
“This is completely insane,” you scoffed.
“It’s effective.”
“Do they expect an army to attack?”
“Only the occasional paparazzi.”
That earned him a quiet laugh as you sank back into the seat. It was excessive. Absolutely absurd. And yet, with every gate that closed behind you, something in your chest loosened. If Bittersteel wanted to reach you here, he would have to get through an army of cameras, guards, sensors and fences first. You half expected the place to have hidden booby traps as well, something out of old spy movies you had watched when you were young. For the first time since the fire, you felt something resembling safety.
Then Summerhall came into view.
You had expected a manor. Summerhall was closer to a small palace. The oldest section stretched across the centre of the estate, built of warm pale stone with tall chimneys and steep slate roofs. But generations of renovation had softened the severity of the original structure. Modern wings extended from either side, designed with enormous bay windows that reflected the lights of the drive. Glass corridors connected newer sections to the older building. Warm golden light glowed from almost every window. It should have felt imposing. Instead, it looked lived in. There were bicycles abandoned near one entrance. A football sat beside a hedge. Someone had left a pair of muddy boots on the front steps. That surprised you.
Donnel pulled beneath a covered entrance. Before you could reach for the carrier, he was opening your door.
“I can manage,” you insisted.
“I know.”
“You’re still going to carry everything.”
“Yes.”
“You’re irritating.”
“Occupational requirement,” he shrugged.
You stepped out. Cold air immediately bit through your coat. Rhaenyra complained loudly from her carrier.
“I know,” you murmured. “I don’t like being kidnapped by aristocrats either.”
Donnel pretended not to hear. Inside, Summerhall was even less museum-like than you had expected. The entrance hall was enormous, with an old stone staircase rising along one wall, but modern lighting softened it. Family photographs sat on tables beneath portraits that were probably worth more than your former building. Children’s coats hung from a rack. One was a bright, glittery purple. You smiled despite yourself. Donnel led you through several corridors. You passed another guard. Then a woman carrying folded laundry. Then a very confused-looking dog that sniffed Rhaenyra’s carrier before scampering away shen she hissed at him. Eventually, Donnel stopped outside a bedroom.
“This is yours.”
You stared inside. The room was larger than your entire living room. A wide bed occupied the centre beneath a carved wooden headboard. There was a fireplace, a small sitting area and doors opening into a private bathroom. Another set of doors appeared to lead onto a balcony. A bowl, litter tray and small basket had already been arranged for Rhaenyra. You looked at Donnel.
“You told them I have a cat?”
“Theywere informed.”
“By whom?”
He avoided your eyes. You narrowed yours.
“Never mind,” you grumbled.
He placed the carrier down and opened it. Rhaenyra stepped out cautiously, sniffed the carpet and immediately disappeared beneath the bed. Donnel moved the small emergency bag he had been keeping "just in case" onto an armchair. It contained almost nothing. A few toiletries, aphone charger, pain medication and a change of clothes he had managed to grab from somewhere. Everything else was smoke and ash. Your throat tightened at the idea of your belongings dissapearing in a blaze.
“You should rest,” Donnel said.
“I’ve been asleep for two hours.”
“Nearly three.”
You looked towards the clock. Almost nine. Your exhaustion returned the moment you noticed. Donnel hesitated at the door.
“Mister Targaryen will be here later.”
Your heart jolted. You hated that he noticed. His expression softened slightly.
“Do you need anything before I leave?” He asked kindly.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
He left. The room became quiet. Too quiet. You stood there for several seconds. Then went to the window. The estate stretched into darkness. The nearest grounds were lit softly, revealing lawns, hedges and a fountain. Beyond that lay trees. Several security vehicles moved slowly along distant roads. You could see cameras mounted near the roofline. You were safe here. Probably. You touched your fingertips to the cold glass. A sound behind you made you turn.
“Why is your arm like that?”
You nearly screamed. A small boy stood in the doorway. He could not have been older than ten. Pale blond hair stuck up at the back as though he had been lying down. Large violet eyes stared at your brace with undisguised curiosity. You put a hand over your chest.
“Gods above! You scared me.”
His eyes widened.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
You breathed carefully, studying him. Definitely a Targaryen. He stepped inside.
“What happened?”
