winter

  His boots’ noises grow louder as he walks into the royal wing of the Keep, finally finding some solace in the silent halls. He can even hear his own breathing while he counts his steps.

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  He hears the click of a heel ruining his counting; his head whips to the sound, trying to find the person responsible for bothering his peace, but he is met only by the soft ‘whoosh’ that is barely heard in the hallway.

  He shakes his head again, thinking nothing of it before he resumes the path he was taking. Sighing, he looks around the place; the candelights are brightening the hallways enough but not too much, moonlight seeps through the cracks, and suddenly he aches for a breath of fresh air.

  He strides toward the balcony — his unnamed balcony — counting his steps again. Five, six, seven, eight. And he stops for a second when he sees the bottom of a skirt sliding against the floor before it disappears in the direction of his destination.

  Curious and cautious, Baelor walks more slowly this time, trying not to make any other sounds that could frighten the person — a woman, he assumes — and lose the chance to talk to someone who is also seeking a quieter spot.

  Nine, ten.

  He freezes. 

  Wow. 

  Beautiful is the first word that comes to his mind as his widened eyes take in the way this woman is staring up into the stars with a content look on her face. No smiles, no, but he can sense the peace and ease in her eyebrows.

  He can’t even see her full face, yet he can read her like an open book.

  He is staring, he realizes, he is staring shamefully at a woman who is so unbelievably pretty in a way that steals the air from his lungs. He watches with a heaving chest as the silver moonlight spills over her hair like a shading in one of the paintings hanging in the painting room of the castle. She is perfect.

  There is a sadness to her, he assumes, a pain that lingers in the twitch of her mouth when she notices a shooting star in the pitch-black night. It isn’t even a true smile, but it is more than he could ever ask for.

  “My lady?”

  She gasps softly, turning around with her lips parted and her hand clutching her necklace in surprise. She seems frightened, her chest heaving with each exhale as she stares at him like a deer caught by the hunter with an arrow ready to be shot.

  She seems frightened, Baelor thinks, so he takes a step back and bows his head, his hands clasped behind him. He has a soft expression, a small smile on his lips as he tries to lighten the moment, even for a small moment.

  “I apologize, I did not mean to startle you–”

  “Pardon me, your grace,” she falls into a deep courtesy, her fingers threaded in front of her dress — a black long-sleeved gown adorned by black lace at the neckline, and a very beautiful corset that tantalizingly hugs her bosom — but he is not looking. He is not looking.

  “No need,” he shakes his head softly, his fingers itching to grab her arm and help her straighten her back, “Rise, please. We are not at court; it is not needed for you to be this polite.”

  “You are a Targaryen prince, your grace. Court or not, I shall always respect you,” she replies softly, standing back to her height again, looking at him with a nervous yet curious gaze, “I am deeply sorry for wandering in the castle. I was becoming restless at the feast.”

  “As I said, no need for apologies,” he walks on the balcony, three steps until he is standing side by side with her, “That we have in common. The celebrations can get too intense at times. That is why I am also wandering about. This part of the castle grows quiet at night.”

  “Yes, it seems it does,” she agrees, her eyebrows moving down a little at a thought, “But are you not required to be in the Tower of the Hand?”

  “Ah, yes, true, I spend most of my nights there,” he nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his posture straightening for reasons unknown as he looks at you with tender eyes, “Though I still own my previous chambers in this part of the castle.”

  “The sky must be beautiful from the tower,” she sighs a little dreamily, looking between him and the stars until her stare locks with a flickering star in the pitch-black night, the reflection of it shining on her irises. “Does it not get lonely there?”

  So she is not frightened, he thinks and sighs in relief, letting out a relaxed chuckle as he takes another step closer to look at the gardens from atop the railings.

  “It is hard to sense loneliness when you have many parchments to fill with words.” He looks up at the sky, keeping one hand behind his back whilst the other moves to the railings in front of him, “Being the Hand of the King has its advantages, though you have to pay the price of the power with sleepless nights.”

  “It must be rewarding,” she sighs quietly, glancing at him before looking down at her shoes, “To have everything you could ask for, without even asking; security, respect, peace.”

  “The Targaryen name alone ensures you are never truly safe, My lady. Prince or not, even a bastard with silver hair will never see peace.” He explains, “Many lords wish me death. They might bow, they might smile, they might bring me gifts as a gesture of gratitude, but they stand with a dagger at my back. It does not matter how deep their courtesy is; they will always believe a Targaryen born means madness and unruly chaos for the realm.”

  “But you are not chaos, are you, My prince?” Her tone is as soft as a feather, a ghost of a smile on her features as she watches him, “From what I have heard, you are the calmness that holds the pieces of the Keep together.”

  “I am not as you see me,” he takes a step closer, and he notices the way her breath hitches in her throat, “I am a man before anything else, I have urges and needs. I am ambitious, even though I am told to be the most levelheaded brother,” he gazes down at her, the way her eyelashes crul in the end, “And you, My lady? Who are you?”

  “That… is a mystery for another day,” she bends her knees in a quick courtesy, grabbing the skirt of her gown in her hands before she walks past him, “Have a nice night, your grace.”

  “Goodnight, my lady,” he smiles and watches her leave, his heart beating like a bird, hard and fast and breathtaking. Who is she? 

  With a sigh, he looks back up at the sky, looking for the star she was gazing at earlier, wishing it were his reflection in her eyes instead.

Day two

  “Lady Tyrell?”

  You groan at the sound, already done with the day before it had even begun. Rolling to your back on the bed, you sigh loudly, looking at the ceiling and blinking rapidly to wipe the exhaustion off your face.

  “May we come in–”

“Mama?”

  “Ah, I was wondering where she was,” you whisper and sit up against the headboard with a yawn, the tiredness of yesterday’s feast already drying out your bones. You fear what the rest of the celebrations will do to you. 

  It is not only the feast to be blamed for your exhaustion; your late-night rendezvous is also one of the reasons you are the way you are. You did not mean to slip away, truly, you needed a second to breathe, and got lost in the castle. It was your luck that led you to that balcony, as if the stars were calling your name, as if the pull between you and the Heir had brought you together.

  He was strikingly handsome; tall, yet he used his height to bring safety and not to corner you, mismatched eyes that glimmered under the moonlight — one a very unique shade of blue that was nearly violet, and one a chocolate brown color that reminded you of his Dornish heritage. The beard on his jaw and cheeks made him soft yet authoritative.

  You have never met a man who has made your heart beat this fast. Not even your late lord husband.

  You pull your hair over one shoulder, the soft sleeves of your night shift bringing your attention back to the world surrounding you. With a quiet and resigned exhale, you speak up.

  “Come in.”

  The world is pushed open gently, your chambermaid walking in hand in hand with your daughter, peeking inside the room before she guides the little girl to you.

  “Mama! They have sea!” Little Margery exclaims with a delighted smile, rushing out of the maid’s grasp before running for the bed and crawling on the mattress with a little struggle, huffing and puffing until she is situated under the blankets with her head on your chest, blinking her doe eyes up at you, “It is so blue!”

  “It is the Blackwater Bay, sweet girl,” you kiss her forehead, wrapping your arms around her body tightly as you acknowledge your chambermaid, “Good morrow, Celeste. I apologize, she must have dragged you out of the room at dawn.”

  “It is no problem, Milady! She is the sweetest. I am glad to be of service.” She smiles at the two of you, waiting for a heartbeat before she speaks up again, “What would you like to wear today, Milady? There is to be a hunt for the White Stag in the King’s woods in honor of Lady Kiera.”

  “A hunt–”

  “With a blade?” Margery looks up at you curiously, yet you can see the sadness creeping into her eyes, “Will they hurt the animal?”

  “No, sweetness, the Stag will feel no pain,” you smooth her auburn curly hair out of her face with a gentle caress, tucking a few strands behind her ear, “And you would find great friends there! There must be a tent for the kids, am I correct, Celeste?”

  “Yes, Milady! Little lords and ladies do have their own tent for the hunt! A safe and happy place for Lady Margery, I am sure.”

  “See? All will be well, and we shall have an excellent meal with the rest of the court,” you peck her small nose, pushing the covers off both of you to slowly wiggle out of the bed with her clinging to your chest, small arms wrapped tightly around your neck, “And if anything happens, send word for me, and I will come to you.”

  “Will you really?” She asks, her legs tightening around your waist as you walk with her through your room until Celeste helps you wash your face in the basin in the corner while you hold her up with one arm, drying your face as you walk to your mirror and sit in front of it with Margery on your lap.

  “Of course! Tell Celeste, and I will run to you without a second thought,” you watch as your maid stands behind you, untangling your hair out of your breath, reaching for the brush to gently comb through your strands, bringing oil out to shape the curls with her fingers. You return to your daughter, tipping her chin up, “What do you wish to do with your hair, sweet girl?”

  She thinks for a heartbeat, Aubrun's eyebrows frowning in concentration, before she gasps, “Pearls! I want it the way Grandma used to do it!”

  “I’m sure Celeste can think of something appropriate for today,” you kiss her head, chuckling when she reaches for the box of your hairpieces, waiting patiently for her turn while she observes every pin between her small fingers.

  Your morning goes by in a blink of an eye as you break your fast with Margery and help her get dressed for the day without her causing any trouble. The silence of the room was calming at some point when the little girl fell asleep in your arms as Celeste braided your hair in the fashion of King’s Landing.

  You manage to finally walk out of your chambers, hand in hand with your daughter, as she gawks at the tapestries and the King’s Guards’ shiny helmets. She is a joyful soul, wanting to explore the world around her, talking about everything and nothing until she has tired herself out, having the mischievous glint her Lady grandmother has, the same one her father had.

  Your gown is simple: a black gown with long sleeves and a neckline that even covers your collarbone. There had been designs sewn in green under your bosom and corset, fading into the black as it reached the end of your skirt. Elegant and fitted for a freshly turned widow. Respectful enough to keep the court silent.

  Your beautiful daughter, on the contrary, decided to go with the brightest orange ever seen among the seamstresses, with a long, flowy skirt that bounces with every step she takes. 

  She is so happy, with how she is swinging your hand and jogging next to you as you make your way towards the yard to get inside your carriage and start your short journey to the King’s Woods. 

  “Are you hungry, sweetness? We could ask Celeste to bring you some for the road,” you ask her, bending your knees a little to make sure she looks you in the eyes, “Because if we leave, we would not be able to eat anything till we reach the tents.”

  “I do not think I’m hungry, Mama… but maybe I am?” She is confused due to the fact that every time she is famished, her stomach growls. But now, it does not make any sounds that could potentially alert her, “Maybe an apple for the road?”

  “That sounds amazing,” you smile at her and wait for both your chambermaid and carriage to arrive, watching your daughter rock back and forth on the balls of her feet impatiently, glancing around the yard and the castle with a bit of remorse.

  “Our home is prettier,” she whispers, “But I love it here too! Maybe you would marry a prince, and we would stay!”

  “Shh,” your eyes widen, heart pounding in your chest as an image of a certain prince passes by your vieoon for a second before you crouch down next to her and make sure she is looking you in the eye, “We were invited because of your uncle, we came as Tyrells, besides, sweetness, no prince will like me nor it is appropriate to speculate about such things.”

  “Why not?” She pouts when you pinch her cheek, crossing her small arms over her chest, “I would like to stay here! I love the castle! Please–”

  “I, too, love this place, but it is for the royal family and the people of the court; we are not a part of either of them, my love.” You pull on her fingers until she is holding your hand again, watching as your carriage approaches you, the horse stomping its feet on the ground as it stops in front of you, “Let us go and enjoy the hunt!”

  ****

  To say the lady he met the other night has not been consuming every one of his thoughts would be a lie. And he, Baelor Targaryen, does not lie. He might not say the truth out loud, but he does not twist it and utter words that are a lie.

  He has been thinking, and thinking, and thinking about her. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her face, the slope of her nose, the curve of her lips, the way her skin glistens under the moonlight, the reflection of the black sky in her orbs. She is all he can see, all he can hear; she has become the only thing Baelor can focus on.

  He focuses on the way wind rustles the leaves of the King’s Woods. The noises of the knights and lords who are drinking and laughing while the maids and servants put up the tents and prepare the fire for the night. And yet, no sign of the mysterious beauty he saw last night.

  Baelor Targaryen is a humble man, confident and kind, ruthless when he ought to be. But his heart has not yet slowed down from his encounter with her, and it truly makes him dizzy, so he decides to help without a care about what his lords might think about him.

  He approaches the young man who is trying his best by carrying a huge wooden box, undoubtedly holding the possessions of his good daughter, Kiera. He truly wishes to help, really hopes he can pick up a thing or two to busy his unsettled mind and ease the pain of a few of his people, but it seems as soon as he starts walking towards the boy, he is causing a lot of problems.

  “My prince!” The boy gasps, dropping the entirety of the wooden box on the mud as he bends down on the low bow, his hands shaking as he waits for Baelor to respond.

  With a long defeated sigh, Baelor smiles and asks the boy to rise, knowing he has caused more trouble than helping anyone, totally the opposite of what he had in mind. 

  “I apologize, it seems I have done nothing but cause unease today,” He smiles down at the boy, reaching to pat his head before he steps back a little, “Make sure you tell the others to clean this up. Lady Kiera won’t be pleased to see dirt on her belongings.”

  “Yes, my prince! At once!” 

  He watches the boy bend down quickly, picking up the box with a groan, before he bows his head at Baelor and dashes toward where Lady Kiera’s tent is awaiting her arrival.

  “Well done,” he shakes his head at his mistreatment of the boy, sighing and puffing out air as he strides across the field, watching everyone closely as some of them hammer the nails into the ground while the others fill the glasses with rich Dornish wine. 

  He stumbles across a large table, covered with different plates: goose, meat, lemon cakes, tarts, and even duck with lots of different little side dishes that will most likely be ravaged by the lords. 

  As soon as he reaches for a tapestry that has caught his eye, a hand comes down for the same dessert he is reaching for. He chuckles before looking up at the person, his laughter dying in his throat as he finds her in front of him.

  She looks equally shocked, her eyes wide and lips parted in surprise as she takes in his features, her gaze landing on his mismatched eyes before she remembers who he is and drops into a courtesy.

  He is quick to reach for her elbow, not letting her bend her knees for him, shaking his head softly and smiling at her gently, “No need, my lady.”

  “Your grace,” he grins at her, his fingers twitching over her covered skin, the heat radiating from her body making him dizzy. You nod and stand next to him with ease after you slowly pull your arm away, looking down at your shoes in embarrassment when he clears his throat and withdraws his touch, straightening his back with his hand behind him. “Good morrow.”

  “Good morrow, my lady. I hope you had a good night,” he says quietly, his eyes memorizing every detail as he watches her closely, “I didn’t get your name before.”

  “And I said that mystery is the only way to survive the court,” she shrugs, a ghost of a smile making its way to her lips, and he feels as his own cheeks pull in a smile as well, “How else am I supposed to keep running into His Grace if he knows who I am?”

  “You would not need to run into me,” he confesses quietly, the words hanging between the two of them, “I would seek you out myself.”

  He hears the small breath falling from her mouth, her hands stopping the fidgeting before she licks her lips and regains her composure. She looks down at the pastries, “Now you have to seek me out more, because you do not know me.”

  “How so?” He steps a tiny bit closer, reaching for the dessert he was looking for before, gazing back at her softly, “You wish for me to run after you?”

  “Maybe,” she breathes out, blinking at him from beneath her eyelashes, “but you would be too busy with the realm’s demands to notice me. And that would be upsetting.”

  “For whom?” He asks, holding up the pastry for her to take, watching as she gently replaces his fingers with hers, their skin brushing against each other, and Baelor has to flex his other hand as the shockwaves rock through his body, “You, my lady?”

  “Hmm,” she brings the dessert up, taking a gentle bite from it, licking her lips as the powdered sugar sticks to her lips, his eyes are immediately drawn to them, and he is sure she is noticing the way his kind eyes are growing darker, “Perhaps. But a prince would never bother with a widowed lady.”

  “You are too beautiful to be a widow, my lady.” his fingers are twitching behind his back as he tries to hold himself from reaching to swipe his thumb over her lips, “Young and beautiful, it is a shame you are wearing black.”

  “It is expected of me, your grace,” she shrugs slightly, finishing the pastry with a soft expression before she reaches for another one, this time, handing it to him, “You did not get to taste the sweetness of this one, my prince.”

  “Is it good?”

  “It was baked by the castle’s best maids, I can only assume this has to be the most delicious pastry one could ever taste,” she says, and for the first time, she smiles at him even with the ever present sadness in her eyes, and his heart leaps into his throat, “I can only imagine his grace, the king, hires the most talented for his kitchens.”

  “Yes, he is very fond of his desserts,” he chuckles, dragging his ringed fingers from her waist up to her knuckles until the pastry is in his palm, the corner of his eyes crinkling with ease, bringing it to his mouth and taking a big bite from it. “Mhmm…”

  “How is it?” She asks with a soft tone, her eyes twinkling, “It seems your Grace hasn’t had one in so long.”

  “I stick to my Dornish wine and salty cheese,” he replies, licking the tip of his fingers with his gaze locked on your face, “Desserts are always present because of our Lord Father, but I am too busy to stay for it. The realm never waits.”

  “Ah, that explains your reaction then, Prince Baelor,” he smiles at the way his name sounds on her tongue, “Hopefully you will not be too busy for the hunt.”

  “I sure hope not–”

  “Lady Tyrell!”

  She turns around toward the sound, watching as — assuring — her maid running to where they are standing, panting with a pitiful yet terrified look on her face.

  “What is it?” His companion asks, taking a step closer to the maid, her brows weaving into a frown, her fingers clasped in front of her, “What’s happened?”

  “Margery, she fell–”

  “Excuse me, my prince,” she — you, he knows who his mysterious woman is now — does a quick bow before turning toward the maid, “Lead the way.”

  He sends you away with a quick nod, his own eyes wide and curious as you grab your skirts in your hands and walk with haste, letting your maid lead you to Margery, whoever she might be.

  ****

  “We seem to run into each other every hour and then,” you reach him, Baelor Targaryen, near the huge bonfire, throwing the end of your shawl on your shoulder as you approach him slowly, a goblet of wine in your hand.

  He turns around at the sound of your voice, his eyes softening at your familiar face while he raises his chin to look at you. “It seems so, my lady. I see you are out again under the sky.”

  “What can I say, I love the stars,” she replies, standing shoulder to shoulder with him as they both look at the edge of the flames soaring into the midnight sky, “It is too beautiful to miss, especially when the city is far away. There is no unnecessary noise, only calmness and peace.”

  “It is a hunt, my lady,” he says, taking a sip of his drink while his gaze turns from the fire to your face, taking in the way the flames shine in your eyes and lighten up your skin, “This must be the only peaceful thing about it.”

  “Will you be the one to push the lance into the white stag’s heart?” You blink at the fire, sighing when he does not respond immediately, “I am of a softer nature. I despise violence, but I know it is the way the world goes day by day.”

  “What would you wish me to do then, Lady Tyrell?” His voice is soft, his eyes even softer as he looks at you fully, watching you closely as you frown a little, even biting your cheek, and he is delighted to notice those small movements.

  “Nothing, your grace, I…” you shake your head, a small chuckle leaving your mouth before you find the courage to look him in his very breathtaking eyes, “I spoke things that were irrelevant to our conversation–”

  “No, please, I have only learned of your identity for a few hours, my lady. I do wish to know more about you,” he watches you swallow your wine, not breaking eye contact as you bring the goblet to your lips, “Tell me about your life.”

  “I am from the Reach,” you start, tightening your shawl around your shoulders as a cold breeze hits your body, “A Hightower, to be exact. I grew up with four brothers. I was taught how to use a crossbow, how to wield a sword, and to mount a stallion. That is why I detest violence.”

  “What is it that you like to do?” He points to the chairs scattered around the bonfire near his tents, where he was sitting an hour ago with Valarr and Kiera, “Please, take a seat. I would hate myself for a lifetime if I were the reason your feet ache the next morrow.”

  “Thank you, my prince,” with a smile, you walk to the chairs, choosing one that is placed the closest to his, the corner of your lips pulling up in a bashful smile, but you are quick to shake it away, “Well…” he rests his chin on the palm of his hand, “I like to… bake. It is unbecoming of a lady, I know, we are not supposed to get our fingers dirty, but after my husband’s sudden passing… it has been of great help.”

  “What do you bake, my lady?” He asks, his gaze unwavering as he keeps his irises locked on your face.

  He is so handsome, you think. His short hair makes his eyes stand out more; his beard, long and soft-looking, you wish to run your fingers through it, caress his defined jaw, and watch him lose his focus. 

  Unfortunately, it is you who is losing her focus at this point.

  With a not-so-subtle shake of your head, you look down at your goblet, the warmth of the fire kissing your cheeks, heating your body, adding to the tension hanging between the two of you.

  You met him last night for the Seven’s sake. You must not enjoy how one looks in your direction, which is enough to send your heart racing.

  “Berry tarts,” you sigh, smiling a little, “My daughter helps too. She eats more than she helps, but it is good to have us… occupied so we do not wallow in grief.”

  “You have a daughter…” Baelor hums in amusement before he raises his eyebrows in surprise, “Margery?”

  “Yes, I am impressed,” you look at him just as shocked, his cheeks pulling into a wide smile, and you have to hide your flustered amile behind your drink, sipping gently before continuing, “Did you seek out information about us?”

  “No,” he chuckles, moving away a little to lean on the back of his chair, looking up at the sky for a heartbeat before his gaze finds you again, “I put the pieces together.” 

  “Hmm, you seem to like a good riddle, my prince.” You mimic his pose and look at the side of his face, noticing the sharp ridge of his nose, “And scenery.”

  “True,” he meets your gaze, smiling at you softly, and you notice the beautiful shade of red on his cheeks; you do not know whether it is from the flames or the wine, “You seem to like a black night sky as well.”

  “We used to have a telescope to watch the stars from the highest tower of the castle,” you explain in a hushed tone, “My brothers did not enjoy it as much as I did, especially when I would drag the Maester up there to help me look at the stars. It was a beautiful time, sometimes I miss being a child; away from grief and motherhood.”

  “That is a beautiful memory,” he replies, blinking at you with a curious yet empathetic look, “Did you love your lord husband?”

  “Ah,” you laugh in a gentle manner, looking at the stick closest to you as it burns at the other end, the fire coating the length of it slowly, “I did not at first, though. We weren’t a love match, but we grew closer; he was the second son, and I was the eldest child and the only daughter. Shared troubles were the reason we grew to love each other. And then came Margery in our second year of marriage. Seven years is a long time,” you suck in a sharp breath as you finish before looking at Baelor, “What about you? I’ve heard quite the tales about you and your lady wife.”

  “The tales are pretty dramatic compared to what we had,” he starts, finishing his wine, putting the goblet down on the ground before he combs his fingers and closes his eyes, a small smile growing on his face, “Just as you, our marriage was not as pleasant as a lady would like. Heir to the throne, Hand of the king from a young age… it was a lot of responsibility for us. But we got closer as the time passed, Valarr was born, and we were happier than ever. It did not take us long to fall in love.”

  “It is a lovely thing, to love another,” you whisper, smiling when his misty eyes meet your own, “To create a human and give them life. I wish Margery had more time with her father. The Seven took him from us too soon.”

  “You will find love again,” he mutters, and you notice how he fiddles with his rings, maybe to ground himself, maybe to stop himself from touching you. “You are a young and beautiful lady.”

  “Maybe,” you nod, squeezing your own fist before you bite your lip, “Maybe.”

Day Three

  “I like eating,” Margery says as she sits at the Tyrell table with you, swinging her legs and eating the meat they have brought from the hunt for lunch, “I like eating with you, Mama!”

  “I can tell, sweetness,” you kiss the top of her head, burying your nose in her beautiful curls as you smell the petals Celeste had dropped last night in her bath, “I like eating with you too.”

  “Can we have cake later?” She asks, looking around the tent to find the cake she saw earlier, huffing when she sees it on the high table where the royal family is sitting, “So far away!”

  “I do not know, maybe. We have to wait and see what plans the court has for us,” you reply, pushing her hair out of her face when she groans and pouts, busying herself with her food. You laugh softly, kissing the crown of her head again, “If you are good and eat all your meal, they might give us a huge piece!”

  “Truly?” Her big eyes shine with happiness as she looks at you, “A big piece with looots of cream?”

  “Yes,” you nod, then point at her plate, “Eat, and I shall think of a way to get you a piece, sweetness.”

  “Thank you, Mama!”

  You are about to respond when you see Prince Valarr stand up as soon as Lady Kiera walks into the tent, kissing her hand when she reaches him and easing her into her seat. That is when you notice Baelor.

  He is looking at you in a way that could set fire to your skin; unshakable, soft, with undivided attention as if he is memorizing you, carving the shape of your face in his mind until you are all he sees in his waking moments and dreams.

  A smile threatens to pull on your face, but you are quick to notice your good sister looking at you with a curious expression on her face. And you have to try to keep a mask on as long as you need to so she does not notice anything out of the ordinary.

  It is not that something has happened, nothing is going on, but the idea of anyone finding out you have drunk with the Heir, you have stargazed together, makes your heart beat against your ribs like a rabbit being chased.

  You do not wish for anyone to find out.

  You glance at your good sister, making sure she is happy and distracted with Margery before your eyes find Baelor’s mismatched ones; truly a wonder, a dark-haired Targaryen set to rule over the kingdom with orbs lovelier than the sea itself.

  Watching with bated breath as he stands up, he raises his cup to his son and future good daughter, “It is an honor to be the host of a lovely event held for my son and Lady Kiera. I have watched you grow into a handsome capable young man, and now, you have found compassion in a loving lady who will help you become the best man and knight you can be.” He smiles, looking around the room before his eyes catch your gaze for a brief moment, “You will become a strong and fair king one day.”

  “Thank you, father,” Valarr says, smiling broadly, “May we see you happy once more.”

  “Let us thank our guests as well for joining us in this week’s beautiful celebration!” Baelor sits down after that, and your eyes are magically pulled towards him, and you notice him whisper I hope so too in response to Baelor’s words.

  ****

  He does not realize how the time passes; from riding his horse back into the castle walls to the beginning of the feast at sunset. He is already changed into a black and red doublet, sitting at the high table with the King present next to him, sipping on his wine.

  People are dancing, and the King’s guard is standing nearby as they search the hall for any threat. There sit the big houses of the realm; Starks, Hightowers, Martells, Arryns, and Tyrells have all attended, and are placed closest to the high table.

  That gives him a good look at you and your little girl, whom you are caring for. He is reminded of Jena; she took care of Valarr and Matarys fussings, fed them herself as long as she had to. She would pat their heads and kiss them goodnight. He never had the chance to have his own little girl, a princess to spoil because his wife was taken too soon from him. Just as your husband was taken so hurriedly by the Seven.

  He watches the way yet another black gown is laced across your back, too beautiful yet soulless for a woman like you. He wishes to see you in your house’s colors; Tyrell and Hightower. But more than anything, he wants to see you in the bloodiest and finest silk in the entire Westeros. In his colors. In the Targaryen colors.

  Baelo Targaryen is a man of class, a man of patience, which is why his father has bestowed the position of his Hand on him. But even the mightiest men must have one weakness, and shockingly, his newest one is you. 

  He watches you talk with an enthusiasm that could become the sole source of his heart pumping blood. He can not help but smile broadly as he sees Margery jump out of her seat and twirl at the music, showing off her green gown to everyone.

  But then, he sees it. He sees the lord approaching your table. At first, he thinks nothing of it, the lord could have many reasons to come to the Tyrells, he could have a business plan, a trade deal, something, anything. 

  Apparently, it is none of them as he stops right next to your chair, extending his hand and smiling at you sweetly. Sickeningly sweet. Baelor has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, but he can not stop the grimace on his face when you laugh and look down at your plate.

  “Are you well, son?” The king asks, his old body resting against his chair as he looks at Baelor with curious eyes, “You have been silent for far too long.”

  “Of course, why would I not be?” He tries to mask his emotions, but his emotions are too strong to handle, and his frown deepens even more when he sees you stand up with your hand in the Lord’s palm, your skirt sweeping behind you as the guy leads you to the dance floor.

  “Maybe you would like to dance…?” He has to stop the urge to grunt at his father, but he is not entirely wrong. He is not very good at dancing, the last time was with Jena at Matarys’ name day, the exact day he was born, in their chambers as she clung to him in pain, but she was happy and safe in his arms. 

  He thinks about the last time you danced. Was it at Margery’s name day perhaps? Or at your wedding? Could it be at a feast in the castles of Highgarden, or maybe in the garden of roses surrounding your home? Did you enjoy it? Are you enjoying it now?

  The lord is respectful, keeping his hands where Baelor can see; one on your back and the other holding yours as he slowly moves you across the floor among the other couples. 

  His body moves before he has the chance to rethink his decisions. The song is near its ending, his footsteps follow the rhythm of the music as he walks around the high table, passing the Tyrells and glancing at Margery watching you with a beautiful smile. 

  He nears the end of the dance floor where you and the lord stop, bowing as the song ends. You smile at the lord before you notice a familiar shape of dragon embroidery and turn your face to where Baelor is standing.

  “My prince,” you drop in a courtsey, ignoring as the guy bows deeply before he is dismissed with a single nod from Baelor. That was easy, he thinks, much easier than expected as he offers you his hand.

  “Please, Lady Tyrell,” he whispers, his fingers closing around yours when you place your hand gently in his palm, allowing him to pull you closer, “May I have your next dance?”

  “You may,” you reply, placing your hand on his shoulder, looking at him with wide eyes, your fingers trembling in his hold, but he is steady and will be more steady for you. “I did not take you for a dancer, your Grace.”

  “Nor did I take you as one,” he loses his head until his lips are closer to your ear, “Though you are a beautiful dancer, a delicate one too. I had to sit and watch you brighten the entire room.”

  “You flatter me, my prince,” you breathe out, your chest heaving, your skirt brushing his boots as he twirls you once, pulling you even closer than before yet still making sure it is an appropriate distance. 

  He looks at you, wide-eyed and smiling, the glee in your eyes making this experience more joyful than it already was for you. 

  As soon as the song ends, everyone stops, and for the first time, he lets his most suppressed feeling become known in his eyes; you notice his pupils are blown that the blue and violet hue of his iris is invisible, his lips are a few shades darker, and his cheeks are tinted with red.

  You are the same with how you inhale harshly, your hands getting clammy and a longing look in your eyes. He wishes to devour you if he could right here, but the king is present, the court will whisper and worse, your reputation will be tainted because he could not resist his urges.

  “Meet me at our terrace?”

  “Yes.”

  ****

  You remember the first time you walked through these hallways, needing an escape from the feast, away from the noises of the boots stomping on the ground. The dark pathway led you to the balcony, where you met the Heir to the Iron Throne. 

  That fateful night had changed something in you both; something that started to pull you to each other whenever you were next to each other. As if you were tied together with invisible strings.

  You jog through the hallways as if you were born here, turning right by a memory and grabbing your skirt in your hands as you near the end of the pathway.

  There he is, standing with his back to you. His posture is straight, hands locked against his waist as he looks up at the sky. For a brief second, you wait and watch him; his shoulders are a little tight, his fingers fiddling together, the red of his doublet as red as human blood.

  He turns around, and you move without thinking as soon as his eyes meet yours. It takes three strides to meet him, cupping his cheeks before crashing your lips into his.

  Sparks fly across your skin, his lips are soft and warm, and the realization makes you nearly melt. He is everything you have been missing, something good, something alive. 

  His hands are unbelievably warm when he places one on your waist and the other on the back of your head, his lips moving against yours in a heated rhythm, stealing the breath out of your lungs feverishly.

  You grab the short hair strands on the nape of his neck, whether to tug on them or pull him closer you do not know, but you know that you do not wish for him to ever be parted from you, today or any other day to come.

  You gasp when one of his hands slips downward, grabbing your buttocks and squeezing harshly, making you gasp into his mouth, clutching him harder. His beard rubs across your skin – so unbelievably soft – as you scratch his jaw and kiss him with an open mouth.

  He pushes his tongue past your lips, pressing you to the stone wall as he pushes his knee between your legs when he feels you begin to go soft in his arms, holding you up and straight as he tastes the wine on your tongue.

  “You are so fucking beautiful,” he groans against your lips before he trails his kisses down your neck, making sure to pull down your neckline to attach his mouth to the soft flesh above your bosoms, his beard burning your skin as he kisses and nibbles across your skin.

  “My prince–”

  “Baelor,” he sinks his teeth into your collarbone a little as a warning, “It is Baelor to you, my dear.”

  “Baelor,” you whine, beginning to rock a little against his thigh, the amount of layers of your gown and his pants does not allow you to take your pleasure, “I need more.”

  “Tomorrow night,” he whispers, he kisses you again, “After the ceremony, come to my chambers. The tower of the Hand,” he licks your bottom lip and it makes you moan, “Shh, I will have you tomorrow night just the way you deserve.”

  “After the ceremony?” You rest your forehead on his, gazing into his eyes with a small smile on your swollen lips.

  “Yes,” he kisses you one last time before he steps away from you, and you notice the pained look he sends your way as soon as he loses your touch, “I will tell the guards to let you in without hesitation.”

  “I will see you then, Baelor.”

  He laughs softly at the way his name sounds this breathless and in awe, “Yes, tomorrow night.”

Day four

  His day started with the image of you, the memory of last night and the taste of your lips against his tongue, and a smile as big as his face as he got dressed. 

  Last night was magical, it had been so long since he had felt such a strong emotion swirling inside him. The last time was with his late wife, and he remembers that night the best; it was a few months after Matarys’s second name day, he was exhausted but she was very much lively and in need and they spent the rest of the night curled up together under their sheets.

  Baelor thinks of the two memories, side by side. He feels guilty for being alive after his late wife, he feels as if he is betraying her trust and love, but you… He has not felt so warm in such a long time, and you are making him feel like a person once more.

  He walks through the hallways of the Keep, passing ladies and lords as they greet him briefly, trying to keep his grin to himself but he is barely managing to hold his posture as a prince should.

  Until something, or someone small collides with his legs.

  “Save me!” Oh. Margery. She is pulling on his sleeves as she giggles and looks behind her before she tugs on him again, “She is coming after me!”

  “Who is?” He crouches in front of her, a small smile on his face as he notices the disheveled look on her; dark red curls in different directions, her white night shift large enough to cover her entire small body.

  “Mama!” She gasps when she hears the knocking of the boots against the hard floor, looking at him with wide eyes before she throws herself into his arms. “Save me from the beast!”

  He catches her effortlessly, already used to his boys tackling him down. She is far too gentler than he is used to, and he loves how she clings to him, arms wrapped around his neck.

  “Your mother is no beast,” he corrects her gently, picking her up with his forearm keeping her weight against his body as he pushes a few unruly strands out of her face, “She is a lovely woman who wants the best for you.”

  “She wants me to take a bath and wear a gown so tight it hurts my chest!” She huffs out, pouting a little and he is so close to crying because she looks so much like you, it feels him with so much endearment it nearly spills out of his ears.

  “I could save you from a gown but not a bath, little flower,” he kisses her forehead, walking slowly with her in his arms, “You should be clean, always. I took a bath this very morrow too!”

  “Did your maid scrub your arms–”

  “Margery!” You round the corner, heaving as you stare at her, eyes widening when you notice him holding her, dropping into a quick courtesy, “My prince.”

  “You are a prince?” Margery asks, tilting her head to the side, blinking her huge hazel eyes at him, “You did not tell me!”

  “I am,” he chuckles, glancing at you for a brief second, finding you smiling and looking all flustered at your daughter’s antics, “You did not give me a moment to introduce myself. I am Baelor.”

  “My prince, put her down,” You take a step closer, rubbing Margery’s back slowly, but she only hugs his neck tighter, placing her head on his shoulder, “Come on, please. We have a wedding to be ready for.”

  “Your lady mother is right,” he bites his cheek to stop from laughing when she huffs out in annoyance, “I want to see you dancing with beautiful hair at my son’s wedding.”

  “He is your son? He did not give me cake yesterday–”

  “Get down, little lady. I am not going to repeat myself, let the prince be.” Your tone changes into a stern one, making both Baelor and Margery look at each other before he kisses her forehead again before he puts her down. 

  “She was not being rude,” he states gently, taking another step closer, smiling down at Margery who grabs your hand and waves shyly at him, “I shall see you at the wedding. Would you save me a dance, little flower?”

  “Will you marry Mama if I dance with you?”

  “Margery!” You gasp, squeezing her hand in warning but she shrugs and hugs your arm closer, you close your eyes, trying not to melt when Baelor laughs softly, “I sincerely apologize, your grace. She is a child and–”

  “No need,” he shakes his head, reaching to hold your hand gently in his, the small contact between your fingers tinting his cheek in red, “I do not know about marriage, but I would like to see you in something other than black, my lady.”

  “What do you have in mind, your grace?” You ask, breathless and panting as he brings your knuckles to his lips, his beard brushing the back of your hand as he plants a kiss there, his thumb caressing your pulse point.

  “Red!” Margery squeals, pulling on your other hand as she jumps up and down, “You must wear red!”

  “I–”

  “Great choice,” he winks at Margery before kissing your hand one more time and letting go, his gentle eyes filled with an unknown warmth, “Targaryen red would be more than I could ask for.”

  “I do not believe it would be appropriate,” you whisper, clenching and unclenching your fingers, “The court will talk…”

  “They always do,” he replies, “Let them talk about your beauty, not grief.”

  “I… I will think about it,” you bend your knees in another courtesy before beginning to lead your daughter away, “Tonight…”

  “Tonight.”

  ****

  The gasp your good sister let out was truly worth it when you walked inside the Sept with Margery holding your hand. Red. A red so deep it looked as if you were draped in blood, Targaryen Red as it was requested.

  You watched the young couple get married in the eyes of the Seven, watched how Valarr’s cloak wrapped around Kiera’s body as she belonged to this house; the face of a beautiful queen to be.

  Baelor, as handsome as always, stood next to the King as he watched his son get married to the woman he so loved, but during the ceremony, his eyes would find yours. His attention, although mostly on his son and good daughter, would drift to you and Margery every moment or so.

  “Why is Prince Baelor looking your way?” Your good sister asks, her sharp judgmental eyes narrowing as she glances between you and the prince, “He seems to be shocked by your… appearance as well. You are grieving, that is an awfully inconvenient gown for a widow.”

  “I lost my husband almost a year ago,” you say, helping Margery climb into the seat next to yours as you wait for the married couple to arrive at the throne room, “I am young, I deserve to be happy.”

  “Yes, well, it seems you have lost all etiquette of the court after my lord husband’s brother died,” she smiles at you, her teeth sharp and his tongue poisonous, “At least for the sake of your daughter… do not tarnish her future.”

  “Mama, look!” She waves at Baelor, grinning when he sends a small wave back in her direction, “Prince Baelor promised me a dance!”

  “We shall wait and see, sweetness,” you run a hand over her curls, filling her plate to feed her enough if he decides to make good on his promise, “Let us have supper for now.”

  “I wish to dance! I will go to him myself!”

  “No, sit–”

  “Lady Tyrell.”

  “My prince!” Your good sister and Lord Tyrell stand up immediately, you though, can not because he is standing behind your chair, looking down at you with a gentle gaze that makes your heart palpitate so fast.

  “Your grace–”

  “Prince Baelor!” Margery squeals and wiggles in her chair, “We shall dance!”

  “Of course, my lady,” he chuckles and offers his hand to her, giving you a little room to help Margery down and hold his hand, “If it is alright with your mother…”

  “Absolutely, please,” you stand up as well, which seems to be the wrong move given how close you end up to him, having to look up at him as he towers over you, his eyes falling to your lips. You clear your throat and look down at Margery who is clutching Baelor’s fingers tightly in her small hand, “Be good for our prince, okay?”

  “I am always good!”

  “True, my lady,” he cocks his head to the side, smiling reassuringly, “We will have the best dance, and we shall show it to the court.”

  “I would not hold you back then,” you reply, bending your knees in respect and he bows his head a little before leading Margery to the middle of the room where the rest of the ladies and lords are gathering – Valarr and Kiera included – and he kneels in front of her, bringing her hand to his lips, relishing the small giggle she lets out.

  “Will you hold my hand?”

  “Dancing is all about holding hands, little flower,” he straightens his back, pulling her a little closer until she is standing on his boots with her flat boots, “Ready?”

  “Yes!”

  You watch them dance, ignoring the way some heads turn in your way, watching you then at your daughter and the Heir to the throne. You ignore them, as you always do, and watch your daughter giggle as Baelor spins her around. She looks so happy, her eyes shine as they did with her father when he was alive, and her smile makes your body warm.

  He picks her up when they have to move across the room, keeping her close and laughing when she says something, his eyes crinkling in joy.

  The dance ends sooner than you notice. Margery is fast on her feet as she bolts toward you with a big smile on her face, Prince Baelor in tow.

  “Mama! Did you see me?” She makes grabby hands at you, and you pick her up with ease, “Prince Baelor was so kind! He helped me a lot!”

  “I did! He is a prince, of course, he would help, sweetness!” You kiss her flushed cheek before meeting Baelor’s overwhelming gaze, “Thank you, your grace. You… you made her entire night.”

  “That was the least I could do for the most beautiful lady in the realm,” he pinches her cheek before withdrawing himself from your space completely, “I am very glad that I could be the cause of her happiness even for a brief moment.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” you smile, dropping in a small courtesy with Margery still in your eyes, ignoring the burning glare of your good sister against your back.

  “Have a great night, my lady.”

  ****

  Your heart is beating so fast against your chest as you walk through the hallway that you know ends at Baelor’s chambers. The guards are already standing there, white cloaks and shiny armor glinting under the soft candelight. You give them a small smile as you approach them, one of them ignoring you as the other nods, scanning you from head to toe in order to find something amiss.

  You nod in reply when they push the door open gently, slowly walking inside like a scared cat, taking in your surroundings before you find Baelor sitting behind his desk.

  His chambers are spacious; a large bed on your left, a terrace close to his work desk, a dining table close by, and even a small set of furniture gathered around a table. Lived in, dark, warm, and him. 

  You find a bathtub close to the hearth, and the steam of the water dampens the air in the room. With a curious yet shy smile, you stride in his direction, and he stands up as well, meeting you halfway.

  “Hello,” you whisper, placing your palms on his chest, his hands finding home on your waist just as quickly, pulling you closer until you are pressed against his body, “I was not aware we were going to take a bath.”

  “Neither did I, dear,” he brushes his nose along yours, “A change of plans that will only lead to me worshiping you.”

  “You are as tempting as sin,” your palm moving up slowly, cupping the side of his neck, your thumb caressing his bearded jaw softly, “It is… unbelievable, the way you make me feel.”

  “You do not give enough appreciation for your own beauty,” he bends down a little, placing a kiss on your cheek, “I believe you are the most alluring person I have ever met. Beautifully crafted by the old gods, new, and the doomed gods of the Valyria.”

  “I feel so strong about you,” you cradle his face in your hands, your lips only a breath away, “Undress me, Baelor.”

  “With pleasure,” he closes the distance, kissing you with an enthusiasm that makes you gasp into his mouth.

  His fingers reach for the laces of your gown, deliberate fingers, pulling on each knot until the red gown is pooling around your ankles, his lips moving with yours in sync.

  “Allow me,” he pecks your lips before he pulls back a little, “raise your arms,” you do and he pulls your shift up until you are only left in your small clothes, bare breasts falling into his line of vision, “Fuck me…”

  “It is unfair,” you reach to undo his doublets, dropping fabric after another until he is standing with his own white shifts until you are tugging at it, making him chuckle as he pulls it off, showing his toned chest and abdomen. “Oh…”

  “I have grown old–”

  “Do not say that,” you shake your head, “You are perfect for your age. Truly… a body sculped by the gods.”

  “You are sweet,” he kisses you again until you are breathless before he lowers himself on one of his knees, dragging your underwear down slowly, mouthing at your belly as he drops the fabric away as if it had offended him, “beautiful.”

  He grabs your hand, making sure you are secure as he helps you inside the tub with a steady hand after he kisses your thigh. His own desires made their presence known by making a tent in his underwear.

  “Join me,” you lean over the edge of the tub, resting your cheek on your forearm as you watch him stand up and pull the last piece of clothing off until he is as nude as the day he was born. 

  Your eyes are immediately drawn to his cock, noticing the soft blush that runs from the top of his stomach to his neck and cheeks, moving to make room behind your body, ignoring the way your body calls for him. Not now.

  He sits behind you, his knees bracketing yours as he pulls you flushed against his body, arms wrapped around your middle and his nose buried in the soft braids you have not bothered to undo.

  He kisses your shoulder, his fingers caressing the skin under your breasts as the warm water surrounds your bodies. He is gentle and caring in a way you have never experienced before – not even your late husband was this careful with you – and he makes you feel as if you are made of the most fragile and exquisite glass in the entire Westeros.

  “Beautiful,” he whispers, one of his hands moving to cup your breast, squeezing the flesh, making you gasp and throw your head back. He smiles, nipping on the shell of your ear, “I would pour us wine, but I am already drunk on your scent.”

  “Sweet talker,” you let out a breathless laugh, wrapping one arm around his neck before turning around a little to look him in the eyes, finding his gaze already dark and wanting, “Do you always invite noble ladies to your room?”

  “Never,” he brushes the tip of his nose against yours, the hand on your chest moving up to hold you by his fingers on the side of your neck, drawing you closer until his lips brush yours, not in a kiss but a promise of one soon, “You are the only woman I have found myself being smitten with.”

  You kiss him then, pulling him in by the back of his head, moving your lips against his forcefully, moaning in his mouth when one of his hands drops between your legs, fingers finding your pearl with ease.