You looked at your arm. There was no pleasant way to explain terrorism to a child.
“I had an accident.”
“What sort?”
“A train accident.”
His brow furrowed.
“The one on the news?” He asked.
You hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
His expression changed instantly.
“Did it hurt?”
“A bit.”
This was such a ridiculous understatement that you almost laughed. He edged closer.
“Is it still broken?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see?”
You lifted the brace slightly. He inspected it seriously.
“Uncle Baelor broke his nose once.”
You blinked.
“That feels like a very different injury.”
“He didn't need a brace like yours but he said it hurt.”
“I’m sure it did.”
The boy nodded as though you had reached a satisfactory conclusion. Then he held out his hand.
“I’m Aegon.”
You shook it carefully.
“Aegon.”
“But you can call me Egg.”
“Egg?” You frowned.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“My family does.”
You smiled faintly.
“That is a dangerous privilege to give to a stranger,” you wanred him.
“You seem nice.”
“You have known me for about thirty seconds.”
“I’m good at people.”
You liked him immediately.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
He peered towards the carrier.
“Do you have a cat?”
“She’s hiding.”
“Can I see?”
“If she comes out.”
He crouched immediately, peering beneath the bed.
“Hello?”
Rhaenyra hissed. Egg sat back.
“She doesn’t seem nice.”
“She’s had a bad day,” you sighed.
“So have you.”
You looked at him. He said it without pity, simply as fact.
“Yes,” you admitted.
He stood, straightening his sweater.
“Dinner’s ready.”
“I thought everyone would have eaten already.”
“Uncle waited.”
Of course he had.
You swallowed.
“Right.”
Egg headed towards the door before looking back.
“You coming?”
Apparently yes. You followed while Egg talked constantly. You were grateful. It stopped your thoughts from spiraling.
“What do you study?”
“Journalism. At KLU.”
“Uncle Baelor teaches there.”
“I know.”
“He’s very clever.”
“I know.”
“He can be annoying though.”
You looked down at him, an amused smile tugging at yout lips.
“Believe me, I know.”
Egg grinned.
“I think you really do know him.”
You nearly walked into a table. Thankfully, Egg had already moved onto another subject.
“Do you have brothers?”
“No.”
“Sisters?”
“No.”
“That sounds peaceful,” he sighed.
“It was.”
“I have loads.”
“I heard.”
“Daella says I annoy her.”
“Do you?”
“Sometimes,” he shrugged. "Daeron and Aerion are at KLU as well. Well, when Daeron is...alright, he is. And Aerion..."
You felt his hesitation. The name was familiar. You remembered a conversation with Dunk, Raymun and Tansy, when you had discussed Baelor and his family. Aerion was one of Maekar's. You remembered he and Dunk had fought.
"He's busy picking fights with men twice his size?" You offered with a smile.
Egg's moout and eyes widened.
"You know Dunk? He is the best rugby coach ever! The best! But Dad made me stop after...the incident."
"Dunk is my friend. Maybe I could convince your father?"
He led you through a set of double doors. The dining room beyond was absurd. A long table stretched down the centre beneath hanging lights. Paintings covered the walls, most depicting landscapes or long-dead Targaryens staring disapprovingly from gilded frames. You noticed the people before anything else. Two girls sat near one side of the table. One looked about thirteen, pale-haired and elegant even in an oversized jumper. The younger one, perhaps eight, had dark curls streaked with silver and was swinging her legs beneath the chair. At the opposite end sat two men. You recognised Maekar immediately. Photographs had not done him justice. He looked even more severe in person. His face seemed built almost entirely from sharp angles and displeasure. Then your eyes moved beside him.
Baelor.
Everything inside you stopped. It had been weeks. You had spoken to him. You had heard his voice. None of that prepared you for seeing him. He looked tired. More than tired. His face had thinned, and there was more silver stubble along his jaw and hair, which was slightly disordered, and the second his mismatched eyes found you, every expression disappeared from his face. Then he stood. You froze. He came towards you automatically. Three steps. Four. Then stopped. As though he suddenly remembered he no longer had the right. His mismatched eyes moved over you.
“Are you all right?”
You stared at him. Your heart was beating hard enough to make your ribs ache.
“My flat has just burned down,” you said flatly. “But apart from that, everything is peachy.”