  He is enjoying the way you melt in his arms, head resting on his shoulder as you let him feast on your tongue, sucking and pulling on the flesh of your lips as if they belong to him. They do, though it is too soon to admit.

  “Baelor…” you gasp when one motion of his fingers along the sensitive nerves sets your skin ablaze, “I need you.”

  “And I you–”

  You detangle yourself from him, pushing him back until his back hits the bathtub, a gush of water spilling out of the tub because of his movements.

  He is stunned, you can see it in his eyes as he spreads his arms over the edge of the tub and leans back with a surprised smile, watching with hooded eyes as you crawl into his lap, finding home on his body before kissing him again feverishly.

  You do not wish to waste any more time. You want him, here and now, and for many days as you can have with him. As you moan and gasp into his mouth, he helps you line up his cock with your winking hole, holding you against him by one hand wrapped around your back and the other on the back of your head.

  “Fuck– Fuck, Baelor.”

  “I know, dear,” he says through a choked breath, “Slow and gentle.”

  You nod but when you take him inside you finally, you slump forward on his body, your breasts rubbing against his hairy chest as you adjust to his girth. He is big; bigger than your late husband as it is only him you can compare Baelor to. 

  He groans, holding you close as he stretches your walls deliciously, enjoying the warmth of your walls as they hug him close. He tucks your face into his neck, the hand on your back moving to your buttocks, squeezing the flesh while he tries his best to resist the urge to fuck you.

  “Gods be good,” he throws his head back when you roll your hips down, using his shoulders to hold yourself up as you begin to move, leaning down enough to kiss his throat, smiling at the vibration that is felt over his skin as he groans.

  “You feel so good,” you whisper, trailing your lips up to his jaw, then cheeks, “Gods, you feel so fucking good–”

  “You were made for me,” you moan at his words, sinking your teeth into his thin bottom lip as you begin to move faster, the water around you crashing into your bodies in hurried waves. 

  He squeezes your ass, fingers digging into your flesh as he bends his knees to thrust up inside you, slotting his tongue with yours in a desperate kiss as he takes his pleasure and brings yours to the edge of yours.

  Your noises fill the room, the sound of the water hitting the bathtub over and over again, adding even more noise to your coupling.

  He kisses you like you are air, he holds you as if you are a dream and he does not wish to wake up from it. He wants you more than ever, more than yesterday, more than the first time he met you. 

  Baelor tugs in your hair until you are gazing into his eyes – misty orbs meeting each other in the throes of pleasure – and you have to try to hard not to break the contact but his cock nudges the spot inside you that has your vision going white.

  You climax with a broken cry, fingers leaving half-moons on his broad strong shoulders, cunt clenching around his length for life. You do not wish to let go of him, you want him inside you for as long as possible.

  Your legs shake around him uncontrollably until he pulls you down and holds your limp body against his while he hammers his cock inside you. You can feel his body contracting for a second before he buries himself inside you to the hilt, filling you up with his warm seed as he whimpers your name into your hair.

  He is trembling slightly from the pleasure. You are sure he has had his share of women since his wife passed, but you do not believe any of them to be this intense.

  “So good,” he whispers, caressing your bare back and holding you close with a soft kiss to the curve of your shoulder, “You were so good, my darling.”

  “So were you,” You wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him as the heat leaves your bodies, “It had been so long since I experienced… such a pleasant moment.”

  “I shall give you more if you allow me,” he tightens his embrace, afraid you would leave even if he is the one shielding you from the toxic reality of the court, “The night is young…”

  “I have to leave before dawn,” you whisper, but do not push him away, “But I suppose I have earned the right to join you in your bed,” he smiles at your words, pecking your lips, “And this water has grown cold and disgusting. We must get out of this instant.”

  And when his chest rumbles, you are sure of the decision you made.

Day Five

  “Look at the flowers!” Margery whines, stomping her feet as she stands in front of the bushes of the royal gardens, “They look so dead!”

  “Sweetness, they are just fine–”

  “They are not! Mama, look, the petals are turning down!” She almost starts crying, looking frantically across the field to find someone, anyone to come and listen to her, “They are not getting enough water.”

  “We shall find a way to tell the gardeners, is that alright, Marg?” You ask, turning her so you could look her in the eye, “Besides, these are not ours to mend–”

  “I miss my flowers,” she pouts, but does not pull away when you kiss her cheek and chuckle, “I love to stay but their gardens are bad, Mama! Can we tell–” she is distracted again, this time, by noticing three shadows walking in the same path as you, “PRINCE BAELOR!”

  “Margery!”

  You know the whispers will start to fly off soon with the way every head turns to the little girl running to where the Heir is standing with his son and good daughter.

  Baelor is quick to notice her, finding her panting as she reaches the three of them, frowning so deeply that a small crease forms between her light brown eyebrows. 

  “Hello, Lady Tyrell,” he says gently, leaning down a little to be less intimidating, “How can I help you on this fine morning?”

  “I am very displeased by your gardens!” She huffs, crossing her small arms across her chest, looking at him with a deadly glare that makes his heart burst through his chest, “Your flowers are dying!”

  “Oh, no,” he crouches down in front of her, his thumb moving to untangle her eyebrows. He has to stop the endearing teasing smile that threatens to overtake his features so he does not upset her further, “What shall we do, little flower?”

  “Our roses bloom when they get enough water. Yours are dying because you do not help them! If I don’t eat, I will die. Flowers are the same!” 

  “Best we start feeding them, then!” Valarr jumps in, clearly interested in the little fiery girl in front of him, and he notices you finally approaching them with a tired look, “My lady.”

  “My prince, princess,” you courtesy to the married couple before looking at Baelor, “Your grace, I apologize–”

  “No need,” he shakes his head, looking at Margery with a small smile, “Would you like to stroll with Prince Valarr and Princess Kiera?”

  “He did not give me cake!”

  “Margery, please don’t be rude–”

  “Please, my lady,” Kiera laughs softly, extending her hand to Margery, “We should remedy that! There is cake on the table at the end of the path, we could share some.”

  “Truly?” Margery asks, turning around to look at you for permission, “Mama, can I go? Please please please–”

  “If it is alright with Prince Valarr–”

  “Absolutely,” the young prince says, offering his arm to his wife as they begin to walk with Margery holding tightly on Kiera’s fingers. You can hear how Margery immediately starts talking.

  “I like your hair!” She says excitedly, making Kiera smile at her when she starts swinging their arms, “I like pink! I also like red! Like roses!”

  “Would you join me for a walk, my lady?” Baelor waits for your response, holding his elbow out for you to take, “We could stay behind them if it eases your mind.”

  “Oh, thank you,” you weave your arms through his, leaning a little of your weight on him as he guides you through the path, “She is going to talk their heads off.”

  “Good practice for when they would become parents of their own,” he replies quietly, resting his free hand on top of yours over his forearm, “Last might was…”

  “Magical,” you finish his sentence, smiling at him with a glimmer in your eyes. He chuckles and nods, remembering the vivid memories of last night with you tangled beneath his sheets, “I wish we could stay in those moments. You and me, hidden from the world.”

  “I wish you could stay,” he whispers, the words making your breath hitch, heart bursting inside your ribcage, “In the court, with me. Margery already loves this place, perhaps you could… find a position among our court.”

  “What exactly, Baelor?” You ask softly, shaking your head but smiling when you see Valarr pick Margery up, “As Princess Kiera’s lady in waiting? I am a widowed mother, no one would ever look twice my way.”

  “I would,” he stops, his grip on the back of your hand tightening slightly, “I would look more than twice. I wish I could look at you every day, my lady. Stay, I promise I will find a way to make it worth your while.”

  “We should not dwell on the unfortunate circumstances we are facing, instead,” you look around to make sure no one is actually paying you two any mind before leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek, gazing at him with a small grin, “We should find joy in the remaining moments we have.”

  “Would you want to… go somewhere less crowded?” He does not wait for an answer as he slowly leads you to a hallway that reaches the lower levels of the castle, crowding you against the wall as soon as you are out of sight.

  He kisses you without a second thought, only wishing to taste the fine morning tea you shared with the rest of your family. And taste he does with how passionately he licks and nibbles on your tongue, pushing his knee between your legs and pulling one thigh around his hips, caressing the exposed skin of your leg until it teases your garments.

  You moan and kiss him back, one hand fisting his clothes and the other clawing at the back of his neck to hold him closer. It is insanity how much you need him, the prince of the realm, the heir to the iron throne, but more than any of his titles, you need Baelor.

  His lips fall to your neck, sucking on the exposed skin and grinning against you as he notices the eye-catching green of your gown – the color of the Hightowers – you are wearing. Colors, not those black doomed dresses you would wear the first few days.

  You hear the clutter of the plates against the ground close, making you gasp and push him away with a force that nearly knocks him to the opposite wall of the hallway as you both pant and look at the servant who is visibly shaking and crying as she stares at the two of you.

  “Stay where you are,” Baelor commands gently, not a hint of anger in his voice as he approaches the maid slowly, “Do not be frightened.”

  “M-my prince! I- I…”

  “This shall stay between us, do you not think so?” He stands closer to her, clasping his hands behind his back as he looms over her a little, “There is no reason to fear me. If words do not get out, you can stay and keep your job in the Red Keep.”

  “I will not tell a soul, my prince!” She drops to her knees in front of him, clutching his boots, “I beg of you, please have mercy on me–”

  You do not wait to find out what he wants to say, instead, you flee from their company with a hand to your chest, tears burning your vision as you try to find the path ong the sea of flowers to go back inside.

  You can only hope the words do not find their way into the gossip of the court, or The Seven forbid, to the ears of your good sister.”

  ****

  What we hope for does not usually come true. What we love always comes with a price, and loving the prince of Westeros is the hardest of all. 

  You knew from the moment you set your eyes on him he would become the sun in your rainy days. He became so dear to you in the shortest time possible, not just someone you liked but someone you loved. 

  Baelor Targaryen is a maddening man with the most beautiful eyes someone can possess; a blue so rich you could paint the sky with it and a brown so pigmented you would think they have built the mountains of the hue of his iris.

  He is whole-consuming, humble, soft, kind, and he can make your heart explode if he touches you. He is everywhere in your dreams and thoughts, he was all over you the night prior, and now, he is nowhere to be found.

  It is not his fault that your good sister is yelling at you with her husband, Lord Leo Tyrell shaking his head in disbelief, Margery still clinging to Kiera and Valarr. For the best to keep her away until the issue is resolved.

  “How could you jeopardize our name!” She screams again, pacing around your chambers as you have personally offended her. “They will now write songs about your stupidity! What were you thinking? Getting involved with a prince, and not just any of them but the one who will become King?!”

  “Clearly she was not thinking–”

  “Would you two stop berating me like I’m a child?” You hiss at them, looking out of your window and at the calm water that slides over the sands, “I knew what I was doing. A mistake but I do not regret it–”

  “You should,” she grabs you by the elbow, pulling you closer by a harsh tug, “You have ruined our reputation. We are the most important vessel of the crown and you and your careless actions have put us in a tight position.”

  “The court is already talking,” Leo sighs, clearly less agitated than his wife, “They have seen you. The prince has danced with Margery, with you, you have been caught in a compromising… way. It is not looking good, sister. We were planning to wed you to a Lannister to ensure you have a good life but now… I doubt anyone would want to cross paths with you.”

  “You wanted to wed me without my consent? I have a child, a Tyrell child who belongs to Highgarden, you can not take that away from her, from me!” You pull your arm out of her grasp and walk past her, “I would rather die than marry someone I do not hold affection for again.”

  “The prince – who it seems, you like, will not marry you, get that into your head,” she scoffs and throws her hands up in surrender, “He has his hands full with responsibility. He has an heir, he would not care to marry another.”

  “You shall leave then,” Leo stands up, glaring at you, “At noon, with the first carriage you could find. Leave for Highgarden, we will decide your fate when we come back.”

  “You can not send me away–”

  “You have caused enough trouble, do not make me rethink my decision and marry you off to avoid the scandal you caused,” and with that, he leaves, his wife – burning with fury – follows after.

  You drop on the chaise in defeat, slapping your hand to your mouth to muffle the sobs that wreck your body. You are going to leave before you make your prince’s life hell.

  You do not know how long you cry, only that one second, your chest stops heaving and you fall into a dreamless slumber.

Day six

  “I have not seen her all morning, brother.”

  “Who the fuck are we talking about?” Maekar drops his weight on one of the small council’s chairs, propping his feet up on the stone table.

  “Lady Tyrell,” Baelor sighs deeply, staring into the distance from the balcony, trying to get his mind to cooperate and help him remember where he could possibly find you, “She… she has disappeared since yesterday. I saw her at the feast last night for a moment but she vanished again.”

  “Why are you looking for a Tyrell anyway?” Maekar scoffs, drinking his wine while he looks at his Baelor’s face with disdain, “I have never seen you interested in any woman that walks inside this fucking castle.”

  “Yes, because none of them were interesting to begin with,” Baelor rolls his eyes, exhaling so loud it makes Maekar snort, “If you don’t have anything remarkable to say, then get out of this room.”

  “I believe your lady has been suffering from the court gossip, your grace,” his brother laughs, and the words draw Baelor’s attention immediately, “I heard Keira talking last night. The ladies have seen her with someone inappropriately–”

  “Fuck,” Baelor’s eyes widen in panic, his palms finding the back of the King’s chair as he holds himself up, “It was me… I- I am the reason she did not attend the feast.”

  “It was you? Fuck me, I thought you had lost your charm,” another snort leaves Maekar, groaning as he sits upright before drowning the rest of his wine, “They saw her with a lord’s hand up in her skirts, unbeknownst to them it was the Heir himself. Instead of these games of cat and mouse, you could have just courted her.”

  “It was not my intention to fall for her!” Baelor’s calm tone finally breaks as the gravity of the situation dawns on him, “I have not felt such an intense desire for anyone since Jena, and now I am about to lose her because of my selfishness.”

  “You could go and ask about her whereabouts if you are truly so concerned about her,” Maekar shrugs, approaching his brother with a pointed look, “But if you do, that means you are turning the rumors into the truth. Do what you deem best.”

  “I have to find her,” Baelor shakes his head and skips his way into the room, ignoring Maekar’s voice calling for him. He must find you, he must.

  He goes for your chambers first, finding no guard stationed at the doors. He bursts through the door in hopes of finding you and Margery there, but he finds the place empty of you and your belongings.

  The bed is made, the closets already empty, the desk void of any tea glasses, no sign of toys or small clothes that could be Margery’s. 

  “No,” he exhales sharply before turning around to move and find someone, anyone, he can help him. “No, no, no…”

  He runs down the stairs, ignoring the questioning looks of the lords and the sound of his assigned guards’ armor as they follow him. He must find Lord Tyrell this very second, or he will go mad.

  And he is very successful in his hunt, as he finds him standing with his wife in a corner of a distant hallway, talking in anger and hushed whispers.

  “You,” he approaches them, grabbing the lord by the collar before he slams him to the closest wall. This is not him, this is not the calm and collected Prince Baelor, this is Baelor Breakspear who is angered and distraught. “Where is she?”

  “W-who, your grace?” Lord Tyrell swallows harshly as he utters the words and Baelor feels the bump in the lord’s throat moving against his knuckles.

  “Lady Tyrell and Margery,” he hisses, tightening his fists on the lord’s clothing, “Speak before I tell my guards to go and search for her. If they do not find her, you will pay the price–”

  “Please, my prince, let go of him–”

  “Where the fuck is she?” He yells, and he can see the fear in Leo Tyrell’s eyes for the first time, “Tell me instantly if you wish to have a place in my court–”

  “She has left!” Lady Tyrell cries out, grabbing Baelor’s sleeves to stop him even though he has not raised a finger on her husband yet, “She was told to leave at noon.”

  “You sent her away,” the realization breaks his heart as he lets go of the lord to look at the lady, his attention completely on hers, “When?”

  “An hour or so, your grace–”

  “May the Seven give me patience,” he leaves the couple without a glance as he marches downstairs and to the courtyard, grabbing the reins of the first stallion he sees before he puts one foot in the saddle and swings his body over the horse, “Hey!”

  He rides out of the gates with the King’s guard behind him, following the path that he is sure you and Margery must be on. He is not thinking clearly, his head is foggy and his hands are shaking.

  He needs you to be alright, he needs you to be close so he can get to you and bring you back. He can not, and shall never leave you again.

  He does not know how long he rides until he sees a lonely carriage on the dusty road, he only knows he has to stop it before it leaves his sight.

  His stallion gallops up to the carriage until he stands several feet away, forcing the boy behind the reins to pull a sudden stop to the horses. He waits patiently for his guards to come and take control before he jumps down and walks to the door of the carriage.

  “Prince Baelor!” Margery is the first to gasp his name, “You came for us!”

  You look at him then, with a soft pout and misty eyes. He is as equally teary as you are, body shaking with worry and agony as he stares at you. 

  There seems to be years of longing between the two of you, months of departure and pain, but it has only been a few hours. It feels as if they have chained you in a room on opposite sides without letting you speak to each other, as if you have lost him altogether in a terrible nightmare.

  “Baelor…”

  “My dear,” he holds his hand for you to take, a pleading look sent your way, “Come outside, let us talk.”

  “I have to go back–”

  “You will not go anywhere,” his tone is clipped, he is not responding to argue, “You will stay by my side, here, in King’s Landing.”

  “I can’t,” you breathe out a broken sigh before placing your palm in his, stepping out of the carriage with small steps, looking back at Margery who waits eagerly for a moment to speak, “stay inside, alright, sweetness? I will be back in no time.”

  “I wanna hear!”

  “After we’ll talk, I will let you ride with me back to the castle, alright?”

  “Do not promise her something that you will not be able to do–”

  “She will ride with me back to the Keep,” he cups your cheeks in his hands, pulling you close until his forehead rests on yours, “I am a man of my words.”

  “Baelor, this was… we did not think this through,” you whisper, placing your palms on the back of his hand, lips wobbling as you try to hold back your tears, “I have caused you too much trouble already. Allow me to leave so you can live in peace–”

  “I can not find peace if you are not with me,” he kisses the tip of your nose, letting his tears fall on his cheeks finally, “I did not get a lick of sleep last night. You are occupying every thought I have; what you are wearing, what you are eating, how your eyes crinkle when you smile, how you touch your neck when you are nervous. There is no mistake in loving you, it never was.”

  “People will talk, they already do! They think I have corrupted you, they believe I am manipulating you into taking my hand in marriage–”

  “Then you are very good at it,” he lets out a water chuckle before placing a gentle kiss on your lips, not even drawing back to talk, he allows his lips to brush against yours as he speaks, “I want your hand in marriage. I want you to become my queen when I take the throne one day, I want you by my side even more in the days ahead. Margery will become a legitimate princess if I ask my father–”

  “You can not say these things,” you shake your head tasting his salty tears on his mouth as you peck him once more, “You will find someone who is better suited for this role. I am already spoiled…”

  “Spoiled?” He forced your neck back a little to look you in the eyes, “You are the most perfect woman I have met since my wife’s passing. You are kind, generous, and gentle, how could I seek someone more loving than you when you exceed all expectations?”

  “You are a charmer,” you smile at him a little, and he sighs in contempt, “How would we do this? How would you be able to tame the people–”

  “That is my burden to bear,” he kisses you again, this time a little harder to make his point known thoroughly, “I will request an audience with the King this evening. I need you to have some faith in me, and I will make both of you the happiest women in the realm.”

  “Can I come out now?” Margery peeks at you from inside the carriage, “Please? I am hungry, I wish to eat lunchen soon!”

  “You heard the lady, dear,” he kisses the side of your head as he tucks you into his side, wrapping one arm around your waist as he helps Margery onto the ground slowly with his free hand, “Have you ever ridden a horse?”

  “No, Mama never lets me get close to the stable,” she pouts, “Can I go with the prince, Mama?”

  “If you promise to listen to him and follow–”

  “YES!” She grabs Baelor’s hands and tries to drag him to his stallion, “We will see you at the castle! Bye!”

  “Have a safe trip,” you manage to steal one more kiss from Baelor before he is entirely focused on your little girl, picking her up and placing her on his shoulder as he walks to where they are keeping his horse.

  With one last look at them, you sit inside the carriage on your way back to the Red Keep.

  ****

  Baelor’s head is pounding. The audience with the king went surprisingly well, but he had to be careful about the way he talked to him, even if the king was his father. It did not matter if they were related in those moments, he had to make sure every step was carefully planned to achieve what he desired.

  He pushes the door open to his chambers slowly, walking inside and finding you and Margery under the covers, sleeping soundly without a care in the world. He smiles at the sight, warmth spreading through his body as he gazes at the two of you until his feet begin to protest.

  He strips, carefully placing the clothes on his chair, peeling layers of the day off until he is standing in only his breeches. He has even discarded the white linen shirt he wears.

  Walking quietly to the basin in the corner of the room, he washes his face and hands, letting the cool water flow over his lashes and lips. With a towel that has been placed nearby, he dries himself before approaching the bed.

  “Baelor?” You whisper into the dark, slowly sitting up and searching for him, mindful of the little body sleeping next to you. You reach for him when he slides behind you under the sheets, his warm chest solid against your back, “How was the king?”

  “Well and healthy,” he replies, kissing your shoulder over your nightshift, “I told him everything, from the first night to today, I do not remember the last time I have been this detailed about something.”

  “You were nervous,” you smile craning your neck to look at him and he takes the opportunity to kiss you softly on the lips, “What else?”

  “We agreed to postpone the wedding to a fortnight from now,” he rests his head on the hollow of your neck, “It was a little tricky to tell him I wished to get married again, but my brother helped and strengthened my argument.”

  “That is good, I was worried you were alone in the dragon’s den.”

  “No, my brother couldn’t lose this chance to see me beg our father for something,” he scoffs, wrapping his arm around you while the other one stretches over your body to caress Margery’s head, “He wishes to meet you, both of you.”

  “Really?” You sigh softly, already tensing at the thought of talking to none other than the King himself, “Whatever will we say?”

  “That I am unable to predict,” he kisses your shoulder again, settling beside you with a soft smile, “Sleep, my dear. No one is going to need us on the morrow, I have made sure of that.”

  “Thank you,” you squeeze his forearm, “For coming for us, for fighting for us…”

  “I will do it a thousand times more, never think otherwise.”

Day Seven

  Baelor Targaryen spends the entire day from today to his last breath cherishing the life he has gained after years of loneliness. 

Tagging: @sylasthegrim @venmondiese <3

THE UNBOWED

The first time you sailed into King’s Landing, the city emerged from the morning mist; red towers standing proudly above all else, making you feel so small in comparison.

You had come by ship for the voyage was far quicker by sea but it was not any less lonely. You were supposed to be accompanied by your cousins – daughters of Prince Maron. However, they had fallen ill with fever shortly before departure and the maester, cautious as ever, insisted they remain behind. 

Both of your cousins were devastated, meanwhile you felt a little lost and unsure. As a Dornish Princess who had never been to King’s Landing, you had a feeling that you would find yourself in a place that was completely different from what you were used to. And you were anxious about failing to fit in.