A sharp sound came from the table. Maekar had snorted. You looked towards him. His face remained perfectly serious. But there was unmistakable amusement in his purple eyes. Baelor closed his eyes briefly.
“I meant physically.”
“I know what you meant.”
Egg climbed into a chair.
“This is her. The lady from the train.”
Maekar stood.
“You must forgive Aegon. He has a habit of pestering people.”
“I don't,” Egg protested.
“You do,” everyone at the table said simultaneously.
That almost made you smile. Maekar approached. Up close, he was intimidating enough that your spine straightened automatically. Then he held out his hand.
“Maekar.”
You shook it.
“Thank you for letting me stay,” you said.
“You’re welcome here as long as necessary.”
His voice was deep and blunt. No false warmth. You appreciated that. He glanced at Baelor.
“My brother assures me your safety is his chief concern.”
Your gaze flicked towards Baelor.
“His judgement on that subject has been questionable.”
Maekar’s mouth twitched. Baelor looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.
Dinner was excruciating. Not because anyone was unkind. Quite the opposite. Maekar mostly left you alone. Egg filled every silence. The older girl introduced herself as Daella and asked intelligent questions about university. The younger was Rhae, who spent several minutes explaining why the dog you had seen earlier was forbidden from entering the dining room because he once stole an entire roast chicken. You concentrated on them. It was easier. Daella was thirteen and already possessed the dry observational humour of someone twice her age. Rhae was eight and apparently incapable of sitting in the same position for longer than twenty seconds. Egg was ten and interrogated you between mouthfuls.
“What’s your favourite book?”
“Impossible question.”
“Favourite historical period?”
“Also impossible.”
“Favourite king?” He pressed on.
“I’m not answering that in this house.”
Maekar actually laughed. You heard Baelor exhale beside him. You refused to look. You could feel him watching you periodically. You refused to acknowledge it. You spoke to the children. You spoke to Maekar. You asked Daella about school. You promised Rhae you would let her show you her drawings of dragons. You did not speak to Baelor unless absolutely required. For nearly twenty minutes, you managed. Then Egg ruined everything. He looked between you and Baelor.
“Are you Uncle Baelor’s darling?”
The table became silent. Completely. Rhae stopped chewing. Daella looked at her plate. Baelor went rigid. Maekar slowly put down his fork.
“Aegon.”
Egg looked at his father.
“What?”
“That is not an appropriate question.”
“But Matarys said...”
“Aegon,” Maekar's voice was firm.
You stared at your plate. Your throat had closed.
Darling.
You remembered Baelor saying it quietly against your hair.
Darling.
Sweetling.
Love.
All those small words that had meant safety once. You forced yourself to breathe. Egg looked confused.
“I’m sorry,” he apologised.
“It’s all right.”
Your voice came out thinner than you intended. You looked at him.
“You didn’t know.”
He nodded. Then you added, because apparently you enjoyed emotional self-destruction:
“I’m not anymore.”
Your eyes burned. You reached for your water before anyone could see your hand tremble. Across the table, Baelor looked devastated. Good. You wanted him devastated. You wanted him to feel one fraction of what you had felt. Then immediately hated yourself for wanting it. The rest of dinner passed quietly. Rhae eventually resumed talking. Daella deliberately asked you about the bookshop. Maekar changed the subject to university funding with the subtlety of a man driving a carriage through a wall. When you finally stood, exhaustion hit you all at once. You wanted your room, a shower and some sleep.
“I’ll show you back,” Baelor declared while standing up.
“No.”
The answer came instantly. His expression tightened.
“I only mean to walk you there.”
“I know where it is.”
“You arrived five minutes ago.”
“Egg can show me.”
Egg opened his mouth. Maekar interrupted.
“Aegon is going to bed.”
Egg looked outraged.
“I am?”
“Yes,” his father said with a pointed look.
“That’s convenient,” you muttered.
*
Maekar’s eyebrows rose. You could not tell whether he was offended or impressed. Baelor stepped away from the table.
“Please,” he insisted.
You hated that word in his voice, that pleading glint in his eyes.
“Fine,” you sighed.
The walk through Summerhall felt much longer than before. Neither of you spoke. His footsteps remained slightly behind yours. Not beside you. Behind, giving you space. You hated that too. At your door, you reached for the handle.