Your father was the youngest sibling of Queen Myriah and Prince Maron and you were his only daughter who had recently turned twenty years old. You had a feeling that this whole trip had been planned for you and your cousins to find husbands from Westeros. Perhaps King Daeron had to do something with this as well because he hoped to strengthen the alliance between Dorne and the rest of the Kingdom even further.

The excuse for your invitation was Queen Myriah’s name day that was supposed to be celebrated exceptionally grand. For that occasion, you had been gifted with the most beautiful Dornish gowns from your grandsire. Although calling them gowns was an overstatement, you realised as you stepped out of the ship and all the people were staring at you.

You fixed the thin fabric around your breasts as if it would help. Even though King’s Landing was also quite warm, no woman there was wearing a dress as revealing as yours. You blinked a few times, feeling their burning gaze.

“Princess?” The knight sent to guard you extended his hand towards you. “The carriage is waiting, Princess.”

You nodded at him and took his hand. At least his eyes were kind because they were trained to remain as such around a Lady.

Aunt Myriah was the one to greet you. She didn’t say anything about your dress but she was dressed much more modestly herself and her gown was made of Targaryen colours, which was something that made you feel quite sad. However, you decided not to bring this up. Of course she still remained a Dornish beauty but you were standing out with your outfit without any ally by your side. If only your cousins were there… You’d feel more powerful in a pack.

The Queen hugged you and walked you around her part of the castle but then she was being called upon and she left you alone to wander on your own. So you did, staring at the paintings on the wall. Below you, at the courtyard, two men were practising their sword skills.

The fierce one had silver hair and you wondered if he was one of your cousins. The other one was more plain looking. He had dark hair and he reminded you a bit of the men back in Dorne. His fighting style was calmer and more precise but not any worse than the other man’s.

You watched curiously as you looked down while leaning on one of the pillars when a young woman approached you while looking you up and down. You glanced at her. She was pretty; with curly ginger hair and piercing blue eyes.

“Who are you?” She asked, unsurely. The question sounded nearly like an accusal and you wondered if she had taken you for a whore.

“I could ask the same thing,” you smirked at her, still leaning on that pillar.

“I am Lady Jena of House Dondarrion. Prince Baelor’s betrothed,” she announced, a little annoyed.

“I am Princess (Y/N) Martell. Prince Baelor’s cousin,” you explained with a shrug and her eyes widened when she realised her mistake.

“Oh! Forgive me, Princess. I knew you would be coming but I did not expect that–”

“I know,” you assured her. “I have already realised that my dresses stand out here.”

Lady Jena cracked a smile and stood next to you as she looked down.

“I do wonder which one will win,” she changed the subject. Her eyes were full of admiration as she stared at the dark-haired man. You assumed he was your cousin Baelor.

“Which one usually does?” You inquired.

“Maekar, he is very strong. But also fussy, therefore Baelor often lets him win just to please his brother. He is very kind-hearted, my Prince,” Lady Jena explained to you.

“Is your union a love match?” You asked. She blushed, finding your question very straightforward. But you were from Dorne and you didn’t find anything wrong with this.

“Not really, no. It was an arrangement,” she explained. “But it is impossible not to adore him. Oh, look! He won!” She clapped her hands and you looked down.

The silver haired man – your cousin Maekar – was laying on the ground now. He was cursing and his brother laughed. At the sound of the clapping, he looked up. His face softened at the sight of Lady Jena and then his mismatched eyes found yours.

You held your breath. 

By the dining table you were sitting next to your Aunt. You asked her about Lady Jena. Apparently the betrothal between her and the Prince was not yet official. She was Queen Myriah’s lady-in-waiting.

“You could be my lady-in-waiting as well, sweet (Y/N),” your Aunt smiled at you. “Would you like that?”

“I am honoured, Your Grace,” you nodded. “But allow me to decide after I spend some time here. I am not yet sure if I would be able to feel at home here.”

“Of course, take your time,” she nodded.

King Daeron was asking you many questions about Dorne and about his sister who was your Uncle’s wife. You were more than glad to answer all his questions.

You were glancing at your cousins throughout the dinner. The youngest, Maekar, was still grumpy. You wondered if it was because of the duel with his brother or was it truly his nature.

The two in the middle seemed to live in their own world. One of them had a book on his lap he was reading throughout the meal. His name was Aerys.

The eldest – Prince Baelor – was smiling at you and you were smiling back, shyly.

After the meal, he approached you and you bowed your head.

“My Prince,” you greeted him.

“Please, spare the courtesy. We share the same blood,” he held your hand and leaned in to place a kiss on the back of it.

“Cousin,” you fixed yourself and he smiled.

“That’s better,” he teased. “It is a shame my other cousins could not come from Dorne.”

“A shame indeed. However, their health is the most important.”

“Of course,” Baelor nodded. “Are you excited for my mother’s name day? We are planning a small tournament.”

“I love tournaments,” you nodded.

“It brings me joy to see you here, truly,” Baelor’s smile widened. “You brought the Dornish smile with you, cousin.”

“You are way too kind,” you chuckled nervously and approached Maekar next. He was standing around and pretending he did not care about you but if it was true, he would have left the room already like Aerys and Rhaegel. “Cousin?” You smiled at him.

“Princess,” Maekar looked you up and down. “Are you not too cold?”

“Indeed, it does feel a bit chilly when you happen to be around,” you answered, hearing Baelor snort with laughter behind you. Maekar clenched his jaw and rolled his eyes.

“Either way, it is nice to meet you,” the Prince bowed his head.

“The pleasure is mine,” you smiled at him. 

“Forgive me, my brother is very straightforward," Baelor whispered.

“That is quite alright. I like that about people,” you admitted.

You could feel her eyes on you. Lady Dondarrion. She was gritting her teeth as she kept following you around the Keep.

Her betrothal to the Prince was supposed to be announced after the Queen’s name day so your aunt’s spotlight wouldn’t be stolen by her son’s announcement. Lady Jena had every right to call herself his betrothed already, though. The marriage contract was already prepared by her Lord Father and the King.

You didn’t understand why she felt the need to follow you around. After all, Prince Baelor was hers. And the fact he was spending most of his time with you was simply caused by the fact that you two were cousins who wanted to get to know each other more.

He loved to listen to your stories of Dorne. He promised to visit one day soon. And he was probably the only person – except for your Aunt – who was not looking at your revealing dresses with contempt. In fact, he would tell you every day that you looked beautiful.

You watched him train every day as you followed his every move with your eyes, smiling to yourself. He was an exquisite knight.

“Not many princelings and heirs to the throne are actually good knights,” you teased him.

“I am only what is expected of me,” he would answer with a slight blush, humble as ever.

You couldn’t help it but your heart was beating faster at the sight of him. The soothing sound of his voice was bringing heat to your cheeks and you were beaming with pride whenever you managed to make him laugh. A chill would travel down your spine whenever he wrapped his arm around your elbow to lead you somewhere. 

Still. He was not yours. And Lady Jena did not have to worry about the loyalty of a man as honourable as him.

In the meantime, your Aunt was introducing you to a lot of noble Lords and knights around the castle, only proving your suspicion that you had been sent to her to find a match. 

Some of them were handsome, some of them were rich, some of them were very kind despite their judging looks caused by your outfits. You were nice to them but in your head you kept comparing them to your cousin Baelor and none of them was even half as good.

“Why was Lady Dondarrion chosen for Baelor?” You asked your Aunt one evening when you were alone with her in her chambers, brushing her hair.

“We are trying to bring the realm together with marriages. Your uncle has already brought Dorne to the kingdom, now other houses wait for their alliances with the Targaryens,” she explained. “Many people are not happy with them on the throne so we seek alliances. Also, the Dondarrions are enemies of the Martells, do you remember? That means dealing with two birds with one stone.”

“I see,” you hummed to yourself. “I have also noticed the King is not so fond of marrying within the family.”

“Daeron prefers to extend his influence through royal marriages,” Queen Myriah told you. “Why are you asking?”

“Just curious,” you shrugged.

You loved the gardens because they reminded you of home and you liked to hide between the rose bushes while you sunbathed and listened to the people walking around, unaware of your presence. You had learned a lot of gossip this way. 

That day was no exception. You had already heard two knights confessing their love for one another – something not shocking at all for a Dornish woman. Still, it felt good to know their sweet little secret.

As you watched the clouds pass you by, feeling the sun warming your skin and smelling the roses, you felt pretty content. You began to seriously consider Queen Myriah’s proposal to stay here as her lady-in-waiting.

“Have you been invited to talk to her?” A young man’s voice interrupted you. You furrowed your brows. You recognised that voice. It belonged to one of the Lords you had been introduced to.

“Thankfully not yet and I hope I will not be. I believe they decided I was not worthy of her time,” another man snorted. “You were invited, though. How was it?”

“Boring,” the first man answered. You realised it was Lord Clegane.

“Can you even imagine if I took her home to my father? He would think I brought a whore from an Essosi brothel,” he laughed and the other man followed.

“Do you think she is a maiden? I highly doubt that. I have heard they don’t care about those things in Dorne,” the other man asked.

Your heart skipped a beat when you had your confirmation that the conversation was about you.

“Well, if she is not, I would not mind to bed her. But I would be a fool to marry her. Good luck to the King if he truly wishes to marry her off,” Lord Clegane chuckled cruelly and they both walked away.

You sat up as tears filled your eyes. It felt humiliating to find out that you were an object of such cruel gossip amongst the men. Perhaps the Red Keep would never be your home and it would be for the better to go back to Dorne as soon as the name day’s celebrations would end.

You waited a moment to make sure they would not see you and you walked out of the bushes onto the main path to hurry back to the castle. On the way to your chambers, you bumped into Baelor and Lady Jena walking together.

The sight of them being so close felt like another slap. You glanced at her with envy; her beautiful face, her proud posture, her elegant gown. She was a proper Westerosi Lady and you were nothing but an outsider; a stranger.

“Princess? Is everything alright?” Baelor asked, his voice full of worry at the sight of your face and dried out tears upon your cheeks.

“I am quite fine, thank you, cousin,” you mumbled out and walked away as fast as possible.

The celebrations were supposed to start on the next day and you found your solitude in the gardens again. While other ladies fussed about their dresses, you focused on creating a wreath. Your fingers worked delicately as your eyes focused on picking the most beautiful flowers.

To your surprise, Prince Maekar joined you while he sat next to you and watched the movement of your hands with a grumpy expression on his face.

“Why are you here all alone?” He inquired.

“Lady Jena made sure I have no friends amongst your mother’s ladies-in-waiting. Besides, I prefer it this way,” you shrugged.

“And what are you doing exactly?” He asked.

“A wreath, can you not see, cousin?” You smirked to yourself.

“What for?”

“It will be a favour I shall give to a knight of my choice on the morrow,” you explained.

“Who will that be?” Maekar scoffed, squinting his bright Targaryen eyes at you.

You finally looked up at him as the warm breeze brushed your hair. His face softened a little at the sight.

“You,” you said, quietly.

Of course you wished it was for someone else but you knew he was not yours. You wanted to make something nice for Maekar because he probably would not receive any favours or so your Aunt had told you.

“Me?” Maekar chuckled nervously. “Gods, why?”

“Perhaps out of pity,” you teased him and he laughed again.

“Give it to the one you truly care for,” he lowered his voice as his face became serious. Your heart skipped a beat.

“I have no idea what you’re implying,” you lied.

“Yes, you do. There are many things that can be said about you but not that you are stupid,” Maekar insisted as you looked down at the wreath between your fingers. “I shall go now. I wouldn’t want Baelor to see us together like this.”

“Why?” You asked, furrowing your brows.

“You know why,” was all he replied before walking away.

You looked up to watch him leave and then you spotted Baelor standing a few paths away. He was staring at you and his brother with his hands clasped behind his back. You waved at him shyly with a smile and he nodded his head before walking away as well.

You sighed.

You were sitting in the royal box by your Aunt’s side. King Daeron was sitting on her other side and you were all waiting for the tournament to begin. Prince Aerys was next to you but he was reading a book instead of watching. You found it a bit adorable in a way as you teased him from time to time by covering the words on the page he was reading.

Your jesting was only to hide your nervousness, though. Your hands were sweaty as you played with the wreath of flowers in your hands. 

“As my guest and the most important Lady at court after me, you will be the one to offer your favour,” Queen Myriah whispered to you with a smile.

“Everyone will be staring at me,” you sighed.

“As they should. You’re a Dornish flower and you should be proud of it,” she encouraged you.

“They stare and they judge.”

“I have survived it, too,” she reminded you, gently.

“You adjusted yourself to their customs, Your Grace,” you glanced at her elegant and humble gown.

“Some days I regret it. When I look at you, for example,” Queen Myriah fixed your hair strand. “You make me feel so homesick, my sweet.”

You eventually cracked a smile at her.

“It is time for Princess (Y/N),” King Daeron whispered and you nodded before standing up and approaching the railing.

A dozen knights on their horses were standing below you in a line. You extended your hand with the wreath and hesitated, swallowing thickly.

Maekar’s bright eyes caught yours and you tilted your head at him. He nodded gently as he glanced at his brother. You took a deep breath in.

You knew it was improper. You had seen Lady Jena earlier on that day bragging about the new silk ribbon she had been planning to give to her betrothed.

But their engagement was not yet announced and you had your privilege as the Princess of Dorne and the royal guest.

“Cousin,” you looked at Baelor. He seemed to be a bit surprised but he smiled. “May you receive my favour,” you threw the wreath down and he caught it with his lance.

“Princess,” he bowed his head.

As you went back to your seat, you could feel Lady Jena’s burning gaze on you from the box nearby. You ignored it and sat down next to your Aunt.

Both her and the King were glancing at you as well, so you pretended to find something interesting in Aerys’ book to ask him about it.

The tournament was supposed to take two days. At the end of the first one, Baelor was the only knight who had won every single joust, which placed him at the top of the lists. 

You were on your way to your chambers in the evening when you heard raised voices coming from Queen Myriah’s room. The doors were ajar and you spotted Lady Jena gesticulating with her face flushed.

“I felt disrespected, Your Grace!” She exclaimed.

“I am sure my niece did not mean anything wrong,” the Queen explained and you felt nauseous in an instant as you realised the argument was about you.

Without thinking twice, you pushed the door open as you cleared your throat. Everyone turned around to look at you and your cheeks burnt at the sight of more people than you had expected. Queen Myriah and Aunt Jena were there, yes. But also King Daeron, Lord and Lady Dondarrion, Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar. 

Lady Jena gave you a hateful glance as she squeezed the ribbon she was holding even tighter. It was the very same she had wanted to give to Baelor but ended up giving to none to show off her loyalty.

“I could not help but overhear,” you explained. “I wish to be present when my person is being discussed.”

“Of course, my dear, come join us,” Queen Myriah nodded and you stood by her side. “Lady Jena here believes you gave your favour to Baelor just to spite her.”

“That is nonsense,” you shook your head. “I am a Princess of Dorne, I give my favours to whomever I wish,” you answered and Lady Jena scoffed.

Oh, now you truly wanted to spite her. And so you did.

“I could give my favour even to Lady Jena’s Lord Father if I wished to do so,” you smirked.

Maekar chuckled proudly but Lady Jena and her mother turned crimson red while Lord Dondarrion gasped. Queen Myriah sighed and so did King Daeron. Baelor remained quiet, watching the scene unfolding in front of his mismatched eyes.

“This is outrageous!” Lady Jena spat out.

“Please, let us calm down,” Baelor finally spoke up. “The engagement is not yet announced, so there is no scandal. It is socially acceptable to receive a favour from a cousin.”

“Then announce it! Announce the engagement!” Lady Jena insisted. “How long do I have to wait?!”

“Jena, we have an arrangement–” her father tried to reason with her.

“Very well then,” Queen Myriah interrupted him. Everyone looked at her. “I know it is my name day’s celebration but I do not mind sharing the spotlight with my eldest son. It is no secret he most likely will become a victor. We will announce that the woman he chooses to crown as The Queen of Love and Beauty will be his betrothed.”

“I like the idea,” King Daeron nodded. “It will look nearly spontaneous and very romantic. The smallfolk will adore this tale. It is much better than an announcement of an arranged union.”

“That is so generous,” Lady Dondarrion bowed her head at the Queen. “Darling, are you content now?” She asked her daughter.

But Lady Jena was not sure about it. She was breathing heavily while looking at you angrily. She squinted her eyes.

“I am,” she nodded, her piercing blue eyes still upon you. “However, I am still not convinced about the Princess’ intentions.”

“That is an accusation!” You defended yourself.

“You have given me plenty of reasons to accuse you!” Lady Jena insisted.

“Oh, have I? Why so? Because I am from Dorne?!” You snapped at her.

“Well… Yes!” Lady Jena raised her voice and everyone went silent in an instant.

The Dondarrions gasped as all heads turned to glance at your Aunt. She blushed slightly but her warm eyes turned unusually cold. Her greying hair and a humble dress with the Targaryen sigil embroidered on her chest made it so easy to forget that she was a daughter of Dorne as well.

“F-forgive me,” Lady Jena looked down.

“I think it will be best if we all go to sleep now,” King Daeron clapped his hands and everyone agreed as they bowed their heads at him and the Queen.

Lady Jena left the room first, accompanied by her parents in a hurry. Maekar left after them and then you did as well.

You felt Baelor walking behind you. You were left alone in the hall when the heavy doors closed behind him.

You sighed.

“I am the reason behind all this mess, I am so sorry. I did not mean to,” you turned your head around to look at his face. You expected him to be stern but his expression remained soft as ever when he was looking at you.

“You are not to be blamed,” he assured you and put his hands on your bare shoulders, revealed by your Dornish dress. A chill travelled down your body and straight to your core, especially when the cold metal of the rings on his fingers brushed your hot skin. “You are simply being yourself,” he whispered. “Unapologetically… So do not be sorry. It is unlike you to be.”

“I am a Martell,” you chuckled, nervously.

“Do not forget that so am I,” he leaned in to whisper right into your ear before letting go of your shoulders and walking away.

Whatever it meant what he had just said, it made you feel dizzy. You had to snap out of it, though. On the morrow his engagement to Lady Jena would be announced.

You went to your chambers with a heart so heavy in your chest that you nearly collapsed halfway there.

The last joust took place between Baelor and Maekar as everyone watched while holding their breaths.

To you, it would not make a big difference. Perhaps a small part of you hoped Maekar would win so Baelor wouldn’t become a champion and his romantic betrothal to Lady Jena would not take place like it had been planned. You could see her sitting in a box nearby; her knuckles turned white from clenching her fists out of stress. 

You studied her profile as your heart twisted inside your chest. She was so beautiful and noble. So were you, of course, but in a Dornish way. And you were in King’s Landing, not at Sunspear. Your type of beauty was nearly invasive here.

Already accepting your defeat, you decided to hide behind what was known to you. Unapologetically yourself, as Baelor had called you, you had chosen the most Dornish outfit possible this morning. The orange fabric of your dress was thin and flowy, dancing in the slight breeze. Not only your shoulders and a good part of your back were revealed but even your navel decorated with a golden chain was visible through an extremely sheer chiffon covering your belly. Delicate golden chains were also in your hair, clinging whenever you moved your head. 

You were sure that all those people were thinking that you were making a spectacle of yourself. And they were right. It was your armour so all they could see was a proud Dornish Princess instead of a hurt and heartbroken young woman forced to watch the man she loved choosing another.

Sudden outburst of enthusiasm from the crowd brought you back to reality. You turned your head away from Lady Jena’s profile as you stood up and clapped like all the rest. You looked down and spotted angry Maekar clumsily standing up from the ground as his older brother was smiling triumphally and bowing his head at the cheering crowd. 

The King raised his hand to silence everyone as Baelor’s squire approached him while holding a beautifully decorated wreath made of flowers and jewels. It was no ordinary crown for The Queen of Love and Beauty. It was a proper diadem and you held your breath, bracing yourself for what was to come.

“I wish to congratulate both of my sons. You have fought well,” King Daeron announced. “Prince Baelor remains the champion, however,” he added and people cheered once more. “To celebrate this victory and the Queen’s name day, my son wishes to make his Lady Mother delighted and choose a bride for himself.”

The crowd gasped at first and then they clapped even louder as they whistled. You smiled to yourself. Baelor was truly loved by them and you could not blame them.

You looked at Lady Jena again. She was blushing already, nearly jumping out of her seat. And you had to admit, as you smiled sadly, that she would make an excellent Queen by your cousin’s side.

Baelor took the crown from his squire’s hands as he approached the boxes on his horse to be able to reach higher. The crowd held their breaths while the King and Queen were staring at their eldest son lovingly.

Baelor’s horse passed the box in which Lady Jena was sitting and he stopped right in front of the royal one. His mismatched eyes found yours as nausea hit you in an instant.

Why was he doing this? Why was he teasing you so? You had not taught him so cruel.

“Princess (Y/N) Nymeros Martell of Dorne,” he started as everyone – including you – froze in disbelief, “in the sight of the old gods and the new, I crown you Queen of Love and Beauty.”

The silence was heavy but Baelor did not seem to care. He extended his hand with the diadem towards you. Your cheeks were burning and you felt so dizzy that you nearly fainted when you approached the railing. Everyone was staring at you. 

Some eyes were shocked, some were curious, some angry and offended. But his eyes – his beautiful mismatched eyes – they were staring at you with nothing but love and devotion.

And because of that, you decided to ignore the rest of the world just like he was doing at the moment. He risked everything for you, therefore you could not turn away now. You gently took the crown from his hand and carefully placed it upon your head, making sure the chains in your hair wouldn’t tangle or break.

“You honour me, my Prince,” you managed to breathe out. Baelor smiled widely at the sight.

Maekar was the first one to break the silence of the crowd as he started to clap his hands as loudly as he was able to. The rest followed him, awkwardly and shyly until they eventually cheered for their Prince and his new betrothed.

Lady Jena gasped and sobbed, leaving her box in a hurry with her offended and outraged parents.

But you were only staring at him and he was only staring at you as if nothing else existed; as if the whole world was yours. Because even if the consequences would be severe, Baelor was not going to give up on this. He had been following his father’s advice and orders his whole life dutifully and loyally.

But this one thing he wanted to decide for himself.

“Why?” Was all King Daeron asked his son. He was visibly disappointed and hurt that his chivalrous son had done something like this in front of the whole Realm.

“No one knows the marriage contract between Lady Jena and I had been prepared already. There was merely gossip she had been spreading herself. No one thinks it is a scandal,” Baelor explained, calmly.

“The Dondarrions will make sure the whole Realm knows the backstory,” Daeron pointed out and pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed. 

“We will find a way out of this. We will offer them something else,” Baelor said. “Father… I could not… Especially after last night. How could I marry a woman who spoke such things about my mother and her family?”

“I understand,” Daeron sighed. “But… (Y/N) is your cousin. Your marriage could create a powerful union and yet you chose to mix your own blood.”

“It does create a powerful union. It strengthens the alliance with Dorne,” Baelor smiled. “After having not one but two Queens on the throne, the Martells will never rebel against us.”

“Of course. But the rest might complain about us favouring them.”

“I will make sure my children will not marry in Dorne, I promise,” Baelor assured, already feeling his heart beating faster at the mention of his possible children with you.

“You cannot promise that. If your children are truly yours, then no one will be able to tell them what to do,” Daeron finally chuckled. “Why her, though? Why Princess (Y/N)?”

“She is strong yet gentle. Stubborn and brave yet delicate when no one’s looking. But I am looking. I have been looking very carefully those past few weeks,” Baelor explained. “And… I love the dresses,” he teased as his father sighed.

“And who is that?” Dunk asked as he stared at the young Targaryen knight by his tent. He had short dark hair with one silver streak and a pair of mismatched eyes like his father but Duncan could not see that from afar.

There was a woman standing next to him, she had a red flowy dress that stood out amongst other noble women. She was holding a helmet under her arm and fixing the young knight’s hair.

“It is Prince Valarr, the eldest son of Prince Baelor, second in line to the Iron Throne,” Egg explained.

“And the woman?”

“The woman is his mother, Princess (Y/N) Martell,” Egg said and Dunk swallowed thickly as he squinted his eyes to see her better. He should have known that. After all, everyone knew Prince Baelor’s wife was from Dorne. “Prince Valarr is a mummy’s boy,” Egg giggled.

Princess (Y/N) finished fixing her son’s hair and kissed his forehead before watching him mount his horse. Then, she handed him his helmet.

“She is as beautiful as they say,” Duncan mumbled out as Egg smirked.

“Yes, she is. They call her The Unbowed,” the boy told him.

Duncan nodded as he watched her walk away from her son’s tent. She went to the royal box to take a seat next to her husband as they watched their firstborn joust. 

Dunk spotted that the Prince and the Princess were holding hands.

The Targaryens believe that they have the fire of dragons coursing through their veins, but you aren't certain that it's true. If they did, you don't see how they could get anything done, at all. Because right now you do, and it's agony.

Everything hurts. From your head to your toes it feels like your body is filled with venom, burning beneath your skin, your muscles all convulsing in waves of destruction that leave you all but incapacitated. Milk of the poppy does not help, and nor does wine. If you were delirious it would probably be more bearable, but unfortunately your mind is devastatingly sharp. It feels like you have even more awareness of everything than you normally do— your skin is so hypersensitive that you can feel every fibre of your sweat-drenched chemise, and you can feel the temperature of every breath you take as it fills your lungs. The lights are too bright, sounds are louder, flavors more vibrant on your tongue. Every little thing that is happening around you gets filed into your mind so that you feel, in no uncertain terms, like you could fight an entire army yourself and survive. If you were able to move beyond the pain.

You've really done it this time. You didn't believe that the potion was anything dangerous; otherwise you wouldn't have put it in your wine. You were under the impression that it was just a little charm, something cooked up by a wise woman to make lovesick people sleep better at night. You expected it to put a gleam in your eye and a skip in your step, but not this.

"Put this in your wine and watch your love blossom like a rose in bloom," the old lady had told you as she pressed the vial into your outstretched hand. She had taken your coin readily enough and ignored the skeptical look that your lady's maid, Mircalla, had given her. "Drink deep. Enjoy the fortune of love."

Fortune of love, indeed. You're dying. You can tell just by the look on Maester Florin's face as he tests the remnants of the bottle in the corner with some convoluted apothecary setup he's constructed on your vanity table. You feel as though you have one eye on the bubbling beakers, and another eye on Mircalla as she sits by your bedside and dabs a damp cloth over your forehead.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" she asks quietly, and you know that she means well, but you have to physically stop yourself from smacking her hand away. The cloth is too rough on your forehead, scratching and squelching in your ears with the sound of the water, which smells of ale and sour fruit. Perhaps the bucket she used to bring the water in previously had been used to brew cider, but now it just makes the water stink.

"Nothing else, please," you croak at her with as much grace as you can muster. You lightly grab her wrist, squeeze it. "Thank you, Mircalla. Your services won't be needed anymore today, I think. I would not want you to see this any further."

"I am not certain that I should—"

"No. Go, please—" You just barely manage to turn your head away before a spasm of white-hot pain rips through your body, and you scream as you plant your face into your pillow. Both Mircalla and the maester jump at the shrillness of it.

"They're happening more frequently," you hear her mutter to him as she carries the bucket toward the door. "Shall I send for someone? A septon, perhaps?"

"Not yet, thank you. I must discuss the lady's affliction with her privately."

You close your eyes as if to block out the rush of sound that comes from the hall upon Mircalla opening your chamber door. You know that most— if not all— of your own family members, have retreated to other areas of the Red Keep. You assume that it's because you've been screaming loud enough to wake the dead, but perhaps there are other things happening in the castle that are more important than you managing to poison yourself.

"Maester," you grumble out dryly, your voice crackling in your throat. Now that the water is gone you aren't being assaulted by the smell of old cider, but the air still reeks of incense and acrid fumes from whatever his alchemy wrought. "I know I am dying. Just tell me why."

Maester Florin clears his throat and shifts on his feet, holding the little glass vial in his fingers. "My lady. You say that you bought this from a market stall?"

"Yes."

"And… did the seller tell you precisely what it was?"

"She said it was a potion," you tell him, tensing as a wave of pain swells up but then recedes before it can hit its peak, "to bring fortune in love. Nothing more."

There is a long silence, and you wonder if the maester has gone back to his work. You open your eyes a crack to look at him, but he is still standing in the same spot, seemingly deep in thought. Finally, he chances, "It is… not for me to ask what use you have of this potion…"

You groan, and it has nothing to do with the pain coursing through your body. You can't even gather the strength to cover your face in embarrassment, so you simply close your eyes.

It is common knowledge within the castle walls that Prince Daeron refused your hand in marriage after you were presented to him. He cited 'conflicting personalities' as the reason for his refusal— however, you had never had a complete conversation with Prince Daeron. There was no possible way that your personalities could be in conflict; you'd barely met him. Which meant that there was another reason for his refusal.

You knew that neither the King, nor the Crown Prince or his brother were pleased about it. It caused immense trouble for House Targaryen; your own family is one of the Targaryens' greatest allies, so it would only cause a rift between the two households if you were to be turned away with no good reason. House Targaryen could not afford to lose your family's alliance, and so you were asked to remain in King's Landing for another two weeks— or, to put it more plainly, until Prince Maekar or another of the Targaryens could convince Daeron to change his mind.

All of the muscles in your abdomen lock up, and what feels like a roaring hot fire rushes through your body all at once. You scream again, your back threatening to arch off the bed with your convulsing. It hurts so much. How could it possibly hurt so much? How could this little vial of fluid be enough to make you feel like you're burning alive from the inside out? You can hear your own scream ringing around the stone walls of the chamber, loud enough to startle a couple crows off of the eaves outside the open window.

While you're still curled into a ball on the bed, catching your breath, you hear a swift knock on the chamber door before it creaks open. There, you catch a whiff of spice and musk, rich and full. Your eyes fly open in horror as the source of the scent steps into the room with all the lordly grace of the seven kingdoms.

"Maester Florin," comes Prince Baelor Breakspear's voice, usually grounding and calming, but right now it hits you like a lightning bolt in the chest, knocking the very wind out of your lungs. "There seems to be much commotion. May I inquire as to how the lady is faring?"

Maester Florin bows. "Your Grace, I—"

"No."

The word tumbles out of your mouth before you can even stop it. Everything was manageable, more or less, until the Crown Prince entered the room, but now… now, his scent fills your lungs, his words are in your ears, you can practically taste him on the air, like peppercorn and sweet juniper. Your heart pounds in your ribcage like it's trying to escape, your blood singing with fire and your skin prickling with sweat.

You don't want to think about Prince Baelor right now. Each time he comes to mind, it's with an enormous wave of pain ripping through your entire body, as though the very thought of him causes the affliction to double its efforts to end you. Even so, in your mind you see the image of the Prince's concerned face when he stepped into your sick room one day ago, to make the same inquiry and send for a maester to attend you.

You have to get out. You have to leave before the next wave of pain kills you.

You're so tense that when you try to flop over on the bed, you look like a cockroach trying to right itself. "No. No no no no—" In spite of the pain in your muscles, you grab the corner of the goose down mattress and pull yourself toward the edge of the bed, until your upper body hangs off the side, limp as a wet rag.

"My lady, that is inadvisable—" Maester Florin rushes towards you as soon as your fingers meet the stone floor. "You will hurt yourself without assistance."

"Has she been like this the entire time?" Baelor's voice remains steady, but there is a newer, sharper quality to it: he's displeased. If you were to chance a look at him, you would see the carefully concealed worry beneath his practiced diplomacy, but you cannot bring yourself to look his way for fear that it might end you.

Instead, you continue trying to throw yourself from the bed, while Maester Florin actively tries to put you back in it. "No, Your Grace. Aside from the— the screaming—"

Florin's hand connects with your shoulder, and you just about punch him, the pain is so excruciating. Instead, you whack your hand against the front of his robes and bunch them in your fist to pull him close to your face.

"I asked you a question, Maester," you growl at him with a livid expression, watching his eyes widen at your sudden outburst. "Why is this happening?"

"You consumed a powerful aphrodisiac." He swallows, his eyes nervously flitting in Baelor's direction.

You make the grave mistake of following Florin's gaze, and you look at Baelor. The Hand of the King stands at the foot of your sickbed, his eyes focused on you, and only you. His face remains impassive, yet his fingers twitch as though he is contemplating what he can do to intervene.

You push Maester Florin away and begin frantically clawing your way back up the bed towards the headboard. You can feel it: the next wave of heat and pain, building in your toes and hands, inching down your limbs. "Nonono— Maid and Mother's fucking tits."

You manage to plant your face in the pillow before you let out another scream, but this time it seems worse, like you might actually split in half from the pain. You don't know how much more of it you can take. You've drenched your threadbare chemise in sweat, to the point that it doesn't really preserve your modesty anymore. All it does is stick to your damp, oversensitive skin, irritating you and making the sensory overload that much worse.

Once the pain subsides, you begin to rip at the offending garment in an attempt to draw it over your head. You're babbling nonsense, fragments of sentences and profanities that you don't even remember having in your repertoire, but you can still hear Maester Florin as he rattles off technical explanations to his Prince.

"—was purchased from a market stall— seems to be a tincture of moonbloom and gilliflower— another ingredient I have not yet identified—"

Before you can manage to muscle the useless chemise over your head, a hand settles on your back directly between your shoulder blades.

"Don't do that, my lady."

Baelor's voice is directly over your shoulder, gentle but stern. His hand presses solidly between your shoulders, holding the fabric of your chemise against your overheated flesh. You blink, seeing nothing but the headboard of the bed and cream colored linen, but feeling surrounded by him. His scent, his touch, his voice, so close and so strong, should hurt. It should hurt, because until now the barest touch has been agony, exacerbating the pain and torment.

But Baelor's touch does nothing. It's the oddest thing, enough to make you stop moving and tensing up for just a moment. You are still too hot, your skin is still too sensitive, but the only warmth and sensation that Baelor's hand brings is… comforting. Relief emanates from the single point of contact, bleeding through your body in tangible ripples that seem to stretch out down your spine and along your limbs.

That is, until the relief settles low. And then it becomes something else, something arguably worse than the pain. Your core muscles draw up tight and aching, and the heat and agony is replaced with devastating, almost crippling arousal.

You gasp, your back arching dramatically like that of a frightened cat, and you practically throw yourself away from Baelor with all the grace of a scared animal. Or, at least, you try to leap from the bed, but your body is sluggish, and Baelor Breakspear is nothing if not a quick combatant.

As soon as you try to take off, bouncing up like one of the crows into the air, Baelor's arm comes around your waist and drags you back down to the mattress. Try as you might to wriggle free and fling yourself to the floor, Baelor is strong, a force to be reckoned with.

"Stop this at once." Baelor's voice is still just as firm, but the gentility with which he orders you is… it's awful. He commands you with kindness and patience. "I will not abide you hurting yourself."

"Already hurts," you argue, although it's more of a lie the longer Baelor holds you.

It's as though he has the cure to your ailment within his very palms. But, while he holds you down, cradling you with your back to his chest, your arousal grows to a horrifying degree. You can feel your core muscles contract and release, the wetness between your legs smearing your thighs. There is a very likely chance that you may cum without any other form of stimulation, and you will not be able to survive that amount of humiliation. Perhaps he cannot abide you hurting yourself, but you cannot abide acting like a whore in the Prince of Dragonstone's arms.

You make a small, frantic noise in the back of your throat, and whimper, "I have to go. Let me go. Please. Please— Please. My lord, let me go. I have to go."

The small skirmish nears its end as you plant your hands on his forearm and try to push it away, but your hands are too weak and his arm is like a steel belt holding you down.

"Go where?" His voice is too close to your ear. You shiver in his arms, clamping your thighs together to stave off the new waves of heat coalescing between them. Goosebumps break out across your skin, and you feel your eyes widen. He sounds so fucking calm when he says, "There are several flights of stairs to descend before you reach the ground floor. Your only other option is the window, and you will break every bone in your body no matter which way you decide to go, unless you can walk. Can you walk?"

Only if you're touching me. You grit your teeth. "I have to try."

"No." It's Baelor who says it this time, and in spite of all your fighting, you can't seem to drum up any more of it.

You have to admit that it's a relief to not be in pain anymore, even if you have an entirely different set of problems to contend with, now. You slump forward in his arms, hanging your head as you dumbly squeeze at the fabric of his sleeve. "It is not proper for you to be holding me this way, Your Grace."

"I fear that it would be less proper of me to allow you to throw yourself from the window," Baelor explains rationally. Still, he releases his arm from around your waist, only bringing a hand up to move your hair away from your face. You have to physically fight not to press your overheated cheek into the cradle of his hand, like a cat seeking out affection. He pauses, and then says, "Maester, you said that you had not identified an ingredient of the tincture. Could it be dragon's breath?"

"No, Your Grace." Maester Florin speaks from across the room, where he retreated back to his apothecary setup. "With respect, I am familiar with dragon's breath. I would have been able to identify its presence with relative ease."

"She smells of it." Baelor does not say it unkindly.

"It is possible that while the tincture is in her system, the aphrodisiac effects may occur outwardly as well." Florin pauses, then clarifies, "That is, it will cause her to look, smell, or sound in ways that… some may consider… attractive, Your Grace."

Baelor remains silent. The implication hangs solidly in the air. You notice almost immediately that the maester did not include taste in that assessment, although it lingers in the subtext. The Prince is being effected by your presence, even if it is not to the same degree that you are being effected by his.

"You never answered my question, Maester," you finally interject. "Why is it killing me?"

You feel Baelor's fingers tense on your shoulder just slightly at the question, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he waits while Florin seems to flounder for a moment, and then gently supplements, "Please answer the lady's question."

Florin looks deeply uncomfortable. "Your Grace, it's… of quite a delicate subject matter. I hesitate to cause yourself or the lady any offense—"

"Seven above, just spit it out, already!" You swipe your arm across your sweaty forehead, desperate to put an end to the hedging about. "I've been laying here dying for ages! What is it, what?"

"That's enough, now." Baelor holds a hand up to silence you, and you almost think you might bite it, except that he has such beautiful hands. You wouldn't want to mar them. You stare unabashedly at his silver ring and the lines on his palm, and you start… salivating.

Gods be good. You're going to eat him.

Florin hesitates only a second more. "This aphrodisiac… although the recipes differ across various regions, it is normally intended as a… a temporary cure for impotence and infertility. It is… I believe it is primarily used in brothels, to make— er… intercourse more— ehm. Pleasurable?"

You blink. "If it's meant to be pleasurable, then why does it hurt so much?" You still refuse to admit that you're already experiencing the so-called pleasurable function— that is, you're soaking the mattress with it the longer Baelor keeps his hand on your shoulder.

"Well, it is usually taken with the intention of… ehm. Using it for its innate purpose, you see. The aphrodisiac will remain in one's system until it has been expelled during copulation."

Baelor drops his hand from your shoulder and takes a step back. You feel the loss like a punch in the gut— quite literally, all of your muscles tighten at once, and you double over in pain.

Through clenched teeth, you say, "So, you mean I have to… to have sex?" The look on the maester's face says everything you need to know. "Or what? What if I don't? I'm— it hurts so much, I can't— I wouldn't be able to do anything… not on my own."

Your face burns at the admission. The humiliation— the irony of it all is unbelievable. The little lady took a love potion and now can't fuck herself properly enough to get it out of her system. The only hand she reacts to is the one she can't have, because it belongs to the Realm.

Florin chews on his lip while he thinks, and then explains, "This particular recipe seems more aggressive than most. That is likely due to the unidentifiable ingredient. The potion is, essentially, a slow acting poison. If it is not used for its intended purpose… I suppose, generally, there will be immense pain and fits for… three days after ingestion. Delirium sets in after about two days. And then—" His eyes flit from you, to Baelor, and back. "Then, my lady, I'm afraid you will die."

One Week Earlier

Admittedly, you knew it wouldn't work the minute you saw Daeron. He looked green about the face, his eyes so red and bleary that you thought he would keel over at any moment. If you hadn't heard him called 'Daeron the Drunken' behind closed doors, you would have tried to somehow politely ask if he was ill. Instead, you just assumed he'd had one too many before showing up to your presentation in court.

No, you aren't surprised that he turned down the offer of marriage. You were, however, surprised that he did not deliver the news himself. Instead, he sent a servant with a note while you were eating breakfast, and left you to bring it before the King. The entire meeting went over about the way you expected. Prince Maekar went to find Daeron, Prince Baelor apologized for his nephew's rudeness and the inconvenience, and the King assured you that all would be made well.

The truth of the matter is that you have no interest in Daeron, anyway. You do not want a husband who refuses to talk to you, even if his drunkenness was not an issue. Daeron has given you no reason to desire him— at this point, the prospect of the marriage would be a matter of your family's social and financial standing, and your own status as a Princess.

Now that the castle is sufficiently in an uproar about Daeron's refusal, you have made your gracious retreat to the gardens. You don't want to be in the castle any longer than you have to. Your family has already suggested leaving King's Landing in two days' time, and even so, it feels like too long to wait.

From the gardens, you look out over Blackwater Bay, watching ships disappear one by one over the horizon. You have no idea how long you sit there, but the sun slowly creeps lower and lower in the sky, until golden light filters through the leaves of the trees.

"My lady." For how large of a man Baelor is, he is light on his feet. You hadn't heard him approach, and so you jump when he addresses you, spinning around to find him standing a respectable distance away from your bench. When you stand to curtsy, he gives you an indulgent smile. "It appears that you've been out here for some time. I only wanted to ensure all was well."

You fight not to raise an eyebrow at the Prince. "You must have been watching me closely, then, Your Grace."

He squints, then pivots to peer up at the Tower of the Hand, looming over the Red Keep. "Not so close, I should think."

You snicker at that, casting your eyes away from him. Baelor is a handsome man, and kind. You find your awareness lingering on him above all others, and you're beginning to fear that your crush is becoming obvious. You feel nervous in his presence in only the best way, as though you may trip over your own tongue and say something entirely unbecoming just as soon as you open your mouth. That feeling is… refreshing, in the right company. But Baelor is heir apparent to the Iron Throne, Protector of the Realm, and you are simply a noble lady much younger than him, with the prospect of marrying his nephew. Any fantasies you indulge can only be that.

"May I join you a moment?" Baelor asks, and despite your internal angst, you cannot bring yourself to refuse him.

Perhaps it would be more proper to have your lady's maid here with you, but Mircalla has other things to be doing now, and so you sit a respectable distance away from Baelor on the bench while staring out to sea and wishing it was not respectable at all.

"In my week at court, I've discovered that I quite like this view," you say after a beat, to puncture the tight shroud of silence that settles between the two of you. "I enjoy watching the waves. I wonder what it's like to be one of them, sometimes. Rolling always towards the shore."

"Or dashing upon the rocks?"

You hum. "At least they know where they're going, rocks or no."

You retreat back into silence with him, and watch him out of the corner of your eye as he twirls his silver ring around his finger idly. He seems to be thinking hard about something, eyes fixed on the horizon with a purpose. It gives you just a moment to admire his profile— his strong, twice-broken nose, his furrowed brow, the touches of silvery gray in his close-cropped dark hair. The small freckle on his cheekbone. The stretch of his neck from beneath his collar, begging for a pair of lips or a tongue to lavish it.

"My lady, allow me to extend my apologies once more for my nephew's behavior," Baelor says finally, and you turn your eyes quickly back out to sea. "It is not the first time Daeron has been irresponsible with delicate matters. Although, it is also the fault of we who expect responsibility from him, that there must be an apology."

"I don't think it's unreasonable to expect responsibility from a prince," you answer without thinking, and then suddenly remember who you are speaking to. "…Your Grace."

"No. On that, we agree." There is a light chuckle in his voice, a slight humor that you imagine is meant to make you feel more at ease. "I do not imagine that Daeron will take long to rectify his behavior, however."

You feel a girlish temper flare within you at the idea that Daeron could rectify anything. You take a long, sobering breath, smelling sea salt and garden flowers on the air.

"You were married, Your Grace. You know quite well how to approach a—" Woman. You want to say it, but you feel it would be too forward. You reconsider, and continue instead with, "a betrothal. Do you believe that anything Daeron has done makes for a… a loving marriage?"

Baelor considers your question with the attention you would expect from the King's Hand. Then, he answers, "I would not hazard a guess as to the sincerity of Daeron's feelings toward you, my lady. Only he can truly know the answer to that. Though, it may bring you some comfort to know that…" He pauses thoughtfully. "My own marriage was not for love. It was arranged, as duty demanded. But, in time, I do believe Jena and I came to love one another, as well as a match made in service to the Crown would allow. Perhaps your marriage to Daeron would be the same."

You sit with his words. Enter into a loveless marriage, having already been besmirched by the man who you would bind yourself to, and hope that love will come in spite of it all. It sounds like a fool's errand.

"Be that as it may, I believe Daeron has already done some irreparable damage to my reputation." When you see Baelor turn his head just barely toward you, you supplement, "My lady's maid, Mircalla, shares with me the gossip I would otherwise be protected from. Sometimes, it can be… harsh. She is honest with me, which is a quality I admire most, you understand." You look down at your hands to find yourself tearing at your own cuticles in your nervousness. "She told me some hours ago that there are rumors floating about as to why— why Daeron would refuse me. Some speculated that we fought upon first meeting. Others suggest that I am pregnant with another man's bastard. Or— Or that we have already slept together, and that Daeron was not pleased with me. Can you imagine…?"

Your voice fades out on a horrified whisper. Although none of these rumors are true, each of them deal a blow to your reputation in turn. Your eyes sting with tears the longer you think of the different stories concocted about you.

"Although it may satisfy me to have Daeron grovel and beg forgiveness, it makes no difference. From now on I will be known as the whore that Daeron refused."