“Goodnight,” you said quickly.
“Wait.”
You closed your eyes. Of course. You turned. Baelor stood several feet away. He looked nervous. You had rarely seen him nervous. Even during arguments, he usually possessed that infuriating composure that made you feel like the unreasonable one. Not now.
“I’m sorry.”
You looked at him. He swallowed.
“There has not been a day since the hospital when I haven’t regretted what I did.”
You tightened your grip around the door handle.
“Then why did you do it?”
He flinched, then looked at the hardwood floor.
“I thought it was necessary.”
“You thought wrong.”
“Yes.”
The immediate admission surprised you. He stepped slightly closer.
“I know now that it was stupid.”
“You needed my home to burn down to work that out?”
Pain crossed his face.
“No.”
“Because apparently leaving me achieved absolutely nothing.”
“I know.”
“It didn’t keep me safe.”
“I know.”
“You just made sure I was terrified and heartbroken while someone was still trying to kill me,” your voice broke.
His eyes closed. You could see the words physically land.
“I deserve to hear it.”
Something in you broke loose, somewhere beneath your ribs.
“You hurt me,” you breathed.
“I know.”
“No.”
Your voice sharpened.
“You keep saying that, but I don’t think you do.”
Baelor went still.
“You hurt me,” you repeated, taking a step towards him.
Your eyes burned but you swallowed back your tears, staring straight at him.
“Deeply.”
He took a breath. You did not let him interrupt.
“I spent days locked in my room.”
His expression changed into something pained, his mouth tightening.
“I barely ate.”
Your throat hurt, your voice coming out scratchy.
*“Tanselle had to force food into me. Rowan, Dunk and Raymun came over every day because they were afraid of leaving me alone too long.”
He looked stricken.
“Sometimes I threw up because I was so anxious I couldn’t keep anything down,” you continued.
His face went pale. His hand rose to your cheek before he remembered and let it drop at his side.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered.
“Of course you didn’t know.”
You laughed bitterly.
“You left. Like everyone I have ever loved, you just left.”
He took another step towards you. You immediately moved back. He stopped.
“I thought staying away was helping you,” he explained.
“Well, it didn't.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was already traumatised. I had just woken up after being unconscious for five days. I had broken ribs. My arm was shattered. I could still hear people screaming in my head.”
Tears spilled over. You wiped them away angrily.
“And the person I wanted most was sitting beside me telling me that loving me meant leaving me.”
Baelor looked as though you had struck him. You continued anyway.
“I know you thought you were protecting me.”
Your voice softened, which somehow made it worse.
“But what you did wasn’t healthy.”
He said nothing, his eyes searching your face and his hands trembling at his sides.
“I shouldn’t have been that destroyed. I don’t want to be the kind of person who stops functioning because someone leaves.”
“You had survived a terrorist attack. Everything just added up.”
“That wasn’t all of it.”
“No.”
He understood. That made you angrier. You looked at him again.
“Did you ever love me?”
Shock crossed his face, his eyebrows furrowing.
“What?” He breathed.
“Did you?”
“How can you even ask me that?”
“Because you left very easily,” you scoffed.
“I did not leave easily.”
“You left.”
“Yes.”
His voice rose for the first time.
“And it fucking tore my heart apart!”
You stared. He took a breath, visibly forcing himself calmer.
“I’m sorry.”
Then, added quieter:
“Of course I loved you.”
Loved.
Past tense. Your stomach dropped. He saw it immediately.
“Love,” he corrected. “I love you.”
You said nothing. His eyes stayed fixed on yours. He stepped closer.
“I love you more than I have ever loved any woman.”
You inhaled sharply.
“Don’t say things like that just because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not.”
“What about Jena?”
He hesitated.
“I loved Jena.”
The answer was respectful. You appreciated that.
“Our marriage mattered to me. She still matters to me. She is the mother of my children and one of my closest friends.”
He stepped closer, slowly enough that you could move if you wanted. You did not.
“But what I feel for you is different,” he insisted.
You looked away.
“Of course. How convenient.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“It terrifies me.”
That brought your eyes back to him. You looked at him, taking in his messy, greying hair, the lines on his face. The way his arms trembled slightly.