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Baelor pressing his lips together tightly, raising his chin just a tick. The Prince is quiet for a moment, while you bite back your tears and turn your face away from him.

"You say that honesty is a trait that you value," Baelor remarks, and waits until you nod at him in response. "Then please trust me to be honest. I cannot imagine that anyone would truly believe that of you, my lady. You see, I have had the privilege of knowing you during your time at the Red Keep, and I find you to be exceptional in every way. I can't imagine it, because I cannot fathom anyone viewing you as anything else."

You finally turn to fix him with a watery stare, and find him looking back at you with such solitary focus that you practically wither beneath his gaze. For the first time, you notice that Baelor's eyes are two different colors. The castle is not brightly lit inside, and you have never been close enough to him to notice it, until now. One brown, one violet, they lend even more of a sense of mystery to his handsome features. You have a mind to mention it— you open your mouth to tell him that they're beautiful, but then you think better of it.

He's the Prince of Dragonstone. The Hand of the King. There is nothing that could bring you together.

Baelor holds a hand out to you, his palm facing upward. You peer down at it for a moment before placing your hand delicately in his. Baelor's thumb gently brushes your knuckles, his hand practically dwarfing your own. His palm is so warm, and when he places his other hand atop yours, your skin feels engulfed in flames.

"However," Baelor says, and locks you in his stare, "I can believe that rumors abound. It is an unfortunate effect of being highborn that many will speak on what they know nothing about. But rumors seldom bear any truth. They reflect nothing of your true nature. I assure you that House Targaryen, Daeron included, will understand that."

You blink down at your hand, enveloped in both of his. Daeron. Of course, all of this is to convince you not to lose hope, that Daeron will change his mind, that Daeron will decide to marry you.

"I… thank you for your kindness, Your Grace," you respond, for lack of anything else to say. You know that he's being as fair in his judgment as possible, but he has a duty to the King and to House Targaryen. Gently, you withdraw your hand from his as you add, "Unfortunately, I regret that my family are displeased with Daeron's refusal. I understand that they have designs on leaving King's Landing in two days' time. While I know that both you and Prince Maekar are quite persuasive, I doubt that it provides ample time for Daeron to change his mind. I imagine he wanted to refuse me the moment he saw me."

"Why do you imagine that?"

You look out across Blackwater Bay, thinking back to your first meeting with Daeron. When you curtsyed, the princeling looked as though he was going to either throw up or faint, or both. At the time, you blamed it on the drink. Now, you're not entirely sure.

"I believe he finds me ugly."

Baelor huffs a short laugh through his nose, so quiet and subtle that you would not have caught it if you weren't sitting so close to him. You turn to look at him, appalled, and find him with a soft, reserved smile on his face.

"Well, don't laugh."

"Apologies, my lady." Still, Baelor's mouth curves up at the edges as though he just can't help himself. You watch him tongue the inside of his cheek, half-amused. "I mean no jest. I just find it rather unlikely, to be frank."

"I can't think of another reason why," you explain, finally letting your true emotions ring through. You're hurt. You had given Daeron no reason to dislike you; you had been agreeable and good-natured whenever you spoke to him. "He sent his refusal via courier. He wanted not to speak to me, and he has been quite avoidant throughout my entire visit."

"It's true," Baelor replies smoothly. "Daeron has behaved abominably. But I do know him to be kind, and mannerly when given the opportunity."

You had given Daeron plenty of opportunities. You don't want to argue with Baelor, but you think that he is viewing your situation only from the position of a Prince of the Realm.

"How many hours in the day are there? How many days in a week? Daeron could have come to me during any of them, and I would have recieved him. Kind and mannerly though he may be, Your Grace," you say, looking over at Baelor Breakspear with a challenging fire in your eyes, "no one can force a man to want, any more than they can force a horse to drink."

Baelor's expression remains frustratingly unreadable. You gaze into his mismatched eyes as though they will tell you something, anything about what he's thinking, but there is nothing there to betray him.

"Daeron would be a fool not to want you," Baelor tells you, his voice low and edged with a finality that makes you want to take it for fact. "Whether he is or is not, I cannot say. Only time will tell."

"Do you say that as a man? Or as the Hand of the King?" you ask him more pointedly than you should.

"Both."

You gaze at each other for a long time, long enough that the breeze picks up and sweeps your hair up in its gust. You watch Baelor's jaw work— as small of a gesture though it is, it is the only thing about him that tells you he's contemplating something. He is no open book, your Prince, and it frustrates you as much as it seduces you. It sets you daydreaming, watching him openly in the cool evening air as his mouth curves vaguely toward a frown. Down by his knee, he worries the silver ring on his finger.

Then, Baelor lifts his hand, and with a touch so featherlight it's almost inconsequential, he brushes your hair away from your brow and tucks it behind your ear. His skin barely even meets yours— you can explain it away as him just being chivalrous, just keeping your hair from flying into your eyes. But it's enough to make your heart lurch up into your throat, nonetheless.

"It's late," you mutter, now that the sun has dipped below the horizon and the garden is bathed in shadow. You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to regain your composure as you drop your gaze.

"It is."

"It's getting dark."

"Yes," Baelor agrees, then finally looks away from you. He squints out across the bay, staring into the distance at the absence of sun. "The dragon's breath will be blooming, now."

"Dragon's breath?" You shake your head. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, I have not heard of it."

"I'm not surprised. It's a night-blooming flower, native to Dorne. There is a crop of them not far off, if I recall. Come, I can show it to you." Baelor stands and offers you his hand once again, and this time, you do not hesitate to take it.

He leads you, arm-in-arm, down the garden path toward the godswood. Just as the treeline begins to thicken in the gloaming, Baelor brings you to a stop.

"Just there," he murmurs, guiding you to investigate a shrub low to the ground, littered with trumpet-shaped red blooms. As he stoops to pluck one from the shrub, he says, "Dragon's breath. They are sweetly fragranced, but do not be mistaken. They can be quite deadly if eaten."

"I'll make sure not to put them in my tea, then," you tell him as you take the flower he extends to you. It smells slightly of jasmine and woodsmoke when you hold it beneath your nose, careful not to let it touch your lips. "It's lovely."

"Yes," Baelor says, watching you closely. His eyes linger on yours for an extended moment, a gentle smile curving his mouth. Then, a serene look crosses his face. "It is said that the First Men would ingest it to convene with the old gods. Whether or not this is true remains to be seen, but I would not advise it, at any rate."

"No, I'd imagine not." You spend a second twirling the little red blossom, the same shade as the red thread in his doublet, the colors of House Targaryen. Quite suddenly, you observe, "They're your favorite."

Baelor is quiet for a moment. "What makes you so certain?"

"You thought of them first. You could have shown me anything in the entire Keep, but you showed me these. Obviously, they're important to you." You peer up at him, and you can't bite back your smirk. "I'm right, aren't I?"

Baelor huffs a small laugh, the second one you've managed from him. The sound of it warms the pit of your stomach. "You're rather sure of yourself."

"That isn't a 'no.'"

"Mm. It's not a 'yes,' either."

You crack a grin. "Okay. Don't tell me, then. But I'm right."

This time, when Baelor tilts his head downward, you catch him smiling, a flash of teeth and a dimple indenting his bearded cheek. It is imperfect, crooked and so very human. He hides it well, but you're able to see it before he gentles his face into a careful mask once again.

He doesn't know that you see it. It will remain your secret, a fascination to look back on when you're in need of comfort. You made the Prince of Dragonstone smile. A real smile.

"Thank you, Your Grace," you tell him quietly, still pinching the blossom in your fingers. "For your company. And your hospitality."

"The pleasure is mine." Baelor looks as though he may leave the conversation there, but then he adds, "One more word before we part, my lady, if you please?"

"Certainly." You step a touch closer to him. A cricket sounds somewhere in the brush. The night is beginning to wake around you, the longer you linger with the Prince. You wonder if you could draw the moment out long enough to see the dawn.

Baelor does not seem overly concerned about it. "I should like to extend an invitation to your family, if you believe they would be willing. Perhaps, rather than departing King's Landing in two days' time, they would agree to remain another fortnight?"

You blink at him. Another two weeks? For what, exactly?

Baelor answers your unasked question, as though he can see directly into your mind. "So that we may have ample time for Daeron to correct his mistake. Of course."

"Of course," you echo. You feel clean out of air in your lungs, stunned for something to say. "Your Grace, I— I would say that my family would have to answer that invitation for themselves. I cannot speak for the lot."

He affords you the most patient of smiles. "I would like to hear your answer before all, if you don't mind."

"Oh."

Another two weeks at the Red Keep. Two weeks for the rumors to spread, to converge and morph into even worse ones. Two weeks for Daeron to insult you by ignoring you, tarnish your reputation by refusing you a second time. Conversely, two weeks for Daeron to decide that he may tolerate your company and accept you.

You look down at the flower in your fingers. Two weeks to search for the sight of Baelor in the halls and in the councils. Two weeks to speak to him again. Two weeks to indulge in that wickedest of fantasies: that you might fall in love with Baelor Breakspear.

"Yes," you tell Baelor, quiet enough that it threatens to be spirited away on the breeze. "Yes, if my family is willing. I would be glad to stay another fortnight, at Your Grace's pleasure."

Baelor nods at you graciously. "Then I will see to your family's response in the morning. Thank you for your acceptance, my lady."

"Thank you for your invitation." You tilt your face towards the sky. "It is quite dark. I fear that I will have trouble on my way back, should I remain any longer."

"Indeed. The fault is mine, entirely. Allow me to walk you to the holdfast."

You make the journey back to the holdfast in comfortable silence. You find that you do not feel even remotely unsafe as long as Baelor is near; otherwise, you would never chance to linger outside the holdfast, even within the castle walls, after dark. But Baelor's presence is a relief. You would trust him with your life. You would probably trust him with even more than that, given the chance.

"My Prince."

You pause in the golden torchlight, only bright enough to illuminate the bridge over the dry moat. Down in the pit there is nothing but blackness, and a sense that if you stepped too close it would suck you in. Turning to Baelor, you have the dragon's breath blossom still in your fingers, and lift it to your face to take in its scent again— sweet, smoky, like a garden aflame. You can understand why he is taken with this particular flower.

Baelor watches you expectantly, a respectable distance away again, as though every part of your conversation this evening had been a diplomatic mission. Cleaning up his nephew's mess. Doing what is right for the Realm.

The idea rattles you. It cuts you deep and hits something within that you thought you'd left in your girlhood— covetousness. The desire to be shown favoritism, attention. To be wanted, not simply tolerated. You are not a girl anymore, but the King's Hand seems to bring her out of you as though it were second nature. You feel the urge to try to bring the boy out of him, which may be an insurmountable task. He is a prince, a warrior and a lord of refined poise and sophistication. But you have never been one to shy away from a challenge.

You step closer to him. Baelor does not move away, but follows you with his eyes, a reserved expression on his face. Perhaps he is trying to anticipate what you may do, but he does not show any signs of backing down. You imagine that he wouldn't, even if you threw yourself at him unceremoniously. If you kissed him like you desperately want to, open-mouthed and wet.

But you are not improper, or desperate. You are a lady, and well-versed in flattery and elegant flirtation. You take the dragon's breath, and you tuck the green stem into the gap between the silk fabric of his doublet and the Hand of the King pin that adorns his chest. It flares up from the pin, as though the fingers of the hand were holding it tight to his heart.

"Keep this safe," you say, your smile hiding your desirous stare. Your fingers rest against his chest for just a second longer than is proper, but you pull them away quickly enough, you think. "I would hate for it to go to waste."

Baelor's eyes soften. "Certainly, my lady."

"You are quite a wonderful man, my Prince." Your innermost thoughts become physical things, they turn balmy on your tongue. "If you may pardon my saying so. I have wanted to for some time, but… the opportunity did not present itself."

Baelor's brows raise just the slightest, but he does not admonish you. "I thank you for the compliment, my lady. You are very kind, indeed." A pause, a breath on the wind. "Lovely."

You stay there, held captive in his gaze. One violet, one brown. Finally, in spite of your sense of self preservation, you tell him, "Your eyes… They really are very beautiful, you know."

You do not wait for his answer or reaction before you bid him goodnight, and all but flee into the holdfast. And so, you are not able to see the way he watches after you with a lingering smile, and a longing gaze in those very eyes.

Present

Baelor sends Maester Florin away with an order to return on the morrow, and to alert the servants that you should not be disturbed. It is not without your notice that after he ushers the maester out the chamber door, he bolts it with a final clang that reverberates in your oversensitive ears.

You lay on the mussed bedsheets, curled into a ball. You are sideways in the bed; there is no point in putting yourself to rights, because the moment the next wave of pain hits you will become a writhing animal once again, a slave to the torrents of agony. Through the stringy, damp strands of your loose hair, you watch Baelor's back.

He leans against the door with both hands pressed flat to the wood, head bowed in thought. Or, is it distress? Perhaps both. You don't quite know what to make of his reaction to your situation, at all.

What you do know is that you feel a wave of heat flash through your body so fast and so sharp that all of your muscles tense at once, and you yelp from the blast of pain. Your head pounds as though your heartbeat originates from it.

Baelor turns at the sound of your anguish, and his face pinches at the sight of you, a small, trembling heap on the bed. "I will fetch Daeron."

"No."

"My lady, please."

He approaches the end of the bed, but you can't do more than follow the sight of his face with your eyes, until it passes too far into your periphery, and you must drop them to his belt. The sight of Baelor's belt inches away from your face is not something that helps your situation at all, however, and so you shut your eyes before your body manages to torment you further.

"Daeron is… unreliable, yes. And irresponsible. I know that you harbor wounded feelings towards him at the moment, but…" Baelor hesitates. Clearly, he knows that he is not making the best case for his nephew. His eyes roam your disconsolate form, and then he finishes, "But he is your best chance at survival. I am certain that he will be agreeable, at least in this pursuit."

"Do you even know if his cock works?"

Baelor is eerily silent. You don't open your eyes to look at him until you feel the mattress shift, and you find that he's sat on the foot of the bed, his back to you once again. His hands loosely grip the edge of the mattress on either side of him, and his posture betrays no real emotion. It is only when you notice the redness of his ears that you realize your words must have unnerved him.

"I would not know, my lady," Baelor answers quietly, after a moment. "Daeron has sired no bastards, as far as I am aware. His drunkenness may prove an issue, but questionable odds are better than none."

"I don't want Daeron. He doesn't want me."

"He is to be your betrothed." Baelor's words are flat, even. Clinical. "I understand that if he had not refused you, then perhaps you would not have resorted to… other methods—"

"I didn't take the fucking thing for him," you finally snap, gritting your teeth against the pain throbbing in your head and in your abdomen.

Baelor's voice surrenders to something inquisitive. "Then, why did you take it?"

Another moment of silence. Baelor is too still, his hand pressed flat to the mattress in front of your face. You stare, unblinking, at the glint of the silver ring on his finger, bearing the insignia of House Targaryen.

"I thought… perhaps there was someone else for me." You take in a shallow breath. "Although, I think my rash decision making outweighs my judgment."

Baelor turns and gives you the most indulgent smile you think you've ever received, even though there is immense pain behind his eyes.

"If you will not have Daeron… perhaps I can call another for you. Ser Duncan may be willing," he suggests, his voice just above a whisper. "Ser Duncan is a good and honorable man. I trust him with my life, and I would trust him with yours."

You stare at him in shock for a moment. "Oh… Oh, yes, of course. Ser Duncan. Ser Duncan. Why didn't I think of that? Ser Duncan the Tall." Baelor remains stoic, nonplussed at your sarcasm. Your stomach cramps up as you blather, "Or, better yet, why not call Ser Donnel as well? The entire King's Guard, even? Drag me down to the Great Yard, maybe they can take turns, pass me off—"

"Enough," Baelor finally snaps, shooting you a stern look. "I will hear no more of that sort of talk from you."

"Or what? Your Grace," you return with a wicked glare. "I will not be foisted off to the first man you think of."

Lit up with the fury of a thousand suns now, and sweating enough to show it, you push yourself up on wobbly limbs and tumble off of the bed onto the bearskin rug on the floor. You land on your aching stomach with a loud, "OOMF," and all the air painfully leaves your lungs.

"Stop this, now." Baelor sounds weary, as though he's bored of a game you're playing.

"No. Leave me." You crawl clumsily across the rug towards the chamber window. "I'm not going to lay there, dying in agony and— and losing my mind. I'd rather throw myself out of the tower. Let me die with quiet dignity and grace."

"Quiet dignity and grace," he eventually repeats, incredulous. He hasn't even gotten up from the end of the bed, but just watches you, fascinated with your display. "You know, I fathered two boys. Theatrics don't impress me, especially when negotiating."

"Yes, remind me again of how you're so amazing at everything, like— fathering sons, and— negotiating," you growl, huffing with the exertion of your endeavor. "Because you're— you're so fucking perfect and chivalrous. The Hammer. With your— fucking— giant, veiny— host of Dornish spearmen."

"My, you're verbose."

It's only when you threaten to tip the table by the window, as you attempt to haul yourself up to your feet, that Baelor rises. He reaches you in three quick strides, snatches you about the waist and throws you over his shoulder, just to carry you back to the bed. Your small amount of spite-fueled energy spent, you merely hang on him like a sack of straw.

Baelor lays you down so that your head hits the pillow, your hands thrown above your head. "Are you quite finished?" he asks sharply, looming over you, his eyes boring into yours. His jaw set, he states, "I am trying to save your life."

"And I am no one's whore." You stare defiantly up into the eyes of Baelor Targaryen, willing him to yield.

And, to your surprise, he does. His eyes soften, his jaw untensing as he lets out a slow, defeated sigh. "No, you are not."

He sits back, his hands still pressed into the mattress on either side of you. You miss his proximity like a lost limb.

"Forgive me. I have been presumptuous in my suggestions. I would never force you into any situation against your will or desires." A pause. "But I cannot sit idle and let you die. I beg you, my lady. Name someone, anyone, who you would trust in this matter. Someone who you would accept. I will bring them to you without question."

You gaze up at him tearfully, and feel another wave of heat blooming in your hands and feet. You press your tongue to the back of your teeth and take in the sight of him, so poised and regal, even when faced with an unmanageable task.

"Baelor."

Your hand— small, clammy with sweat and shaky from the fatigue in your limbs— reaches out and finds his— large, warm, grounding. You pull at his hand, and he lets you. His head turns just slightly, watching you as you cradle his large palm in your two hands and press it firmly against your chest, just below your collarbone.

Whatever this magic is, be it gods sent or gods cursed, it reacts the second his skin touches yours. Your entire body sparks alive with sensation— but rather than the unrelenting heat and pain of the poison coursing through your veins, it's solace. You let out a soft moan at the feeling, like gentle sunlight flooding through your body the moment that his fingers lace with yours.

"My Prince," you whisper shakily, and feel his fingers flex just slightly against your chest. Your heart pounds against your ribcage so hard that you know he feels it. He can probably feel the unbelievable heat radiating off of you. "It's— I feel so much pain. I hear the voices of the guards on the ramparts and I taste— I taste the salt from the sweat on your brow. I feel as though I will rip in two when the waves come, and nothing has made it better except— except you. When you touch me. Your hands on me… it's you."

Baelor is quiet, listening to your rambling speech. Tears stream from your eyes. It is both a relief and a terror to confess what you feel to him.

Then, Baelor removes his hand from your chest and brings it to cup the side of your face. The tenderness of his touch strips you to the bone. You feel like you're breathing only for him, like he commands the very air that gives your body function. His thumb brushes your damp hair away from your face, wiping away your tears with it, and he gazes down at you with such care, such affection.

He says your name softly, but there's a touch of sadness in it. He closes his eyes, breathes in long and slow through his nose. "I cannot do what you ask. You must name another."

"Please." You make a frail noise in the back of your throat, feeling as though you may begin sobbing in a moment. You shake your head, lifting one hand to clutch at Baelor's wrist.

"I cannot," he insists, although he doesn't pull his hand away from you. You don't know if he is bearing in mind what you told him— that his touch is the only thing that keeps the pain from tormenting you. There is palpable tension in his expression, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a firm line. "I am the King's Hand and heir to the throne. If you were to be gotten with my child, it would cause a scandal."

"I am already rumored to be pregnant, remember? House Targaryen has weathered far worse than a bastard child," you remark weakly.

"But you have not. I would not dishonor you in such a way." When you pout and look as though you may argue, he continues, "Whatever rumors circulate about you, we need not give them merit."

"So you would have me carry another man's bastard, instead?"

Baelor snaps his mouth shut, his expression turning suddenly guarded. He makes as though he may pull his hand back as he turns away from you, and your stomach drops.

"Baelor, no."

You clap your own hand over his, turning to nuzzle into the warmth of his palm. On instinct, you plant your lips against his skin, and it's as though something savage bursts alive within you. Some greedy, desperate thing takes hold as your eyes drift shut, with each breath tasting the warmth and spice of his skin as though your tongue were flush to it.

"Don't let go," you whisper into the cradle of his hand. "If you let go of me the pain will return, and I can't— I can't bear it anymore, Baelor, I can't—"

"I know. I won't let you go, darling." He sounds strained even as he reassures you, but he doesn't remove his hand.

There is a long silence, while you practically lose yourself in the feeling of just… giving in. You relax into the glowing feeling, hot pleasure sweeping through your body, up your limbs and into your core, replacing any pain that had been there before. It's glorious. It distracts you, pulls your mind away from the reality of the situation— that you cannot simply have him hold your face and hope that the poison works its way out of your system on its own.

Without meaning to, you drag your parted lips along his fingers, as though exploring them just with your mouth. His fingers are so long. Slender and dextrous, calloused from hours of sword training. You feel each bump and ridge against your mouth and you're trying so hard not to sink your teeth in. Your lower lip catches on the band of his silver ring and draws back, letting the smallest flash of your teeth graze his skin.

You hear his breath catch, and your eyes fly open, suddenly aware of what you're doing. Baelor watches you from the corner of his eye as you press your face into his touch, his jaw locked up tight, his free hand a fist where it rests on his knee.

You feel as though you should apologize, but you can't bring yourself to. Apologize for what? For desiring him? Wanting him? He's so handsome. His differently colored eyes study you, a painful reminder of it. You stare back at him, imagining what it would be like to trace his face with your lips, as well.

"You told me once that Daeron would be a fool not to want me," you say, and you take a purposefully slow breath, because if you don't you may start heaving for air. "Are you a fool, my Prince?"

Baelor lets out a soft sigh, and looks quickly away from you. His fingers twitch slightly against your cheek. He's silent for a long time, long enough that you begin to fear you've misread him, confused his kindness for something deeper.

But then he tilts his head down, and without looking at you, he says quietly, "I am not, my lady. Though, whether my desire in itself is foolish, I have no idea. I may be doomed for it."

"Then… perhaps we are both doomed," you admit, your eyes practically dancing over his features. "I can't think around my desire for you. All I know is that you— you are all that I want in the world. Scandals and suspicious potions be damned."

"Gods above." You watch Baelor roll his eyes toward the ceiling. When he returns his eyes to you, it's with a look of solemn admiration. He strokes his knuckles along the curve of your jaw. "I'm beginning to believe you exist simply to torment me."

You allow yourself to fashion a wobbly smile. "Me? Torment the Breakspear? Never."

Baelor huffs a quiet laugh, looking away from you in a manner that is almost… shy. You can see his jaw flex beneath his short beard and a rosy flush come over his face, and—

You just made Baelor blush.

You lay with that, watching him in the silence. His hand drifts from grazing your jaw to resting flat against your collarbone again, and you lift your own to trace your fingers languidly along the back of his palm. You can hear his breath come out shaky at the light contact, and it's just enough to give you the clarity to really, truly think about this.

His hands on you could be enough, you realize. You practically came the moment that he touched you, and if this magic can just be expelled from your system by an orgasm, it might be that he doesn't need to do anything more than just… put his hands on you. It feels good enough as it is— the heat of him, the smell and the feeling of him, are all adding to the pleasurable fire burning in your core. But, if you felt his hands go… down…

"Baelor."

His name comes out of your mouth faster than it should, and he snaps his eyes to you with a look of sudden concern, as though he expects to find something wrong. But nothing really is wrong— at least nothing that hasn't been wrong to begin with.

"What if—" You bite your lip, trying hard not to move your hips in any way that could startle him off. Your cunt throbs just at the thought of feeling his hands on your body with no barrier. "What if you just… touched me?"

Baelor seems to think your question over, searching your face for any kind of deception. But you simply stare at him openly, your eyes pleading, heart pounding as you feel his thumb stroke once over the hollow of your throat.

And then, his eyes drift down. They linger on the swell of your breast, heaving under the thin, practically sheer linen of your chemise. Everything is too intimate, too bright in the mid-afternoon sun slanting through the open window, illuminating you. Gods, it feels like you're already naked before him with the way he just stares, undressing you in his mind. It hits you directly between the legs, and you clench your thighs together to stave off the rush of arousal.

Your breath hitches, and Baelor snaps his eyes back up to your face, as though he's just remembered himself. "I am touching you."

"Y-You—" Your breath hiccups in your chest with how hard you're trying not to gasp for air. "You don't know how cl-close I am to— to—"

You clap your hands over your face, feeling a flush of heat throughout your body that has nothing to do with his hand on you. It's hard enough to be begging him for some kind of stimulation, but to tell him how close you are to an orgasm just from his touch is mortifying.

Not for the first time, Baelor seems to be able to see inside your mind without you voicing your thoughts. "Tell me," he plies gently, his thumb sweeping across your damp skin. He remains so composed, even when you feel like dissolving into thin air. "What is it that you feel… when I touch you?"

He's still hesitant, but his voice holds a curiosity that he hadn't made manifest before now. Everything in you winds up tight at the sound. He's not just indulging you, he wants to know. You know that he's trying to be proper— Baelor is a man of restraint, of infinite patience and regard for honor and decency. You know that he's clinging to his morals even while trying to rationalize the problem set before him.

But he bolted the chamber door, you remember. Behind your closed eyelids, beyond the sound of your heavy breathing and his, more measured, you can hear the clang of the bolt reverberate in your ears all over again. His hands pressed to the solid oak, his head bowed in thought. Why would he have locked you in together? Unless…

"It feels like sunrise after a frost." Your voice is muffled behind your hands, because you refuse to look at him while you say such things. You don't think you could bear to see his face, as you confess, "It is as though all of this poison in me changes, and it becomes heavenly. I feel… when you touch me… as though my body is not my own, but yours to— to do with as you please. To mold to your whim. And I would let you, my lord, I— I would have you do anything that you desired to me, and I would ask you only to do it again. I could glut myself on your touch and it would not be enough, it undoes me in ways I cannot explain, I… You set your hand upon my back and I thought… I thought I was going to c-cum—"

You choke off on a quiet, humiliated sob. So there it is, out in the open now, with no way to take it back. Baelor is still frustratingly silent, but you refuse to pull your hands away from your face to look at him, because you can't find it within yourself to be clever or brave anymore.

"You wouldn't even need to— to deflower me," you continue, blathering now, unleashing any thought that comes to mind as a way to fill the silence. "It would hardly even be anything that would be significant to anyone, just— just lay your hand upon me, and I might— I could—"

"Where?"

All things stop at once. Your thoughts, your breath, your heartbeat. You freeze up like he has just found a way to completely obliterate you with one word. You take a sharp inhale to kickstart your lungs again, and hesitantly curl your fingers away from your eyes to look at him.

Baelor's eyes are transfixed on your face, unwavering, his expression open and earnest. He waits for you to answer him, but when it becomes apparent that you can't, he supplements, "Show me where you would have me touch you."

You consider him for just a second, just long enough for the gravity of his words to register. He wants you to show him. It occurs to you to tell him that he could touch you anywhere beneath your chemise— your stomach, your hip, your knee— and it may yield the same results. But you don't.

You take Baelor's hand, the one resting on your chest so steadily, and you move it. He allows you to, watching you all the time, the pupils of his mismatched eyes blown wide. With one hand you pull at the fabric of your chemise, tugging it up your legs, while you guide his own beneath it. As soon as his hand touches the plush skin of your thigh, you both gasp in tandem— but for different reasons.

For you, it's the burst of sensation, the sharp arcing pleasure that shoots up your spine and grips at something tight and cruel in your core, making you stifle a moan. You were right. The proximity of his touch to where you want it most makes all the difference— you fist at the gathered fabric in your hand and try not to rock your hips toward his touch, but your pussy throbs threateningly at the heat of him so close to it.

Baelor is simply startled. His brow shoots up, his jaw slack as he breathlessly murmurs, "Oh, my sweet girl."

You're drenched down your thighs, a fact that you had failed to mention to him. His fingers slip through the wetness there, feeling it against your skin, and his breath leaves him in shock.

"I— I wasn't like this, before." You take a shaky inhale, and tremors travel through your entire body. "Before you."

It's as though something within him cracks, and all of his inner turmoil is laid bare before you, etched across his features like a carving on stone. The fear, the worry, the frustration, all manifest in his pinched brow and the dip of his mouth, the tremble of his breath. But there is something else there, too— raw desire, sharp as a knife's edge. It's in his eyes, in the way that his shoulders draw tight, in the set of his jaw. It's in his hands, the way that his fingers shift and press into the pillowy flesh of your thigh.

Baelor's thumb sweeps along the curve of your inner thigh, the same affectionate, instinctive gesture that it had been as he laid his hand on your chest. But on this part of your body it is more suggestive, and perhaps ill-advised. His thumb glides too close to the core of you and, quite by accident, he discovers that you are bare of any smallclothes.

Your gasp is sudden and loud. The brush of his finger against your bare sex is enough to make you jump, your hand clamping down on his wrist desperately as pleasure dances like pure dragonflame over your nerves. Your cunt pulses, and a feeble moan breaks from you. "Baelor, please."

He halts, and something changes in his expression. Call it the end of resolve, or a breaking point. There is no hiding anything from him now, you know. He has seen everything, knows what you are laying with.

"No more begging," Baelor finally says, and it's a gentle order. This man who has led armies, who has killed and fought to defend his realm, speaks to you with infinite tenderness. "I have you now, darling. I am for you. You need not beg anymore."

I am for you. He is your knight, upholding his vows, taking up his sword to defend you.

You shiver to feel his grip on your thigh tighten just a bit, a final test of his resolve before he moves it. There is a shift beneath the white linen of your chemise, and then Baelor's knuckle drags slowly through your soaked folds.

Your breath stalls in your chest as your mouth drops open. His touch turns you golden. Your body seems to light up from the inside, fresh heat blooming low in your stomach. Heart pounding in your chest, you stutter, "Oh, fuck— fuck, Baelor, this— this is too much, you don't have to—"

He shushes you, and the look in his eyes threatens to undo you more than his finger tracing a line through your cunt. There is a fire in his eyes that was not there before. The fire of a dragon, of a Targaryen. His gaze feels almost like a physical caress as he says, "Hush, now. I do this willingly."

Fuck. His voice is deep, rich and soft as velvet as he stares at you with that unwavering intensity, touching you between your legs. Your Prince. Touching you between your legs. It completely arrests your ability to think. He is slow, methodical in his movements as he is with everything; he glides the length of his finger through your pussy without rush, letting you feel each bump and ridge as they pass over your clit.

With your heightened senses, you can hear how wet you are, and the salacious sound of his fingers gliding through the mess you've made is enough to drive you up the wall. He begins drawing circles around your clit with the tip of his finger, and you melt into the mattress. You feel as though your pleasure and your need have turned you inside out, bitten chunks from your sensibilities.

He's too beautiful. The thought plagues you more and more. Baelor is too handsome, too competent with his strong hands and too gentle with his lust-roughened words. Gods above, you feel like you could cum— you should have cum by now, with how badly your cunt spasms under his attention, how hypersensitive your clit is as he continues tracing languid circles around it.

Then Baelor dips down and sinks a single finger into you, where you leak and ache desperately for him. Your thighs widen to give him more room, and he takes it, pushes in to the knuckle and gives you a practiced crook of his finger.

A sound rips from you— something animalistic and completely unfamiliar, a moan from the very depths of your fevered being. You tighten a fist in the tangled bedsheets and turn your face to the side, trying to hide from him while he makes you unravel at the seams.

"Look at me, darling." At the hushed rasp of his voice, your cunt clamps down hard on his finger. He pauses, halting all movement until you turn your head to open your eyes to him.

What you find in his face is enough to move the endless soul in you. You have spent two weeks etching Baelor's face into your memory— his careful, poised demeanor, the way he steadies his expression to keep it neutral, tactful. You know his cautious smiles, and you know his deeper one, the one that you hold tight to your chest like a secret. You know his kindness, and you know his disappointment.

But you've never seen this. This unbridled lust, his every feature touched by the amount of desire he has for you. He gazes at you like he feels everything you do, and more. Baelor inclines his head, and he appears so composed, as he always does, but his chest is heaving— you can see it and you can hear it, in the rattle of his inhale, in the obvious rise and fall of his shoulders.

"I will have you look at me when I do this," Baelor tells you, his eyes so dark and hungry that the very glint in them is wicked. It unnerves you, runs quick and hot through your veins. "I will have you see all that I give, and know it is yours to keep. Only yours. Do you understand?"

You swallow hard. "Yes, my lord."

"Baelor." His voice is quiet when he corrects you.

"Baelor."

He flexes his finger within you and your face crumples, your thighs shaking where they lay spread on the mattress. His free hand comes to rest on your thigh and makes to pull your legs further apart, prevents you from moving it back to center. It is not a rough or demanding move, but it conveys his message. Stay. Don't move away.

Baelor whispers something in a language you don't understand— High Valyrian, most like, but it makes no difference that you cannot speak it. It sounds warm, seductive in his throat, and a tremble rolls through your body at the sound of it.

Soft moans fall from your lips as he adds a second finger beside the first, and your hips nearly leave the bed. You take him in so easily, a quiet breath of disbelief leaves him, and he shifts, giving you strokes that have you fighting to keep your eyes open and fixed on him. A gentle back and forth, a hot press against the wall of you. Your body doesn't know how to react— hot then cold, trembling and then still, rocking against him and then backing away as though it's too much and not enough all at once.

His silver signet ring grazes you, hard to offset his softness. You're so close, you can taste your release on the back of your tongue like the entire ocean is rising within you. You grab at the pillow beside your head, ripping at it between fingers that don't know what to do with themselves. Your eyes clench shut at the sudden onslaught, your head tilted back on the pillow.

"Look at me," Baelor reminds you, his voice gently commanding.

Quick as he says it, you snap your eyes open again and find his fixed on you, dark and fathomless. There is a sudden surge, a quickening in your breath. "Oh, gods, Baelor—"

It looms like some wretched, evil thing come to destroy you. You snatch at his forearm frantically, trying to warn him, but unable to form words.

"I know. I feel it," he soothes, a palm moving sweetly against your thigh. He squeezes you there, a reassuring touch even while his other hand takes you apart. "You don't have to hold on anymore. I've got you. I've got you."

Your hips lurch towards him, your vision whiting out. His fingers hit a spot both perfect and devastating inside of you, and your mind's focus is whittled down to a fine point, aimed at him.

"Cum for me, lovely girl," Baelor orders. So you do.

He remains constant. Even when the wave rises and breaks within you, even when you writhe and let out a ragged cry, the sound torn from a hidden, previously unknown part of you. Through the seemingly unending torrents, Baelor remains your anchor. He does not change. He does not move. He does not let you go.

You turn pliant in the aftershocks. He gentles his movements— he does not stop them altogether, but turns them lighter, slower. His thumb brushes over your clit, and you jolt hard enough to convince him to finally withdraw his hand.

Baelor watches you closely, his darkened eyes focused on yours, but that familiar tenderness is returning, creeping across his features. The span of his fingers curves around the meat of your thigh, measured breaths leaving parted lips. His other hand is drenched with your fluids, still held cautiously between your legs as though hesitant to pull back entirely.

"How do you feel?" He asks then, softly.

You blink at him, and then up at the canopy over the bed. You're still shaking, your brain fizzling and humming from the orgasm he'd given you. "I don't… I don't know, I— that's the first time anyone has ever— done that…"

Baelor stays quiet for a beat, a small, affectionate smile curling the corners of his mouth. Then, he clarifies, "Do you think that it worked?"

"Oh." Yes, that. You had somehow forgotten that there is an ulterior motive to all of this, that it is not just sex for the sake of sex. "We… We could check?"

The words leave your mouth meekly. You don't want him to let you go. You don't want him to go away. Yes, you want the poison to be gone from your system, but you are greedy. You want him to stay with you and take you until morning. You want him to keep looking at you like that, like he'd swallow you whole, bones and all.

Unfortunately, Baelor listens. He slowly lifts his hands away from you, leaving you entirely. For a few calm seconds, nothing happens. Your body is still awash with the remnants of your orgasm, your skin still tingling with the memory of his touch. You lay there for a moment, thinking, was that it?

But then you look at Baelor again. He stares down at his hand— the one drenched in your arousal. It shines in the mid-afternoon light, strings of it threading between the parting of his fingers as he… feels it. Rubs his fingers against each other to test the silkiness, pulls them apart just to watch it web across the gap in thin strands.

You watch, wide-eyed, as he returns his gaze to your face. And he lifts his fingers to his mouth to suck your wetness from them. His eyes, amber and violet, trained on your expression until they flutter shut, and he groans.

"Oh— gods on fire."

Your whole body tenses up with the fury of it. The pain. It assaults you worse than before, with a ferocity that scares you. There's so much of it that it is not enough to scream— you can't even breathe for it. You curl into yourself and roll, the muscles of your stomach and core pulling taut.

"No. No no no— Baelor." You whimper, blindly throwing your hand back to grab at him. You find a wrist— left or right, you don't know— and pull so that his hand smacks down onto your flank with a lewd sounding slap. "Didn't work. It didn't— fuck."

"All right. All right, my love. Come here." Baelor's hand slides around your waist to gather you into his lap. You slide across the bedsheets with your spine bent into a crescent, knees pulled to your chest. "I've got you. I'm right here, just relax." You jerk involuntarily in his hold, an elbow catching him in the ribs. He grunts, adjusting his arm around you, curling himself over you like a shield. "Relax. Relax."

You will the tension in your muscles to release one by one. You imagine yourself absorbing into him, your head resting on his strong thigh as you allow your body to feel him. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, the distracting warmth radiating from the space between his legs. The smell of him there, strong and sweetly arousing. The taste of something on the back of your tongue— sweat and something muskier, something more masculine.

Him. The taste of him, through silk, through smallclothes. Your head spins, and you fight not to turn your head further into his lap, not to nuzzle into the crotch of his breeches and just breathe him into your lungs.

"Stupid fucking sex potion," you mumble angrily once the pain recedes. "Secret ingredient. Bullshit."

"All right," Baelor says again to quiet you, laying his hand on the crown of your head soothingly. You imagine that he understands what you're feeling, though, because he doesn't argue.

"What do we do?" Your voice is thin, a barely-there thing in the quiet.

"We continue."

You turn your head. Baelor is gazing down at you, eyes glittering with affection. He exudes a calmness that you cannot feel, even though your overwrought body relaxes into him. "You want to… continue?"

"We need not stop at one." Baelor pets your head, shrugs a shoulder. "I wouldn't, even under normal conditions."

You stare at him, aghast. "Your Grace."

He gives you a wry smile. "We don't know what this 'secret ingredient' is. Perhaps it needs… more. We can continue until it takes." Another pause. "You'll have to forgive me for my choice of words. It's my first time experiencing the… joys of a sex potion, as well."

You snort incredulously, trailing your fingers along his clothed forearm. "And what if it… takes?"

You don't need to elaborate. What if you become pregnant with his child, like he suggested you might? What happens if you bear the heir apparent a bastard, and still end up married to his nephew? What if you cause a scandal?

"Then… we continue," he repeats. "Come what may." Baelor takes your hand in his, presses a kiss to the back of your palm. You are filled with so much adoration for him that it almost wounds you. It sets up a home in your body, right below your heart. "Whatever happens, it makes no difference. You may have anything that you want from me."

"Even your hand?"

"Especially that."

"In marriage?" Your chest tightens up in anticipation. You gaze up at him, willing him to accept you, clutching his hand like he might pull it away, recoil in disgust. If he were to turn you down now, you think that it might just kill you before the poison does.

Perhaps he feels how hard you tense up in your nervousness. He pulls back just the slightest bit and peers at you, taking in your expression, before his own turns into something open, genuine. His eyes crease at the corners as he traces a single finger down the part in your hair, and he replies, "Yes. I will marry you, darling girl. I should have, the moment I was able to. I should have begged you on my knees."

You smile at the mental image that provides. The Hand and Heir on his knees for you. "I would have liked that."

He gives you the fondest look. "I have no doubt."

You fiddle with his hand. His skin is soft, prominent veins running up the back and to the knuckles. You fit your hand to his like a question, examining the difference in size and shape. The ring on his middle finger, still damp from where it's been. In you. In his mouth.

"Why did you do that?" You don't mean to ask the question aloud, but it comes out anyway.

"Do what?"

You glance at Baelor and determine that he's only asking because he wants to hear you say it, and not because he's really confused as to what you mean. He looks coy, which is not something you've ever seen on him before— but you think that it suits him.

"Taste it." The words feel sharp in your mouth. "You didn't have to. I wouldn't have expected you to."

He breathes in deeply, and exhales on a long, low hum. Then, his eyes find yours again. "There are few pleasures in this world that compare to the taste of a woman. I wanted to."

Your heartbeat thrums in your ears. "And?"

"And you taste divine." A deft finger twists in the hair just at the very top of your head, twirling it around and around in hypnotic circles. "I would taste you again, if you would allow me."

It's your turn to hum. You hold his one hand in both of yours, tracing the details of them with your fingertips. Your thumbs map out the dip of his palm, the raised, sword-strengthened calluses beneath his fingers. The meat of his hand, where it connects to his wrist.

Without pausing to feel embarrassment or shame, you bring his hand to your mouth. You brush your lips over his fingers just barely, before you take them in and suck on them. You hear a shudder in Baelor's breath, but you don't stop. It is an intimate thing, to have his fingers stroke your tongue, to taste yourself on him, to know that his own tongue had been in the exact same place moments ago. You whimper and draw them in deep, your lips fitting around the silver ring against his knuckle, your eyes falling shut. He watches you, allowing you to take his swordsman's hand and fit his fingers between your teeth, trusting you not to bite down.

You sigh as you release them, dragging your tongue along the ridges and dips of his fingers on their way out. "I wanted to do that," you admit to him quietly. "For a while."

"You like my hands, it seems," he muses, a note of approval in his voice.

"Very much." You blink at him, suddenly feeling shy under the intensity of his gaze. "I'll let you have me however you want, my Prince. I only ask that first… you kiss me."

"Is that so? Only a kiss?" You nod, and Baelor smirks. He drags the tip of his pinkie finger gently down the slope of your nose. "You drive a hard bargain. If I kiss you now, I fear I may never stop."

"Don't stop."

Baelor lets out a short breath, and then scoops you up into a sitting position. You grunt in surprise, grabbing for his shoulders at the sudden movement, but you settle with his arm tight around your waist. Your heart skips a beat when he cradles your head in his palm, his fingers tangled in your hair.

"I don't think you understand just how wonderful you are," Baelor whispers, his mouth so close to your that the warmth of his lips practically touches yours. He hovers there, a breath away, and it's torturous to hold back. "You'll be the death of me."

With a shaking hand, you rest your palm against his cheek. You feel the scruff of his beard, the way that his jaw tenses the tiniest bit. "And if I don't kiss you, I'll die."

That seems to finally crack his composure. Baelor brushes your hair away from your face, strokes his thumb over your cheekbone, and closes the gap.

His kiss sends shocks of warmth through you, and you melt into him with a quiet sob of relief. Relief from the tension and swells of pain and fear. Relief at finally being able to hold him, to kiss him, open mouth to open mouth. You clutch at his shoulder, his neck, and swing your thigh over his to sit halfway on his lap.

He moves with you, his strong arms keeping you steady as you sink against him, groaning into you. Each point of contact feels bright, like if you opened your eyes to look you would find yourself glowing where he touches you. But his mouth moves against yours like silk, his tongue against yours, and he tastes like peace. It feels like the end of the storm, the answer to all your problems— even if it is only just the beginning.

Baelor's hand slides down to your lower back, holding you fast, splayed wide across your spine. His fingertips press into the flesh there, pulling you closer, until you're flush against him.

Your cunt grinds down onto the meat of his thigh, and you moan brokenly into his mouth. The sound of his name again, sweet on your tongue. He captures your lips with his, his other hand coming down to grip your hip. He rocks you against his thigh purposefully, swallowing the desperate sound that leaves you when your clit presses into the heat of him, through frustrating barriers of fabric.

You make a small, disgruntled noise, and your hand falls to the belt around his doublet. Nails scratching at the leather, you fumble with the buckle until it comes free. You feel beneath the cover of his doublet to find his soft linen shirt, warm from the heat of his body. Strong muscles tense beneath the lightness of your touch.

You huff a perturbed sigh against his mouth. "You are too clothed."

"You are too impatient," Baelor returns, but there is a huskiness to his voice that makes his words seem inconsequential. He shrugs out of his doublet to let your hands wander over his shoulders, down to squeeze the width of his arms. His beard tickles along your jaw as he presses kisses to your skin, trailing up to your ear. "Lie back, darling."

You recline on a pile of tangled sheets, chemise rucked up around your hips. Heat kisses your cheeks and pulses low in your core, your thighs instinctively wanting to close in on themselves, but they are stopped in their endeavor by Baelor's hips.

The mattress dips beside your shoulder where he leans his weight, hovering over you, a veil of security against the rest of the world. He drags his open mouth across your skin like this is not only for your benefit, but for his. You feel the flash of wet and warmth from his tongue, and your back arches up against him. He moves so slowly, savoring, his breath tumbling across your heated flesh like clouds of smoke.