“I have spent most of my life believing that if I thought carefully enough, planned enough, sacrificed enough, I could protect the people I loved.”
His mouth twisted bitterly.
“It was a very arrogant belief.”
“At least you’re self-aware.”
“Maekar has spent the past month explaining that to me in less polite language.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. Baelor noticed. He did not smile.
“I panicked.”
You frowned.
“That’s what happened.”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“I saw you in that hospital bed and I panicked.”
His voice became rough.
“You were covered in blood. You didn’t wake up properly for days. Every time a machine made a different sound, I thought—”
He stopped. His throat worked. Yours tightened, as tears ran down your cheeks.
“I couldn’t bear the thought that my life had brought that to yours.”
“So you decided for me.”
“Yes. It was foolish of me.”
“At least we agree on that.”
“Yes. It was wrong.”
Silence stretched between you. You looked towards the room. Rhaenyra appeared from beneath the bed and walked towards the door, tail upright. She looked at Baelor. Then rubbed herself against his trouser leg.
Traitor.
He looked down at her, his expression crumpling slightly.
“She’s all right.”
“She almost wasn’t.”
“I know.”
“She could have died in that fire.”
“I know.”
You knew you were not only talking about your cat. You watched him. There was something raw in his face now. Not self-pity. Fear, real fear.
“I will do anything,” he said.
“What?” You blinked.
“To repair what I have done.”
He swallowed, putting his hands on his hips.
“Anything.”
You stared at him.
“I’m not promising I’ll forgive you.”
“I'm asking you to.”
“I’m not promising we’ll get back together.”
“I know.”
“It could take ages,” you asserted.
“I don’t care.”
"I might never forgive you.”
Pain flashed across his expression, but he nodded.
“Then I will spend however long you allow me trying to deserve forgiveness anyway.”
You looked at him. This was the problem. This was always the problem. When Baelor loved, he did it so completely that even his mistakes were acts of devotion twisted into something destructive. He would break his own heart and yours if he could convince himself it kept you breathing. You did not know how to fix that. You did not know whether you should even try. Your body was exhausted. Your flat was ashes. Someone wanted you dead. Your cat had decided the man who broke your heart was an acceptable scratching post. You could not solve your love life tonight. You rubbed your forehead. Baelor immediately looked concerned.
“Are you dizzy?”
“No.”
“Headache?”
“A little,” you amditted.
“You should rest.”
“I know.”
He started to step away.
“Baelor.”
He stopped. You sighed.
“If you really want to start getting back into my good graces…”
His entire expression changed. Not hope exactly. He was too careful for that. But something near it.
“Yes?”
You looked at him for several seconds.
“Make me a cup of chamomile tea.”
He blinked slowly, almost in disbelief. You almost smiled.
“That’s it?”
“For tonight.”
“Yes.”
He nodded immediately.
“Of course.”
“With honey,” you added.
“With honey.”
“Not too much.”
“I remember.”
Your throat tightened. Of course he remembered. He turned towards the corridor. You watched him take several steps.
“Baelor?”
He looked back. You leaned against the doorway.
“I’m still furious with you.”
“I'm aware.”
“I might be furious for a long time.”
“I know.”
“And tea does not mean forgiveness.”
His mouth softened.
“I know.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“You’re saying that a lot.”
“I have been wrong about a great many things lately. I’m trying to appreciate the moments when I understand something correctly.”
You stared at him. Then, before you could stop it, a tiny laugh escaped you. It hurt your ribs. You winced. Baelor immediately stepped forward. You raised a warning finger.
“Tea.”
He stopped.
“Yes.”
He disappeared down the corridor. You went inside and closed the door. Not completely. Just enough to leave a narrow gap. Rhaenyra jumped onto the bed and curled herself against the pillows as though she had lived at Summerhall her entire life. You went to the bathroom. Any other day, you would have marveled at the marble. Tonight, you were too exhausted to care. Your hands were shaking. Your chest hurt. Your eyes burned. Nothing was fixed. Nothing was forgiven. You were still angry, still frightened. Still deeply, embarrassingly in love with him. You jumped under the shower, scrubbing away the fear, the fire and the sadness. When you emerged, a cup of tea was wating on the nightstand. You took a careful sip. It was perfect.
Arsehole.