It feels good. It feels so heavenly that you don't quite know how to accept it— you feel almost as though you should move away, but you would only be condemning yourself to more torment. You are bound to the bed by curiosity, an insatiable need to see what he does next. To feel his mouth touch more of you, places that you never thought to feel a pair of lips, teeth, or a tongue.

Baelor skims lightly over your breasts through the fabric of your chemise, while his hands find the curve of your waist. As he lowers, he ever-so-slowly tugs the fabric up, up, up, until you are bare from the waist-down and left open for his wandering mouth.

Your hands cling to him, one clawing against his back, the other gliding over the back of his head, cradling him to you. You gasp to feel the heat of his tongue on the skin just beneath your ribs. "Baelor…"

He hums in acknowledgement of his name, dragging his lips down over the curve of your stomach and lingering there. Baelor is thorough in a way that shouldn't shock you as much as it does— he lavishes you with his tongue and his lips, the quickest grazes of his teeth making you lurch against him with small sighs and moans. You are entirely alive with feeling, winding you up, until your whole body tenses and releases with it.

Then, he's moving. He passes over your pelvis and your aching, swollen cunt, and goes lower, settling between your knees. You make a little sound, a whimper of protest when you can't hold his head in your hands anymore.

He shushes you with his mouth against the inside of your knee, and then the wet swath of his tongue licks upwards in a way that takes you entirely by surprise. Bold, quick, his face so close and coming towards the most intimate part of you that you startle. "Gods—"

"Let me." It's a quiet plea, hushed against the skin of your inner thigh, one big hand cradling it to his cheek. There's the prickle of his beard, then the soft soothing of his tongue after. "My sweet girl. Let me taste you here."

"Yes," you sigh, even as he's already licking over the trail that your arousal has left, smeared across your overheated flesh.

The aphrodisiac effects may occur outwardly. The maester had said as much, and it becomes more and more apparent that, as Baelor lingers there, breathing in your scent and tasting you on his tongue, he is becoming intoxicated by the poison leeching from you. It's in the way his breath falls unevenly from his mouth, the way his gaze has gone a bit glassy with want, his pupils so wide that his beautiful, incongruous eyes are nearly black.

Baelor takes to you with a wide, flat stroke of his tongue that practically burns you alive. Your back leaves the mattress, your hands snatching at his head. Your cry breaks in your throat with its intensity and pitch, already taken to pieces by the single touch of his mouth to your cunt.

He groans into you— fully moans, as though this is entirely for his benefit and it is not something that he's doing in service to you. It is not a sound that you would have ever expected to hear from him, half-animalistic and far from the restrained, princely figure you've come to know him as. Large hands grasp at your hips and bring you further into his mouth, firm and consuming.

His name leaves you on a squeal. You're being too loud and you know it— through the open window, you can hear birds soar past, voices down in the courtyards. Any and everyone will hear you, and what the Prince of Dragonstone is doing to you, if you can't help it. You barely have the mental fortitude to let one shaking hand leave his head and clap over your mouth to stifle your cries.

He pulls back, releasing your clit from between his lips with a wet sound that makes your face burn. His eyes find yours, and you feel pinned beneath the weight of his gaze. "Do not silence yourself. Let me hear you."

You hesitate for only a second, but he doesn't move. Baelor's eyes remain fixed on your face as you reach forward, then stroke a hand over the crown of his head, a tentative and seeking touch. Then he returns to suck at your clit again, and you have to bite your tongue on a whimper.

He remains there for a long time. Long enough that you begin to think you may go delirious from the pleasure, and not from the poison throbbing and coursing through your veins, effecting him as he tastes you. He drags you to the precipice, to a place where reason and restraint don't exist anymore. There, you threaten to burn alive.

You cum into his mouth with a hoarse cry, your head tipped back on the pillows. It splinters through you like it may both destroy you and rebuild you anew at the same time— there's a rush, a flood between your legs that you don't expect, any more than you expect Baelor to stay there and take it, in all its viciousness.

You can't quite think. You feel him lingering there, his lips and tongue still on you, but it's as though you've been entirely unmade. He doesn't move, just remains solid and capable with his attention on your spent cunt, his tongue still lapping at the wetness that drips from you until you're certain— almost entirely certain— that this is not for the sake of the poison. This is not the potion at work. This is sex for the sake of sex.

"Baelor," you murmur, your voice a bit too high and airy in your throat. Your fingers dig at his scalp for something to make sense of. "D'you think— think it worked—?"

"Mm. You need another." Baelor answers you before you finish asking the question, his eyes narrowed as he rears back. His face is painted in your wetness, glistening around his mouth as he breathes heavily. "Let's not take any chances, shall we?"

"No, I wouldn't want to— to take chances— oh."

Baelor is climbing the line of your body, traversing over you like a panther on the hunt. His parted lips trail a wet line over your stomach, and he nudges your bunched up chemise back, further up your ribs. With trembling hands, you grab the useless fabric and pull it, tugging it frustratedly over your head so that you can throw it across the room.

"My beautiful girl," Baelor whispers into your skin, almost as though talking to himself more than you. His palm smoothes over the curve of your ribs and comes up to cup your breast, a reverent and tender touch, as though simply feeling the weight of it in his hand. "So stunning. Oh, I dreamt of this."

"You dreamt…?" You stutter out a gasp when his mouth closes hotly over your nipple, and your hands fly up to grasp the back of his head.

"I dreamt," Baelor repeats, moving his attention to your other breast with the same amount of care. "I wanted. I wished."

You pull him by the nape of his neck and he moves with your urging, lifting himself over you so that you can kiss him. The dampness of your arousal, still lingering in his facial hair, smears against your cheek as you lick into his mouth and taste yourself, oddly sweet on his tongue.

"Take your clothes off," you grumble against his lips, the slightest note of impatience lacing your tone as your fingers dig against his shoulders.

His linen shirt meets your chemise somewhere on the floor. Your hands find his chest, sliding down over hard muscle padded with soft flesh. He has a body befitting a man of his station— a soldier, hard and lean, bearing the scars of battle but unashamed of them. You trace a scar stretching across his ribs, trailing down towards his navel. Unhurried fingers dance over the trail of hair stretching downwards, guiding you towards the waist of his breeches.

"You're beautiful." It comes out more forceful than you mean for it to— but gods, do you mean it. You want to map out his body with your hands and your lips and your teeth, you want to learn every inch of him by rote, and still never stop once you know all. You try to convey it to him with your eyes, because you can't find any other words to express it. "You're so beautiful, Baelor, you must know."

He smiles, and it's that smile. The one that has haunted you since you saw it last, the one that you want to see over and over again. It causes a swelling feeling in your chest that… probably isn't healthy, but none of this is. It would be death to deny it now.

"You flatter me," Baelor says, his thumb stroking idly against your thigh, where his hand rests. His eyes are soft, flicking over you with so much adoration you struggle not to squirm beneath it.

"I tell the truth," you murmur, slipping two fingers just beneath the waist of his breeches to trace just below the fabric. His breath hitches, and you smirk. "I could always lie, but I imagine you'd see right through it, now."

"It would be very unladylike of you," he remarks, his smile turning sardonic.

"Hm. Can't have that." Even as you say it, your hands are untying his breeches, your fingers tugging until you're able to slip them down his hips. "We both know just how ladylike I am."

One boot comes off, then two, and his breeches shed to leave him in his smallclothes. There is no finesse to his movements— the seduction is over, leaving only sharp intent and the promise of what's to come. Desire wound tight like a spring, loaded to snap at a single touch.

That touch comes when you slip your fingers along the band of his smallclothes, a single, featherlight graze against the laces. Baelor's entire body goes rigid over you, as if you've held a blade to his throat. You guide them over his hips and down his thighs, until he snaps to and shirks them the rest of the way. He whispers your name, something between awe and guttural need forming the word in his throat.

"Baelor," you hum in response when your fingers find him and wrap around his cock. You freeze for just a moment— he's larger than you expected, and the prospect sends a little shiver through you. The Hammer, you think to yourself. Of course. He's hot to the touch, burning and throbbing against your palm, so hard it seems like it should be unbearable for him. But he bears it, for you. "Do you know how many women in the realm dream of this?"

He makes a small noise of warning, twitching in your grip.

Your grin turns wolfish as you pass your thumb over the head, flushed and leaking. "Do you know how many would kill for this? Would die to lie beneath you like this?"

"Heavens above." He shudders out a sigh as you stroke him, his forehead falling to rest against yours. "Don't— you mustn't say such things to me, my love, I— I have to be so careful with you. You have no idea."

So this is what it is, to have him lose his composure. No longer the Prince of Dragonstone, Hand to the King, heir to the Iron Throne— in your hands, he is simply a man. A man who wants, whose breath spills warm across your lips. Whose hips search for yours when you wrap your legs around his waist.

"Would you let me have you, my Prince?" you ask him, and your voice is light, inquisitive. It can't be anything else, because you are just as desperate as he is. You don't have it in you to be teasing, you are simply open with your need for him, allowing your innermost thoughts to surge to the forefront. Your forehead pressed to his, you look up through your lashes to find his eyes closed, squeezed shut in some vain attempt to hold on. "My love?"

His eyes snap open to meet yours, pressed so close that your noses touch. Baelor groans quietly when you guide him between your legs without waiting for an answer— it was a rhetorical question, after all.

But all the same, he replies, "Anything you desire."

Baelor drops his hips, enough to follow the guidance of your hand. He fills you in one fluid stoke, and together you take a long, deep breath.

"You are…"

"Perfect." He finishes your sentence for you, hushed and airy though it is. It feels as though you could be interrupted at any moment with the way he holds you, like a secret, like something that should never been spoken or heard about. Like you are only for him to know this way.

He presses his hips flush to yours, making you keen from the fullness, the exquisite stretch. The potion, for what it's worth, does make everything slicker, easier— you are so swollen and relaxed from his mouth, your body so attuned to his that there is no pain. Only the pleasure of his touch remains.

He moves, and it lights you up from within like wildfire. Your back arches towards him, your chest pressing up against his, and a sound unlike anything you've ever made tears from your throat. Arms blindly snatching for him, you wrap yourself around him as though he may try to move away.

He nuzzles his nose against yours, almost too tender of a gesture for the position you find yourself in. "That's it, darling. Take all of me."

Your mind clouds with pleasure as he rocks his hips into yours. You feel like you're drowning in the skin on skin, stripped to the skin and pressed flush to him. Your hand smoothes down his back, feeling rigid muscle and raised scars there, too.

He withdraws and presses forward, setting a slow, deliberate pace that drives you practically mad. He's so gentle and tender even when everything about him, about this situation, tells you that he wants to let go of his restraint. Widening your thighs on instinct, your hand cradles the back of his head, bringing his lips closer to yours.

"Don't hold back," you tell him, and you feel his breath pause where it fans against your cheek. Even though to try to be commanding, your voice cracks. "Baelor— stop holding back—"

Baelor presses a single, chaste kiss to your lips, and you are too caught up in the moment to realize that it's a warning, a subtle apology before he's shifting. He lifts your hips, planting his knees on the mattress before he pulls you into his lap, your back bent over the expanse of his strong thighs.

You slide down the mattress with an undignified squeak, hands scratching along the sheets for stability where there is none. And then you settle into your new position, gazing up at him with a stunned expression.

He's unbelievably gorgeous. His chest leaps with his breath, tanned and freckled skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat. He pants through parted lips, his eyes sharp and focused as they always are, cheeks flushed. He's a vision, and he's all yours.

Baelor splays his hand flat against your chest, running his palm over the skin where, beneath, your heart pounds a drumbeat loud as thunder in your ears. Then he drags his touch down, between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach. His hand settles warm and solid over your navel, thumb stroking you tenderly enough to make you let out a soft sigh.

But then he's sliding his cock into you again, a wicked thrust that punches all the air from your lungs, and his hand presses down. Your brows draw together, your mouth falling open on a silent moan as he hits something so devastating inside of you that it makes your eyes involuntarily roll back in your head.

"Feel that?" Baelor murmurs, his voice roughened with desperation as he does it again, and again. Pull back, push forward, press down. "Feel how deep I am inside you?"

It comes out so… possessive. Spurred on by the fact that he's the only one to do this to you, the only person to see you like this. Like he's staking a claim to you with each roll of his hips. His fingers rub back and forth over the soft flesh of your stomach, and you do feel it— the tip of his cock as he drives it into you, reaching so deep within you that it makes a faint bulge in your lower stomach.

You sob out an incoherent response, lights dancing behind your eyelids. Your hands, searching for something to hold onto as his thrusts gain momentum, find the pillow above your head. You squeeze it, pull blindly as though it will bring you some respite, and the downy soft padding of it covers your face, smothering the obscene moans that spill from your mouth.

Baelor's hand all but slams down on top of the pillow with a dull thump. You feel the impact through the feather stuffing, a slight bump against the tip of your nose before he's snatching it away from you and flinging the accursed thing across the room. It hits one of the open window shutters and falls to the floor.

"Do not. Hide." It's a snarl released from his throat, his hand coming to cup your chin and pull you to center. "Show me your eyes."

You blink your eyes open at him and bite your lip, trying to keep your whimpering at bay. You watch his core muscles flex with the movement of his hips, his chest dappled with golden sunlight, his jaw tightening with the effort to remain consistent, even when you told him to let go.

"There she is," Baelor whispers, a flicker of awe crossing his features. "My beautiful girl."

His thumb strokes across your lower lip, and without even thinking, you close your lips around it. The pad of his thumb, tasting of salt and the sweet musk of your own cunt, strokes against your tongue. A quiet groan breaks from him, his thrusts turning erratic and unmeasured when you suck hard.

Baelor drops his chin toward his chest, his face drawn in silent agony. "Fuck."

Your cunt clamps down hard around him at the sound of the swear falling from his lips. You don't know why the single word is enough to drive you crazy— probably because you've never heard Baelor curse before, and it's such a juxtaposition to the rest of him. The unshakeable prince brought to shambles by your lips around his thumb, your legs around his core.

Your orgasm mounts suddenly, and your teeth bear down hard on his thumb. It's enough to throw him off-kilter. He hisses through his teeth and pulls you with his free hand, seating himself deep inside you, his hips pressed flush to yours. He slides his hand from your waist downward, through the soft curls of hair on your mound. He finds your clit, brushing a circle around it with the tip of one, impossibly gentle fingertip.

You cum so quickly that the force of it turns blinding and sharp. Your cunt pulses on his cock with an urgency that wracks your entire body. But it is not enough for him that you lay there milking him— no, he has to escalate it.

Just as soon as it hits, Baelor's hand is gripping your thigh, pushing your leg up until your knee hooks over his shoulder, and he bends you. Your thigh presses tight to your chest as he moves over you, his cock hitting immeasurably deeper now. You claw desperately at his back, fingernails scratching, raking hard lines that will be too easy for his servants to notice, come morning.

He doesn't let up, even for a second. Still driving his hips, fucking you through the pulsing of your cunt, his body holding you down against the bed. His thumb slides from your mouth with a wet pop, spit smearing across your cheek as he cradles your face. Baelor replaces his thumb with his tongue, kissing you deeply, reverently, like he can feed all his devotion into you with it.

"Good girl," he whispers into your mouth, dragging his hips back slowly and then filling you back up even slower. You squirm, drowning between your legs from the oversensitivity and the entirely new angle he hits at. The sound that he makes is unbelievably erotic, something between a sigh and a rasping moan that cracks in his throat. "So good for me, my darling."

You cry his name, latching onto him with a trembling hand. "Fuck— Baelor. You need to cum. You should—"

"Don't." He shakes his head, fixing you with a heated look. He swallows, exhaling a stuttering breath. "Not— not yet, I don't—"

But you're nodding against him in retaliation, tightening your core muscles around his cock, squeezing him so hard that he makes a noise like you've punched him.

"Fuck," Baelor grits, hanging his head. "Oh, fucking Seven, you just— just can't stand to lose— can you—?"

Perspiration beads on his brow, and you have the sudden urge to lick it. So, you do. You pull him down by the neck, and he goes, following the urging of your hand like it's a command he's beholden to. You run your tongue across his temple, up and over his drawn brow, and he shudders.

In spite of everything— the overstimulation, the frightening possibility that you might cum again— you manage to break a small, breathless smile. Your mouth finds the shell of his ear, and your voice drops unexpectedly low. "Yield."

He plants his hips against yours, pressing your thigh so far against your chest that your knee almost touches your ear. He cums with an exquisite moan against your cheek, your tongue still pressed to his face to taste more of him, as though you can consume the very beauty from his skin.

You take his hand— the one against your thigh, holding it up around his waist— and guide it down between your flush bodies. Even while you feel him pulse inside you, he follows your guidance without question. He rubs a light caress against your clit, just enough to send sparks shooting up your spine.

You cum again for him, and it's gentler this time— like sunlight breaking through a storm. You give him a soft, relieved moan, while you pulse on his cock and your tense muscles release beneath him.

You both lay there in the feeling, letting the pulsations die down as you settle. And then, he stirs just a bit.

"Better?" Baelor murmurs, nudging his nose against yours.

"Much."

You feel him smile as he kisses you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. You let him linger there, smiling into your mouth, for a few more seconds— and then you kick your heel against his shoulder, where your leg is still slung up and pinned against you.

He laughs at the disgruntled noise you make, lowering your leg and smoothing his palm up the length of it as he pulls it to rest against his hip. "My strong girl. You're quite the force when you want something, hm?"

"Don't you forget it," you grumble, but there's no real heat to it.

"I'm not likely to anytime soon."

You sigh when he withdraws from you, but only so that he can roll you both, gathering you into his arms. You lay with your head on his sweat-slick chest, his arm encircling your shoulders to hold you close. Relaxing into him, your body spent, you place a hand over his chest to feel his heart thundering beneath your palm.

Both naked, tangled up in each other, you remain like that for a while. Your fingers drawing idle shapes against his chest, gliding through the hair there as it rises and falls with his breaths as they even out.

He's yours. The thought flits through your mind, light as a feather. He's going to marry you. You'll be his wife. Many things about it make your chest tighten. That you'll be the Crown Princess in the process. That eventually, you will be expected to be Queen.

As quickly as your fears bubble up, one thing quells the flood. He's Baelor. He'll take care of you. He always seems to. You trust him to. You… you love him for it.

"You're staring."

You blink, and tilt your head to look up at him. You had been staring, directly at the mess you made between his legs, while your mind whirled in a dozen different directions. You should probably feel embarrassed at being caught, but there's mirth in Baelor's eyes. His hand pets affectionately against the back of your head.

"We're betrothed," you say, in lieu of an explanation.

"So we are."

"The King should probably know."

Baelor makes a short noise. It rumbles in his chest, against your cheek. "The King can wait until the 'morrow. I'm not terribly enticed by the idea of leaving you tonight." He turns his head slightly towards the open window. "After all, I'd imagine most of the Keep knows about it, by now."

You giggle, turning your face towards his chest. You nuzzle into the hair over his heart and breathe in, smelling the comforting scent of his skin. Remarkably, it is less strong than it has been all evening, no longer heightened to the point of overwhelm. You can't hear every damned thing in the Keep anymore— nor can you taste the saltwater on the air from the bay.

"Baelor."

"Mm?"

"I think it worked." You press a kiss to his sternum. "We did it."

"Good." A pause. Baelor heaves a deep sigh. "Do not. Ever. Drink another fucking sex potion. For the love of the suffering Seven."

You tut, a teasing smile quirking at your lips. "So I shouldn't use the second one I have in my drawers, then?"

Baelor's head snaps towards you. When you see the look of terror on his face, you dissolve into a fit of laughter, pulling yourself closer against his side.

He huffs a quiet chuckle, but you can't mistake the sound of relief underlying it. He lays a warm palm against your bare shoulder. "Troublemaker."

"Yes, I am." You bite your lip, trailing your hand down his stomach, your fingers grazing lightly enough that you watch his abdominal muscles tense beneath the touch. "But I want you like this all the time."

"Naked?"

"Unmoored."

You turn your head to find him regarding you with the same calmness you've come to expect from him, but with a fire burning within his gaze. He smirks slightly. "That shouldn't be too difficult for you to accomplish, I fear."

With a hum, you slip your leg over his hips and lift yourself to straddle him. His hands find your waist, steadying you. You raise yourself up, one hand braced on his chest, the other falling to one of his hands. Beneath you, you feel his cock begin to harden again as you place his hand on your breast.

"Then let me begin, my Prince."

The wedding is scheduled for three weeks later, at Baelor's behest. Long enough for the lords of the seven houses to arrive in due course, but not long enough for there to be question if you indeed are with his child.

You spoke about it at length, actually. He was very insistent, seeing as how he was trying to actively put one in you at the time.

On the day of your wedding, you sit in your vanity chair and fiddle with the cuffs of your dress. It is white and gold, of a fabric quality you've never been able to luxuriate in before. It feels stifling. You fear walking in it, breathing in it, doing anything that may damage it at all. You sit with your spine stiff and straight, allowing Mircalla to fix pins into your hair. Several other serving girls flit about the room, attending to various other chores.

When you feel you've just about had enough of the prodding of pins, a knock sounds at the chamber door. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you shift in your seat, hoping that it may be your husband-to-be, come to steal you away for a moment before the ceremony. It would not be unlike him— Baelor is a busy man, but attentive as often when he can be. Even if it is a mere kiss in an alcove, or a five minute interlude in the courtyard, there is always a time and a place that he can find to be with you, to show you his affections.

But the chamber door opens, and your guard steps a foot into the room. "Prince Daeron to see you, my lady."

Daeron? Your brow draws in confusion, but you rise from your chair, regardless. "Enter."

Daeron stumbles into the room with all the grace of a newborn deer. The maids all pause in tandem, and a hush falls over the room as he blinks up at each of them awkwardly, his blue eyes a bit less bleary than normal, his honey-gold hair tied back with a black ribbon for the festivities. "Apologies for my… intrusion?"

"No harm done, my lord." You clasp your hands anxiously behind your back, all the same. "What may I do for you?"

"I had wanted a word with you, my lady. Alone. For only a moment, if you wouldn't mind?"

You think that you would mind, very much. But the longer you regard Daeron, trying to cling to your vitriol, the less you can find any. You are about to be married to the Crown Prince, a gorgeous and honorable man who you are falling desperately in love with, to no one's surprise.

You cannot bring yourself to refuse Daeron— and so, you dismiss your ladies with a courteous nod.

As soon as the door shuts, Daeron is crossing the room and slumping into an armchair by the window. You do not move, but follow him with your eyes as he slouches, heaving an enormous sigh.

"Are you drunk?" you ask him pointedly.

"Always." He flashes you a sardonic smile. You give him an incredulous look. "Necessity compels. But I am here, and not at a tavern, at least."

"Better wine, I'd imagine."

"Mm, yes. Arbor red. An excellent choice, indeed." He pauses, his eyes flicking over you apprehensively. "I came to… apologize, my lady. I fear I have behaved rather badly towards you, and I felt I owed you an explanation."

You only blink at him. "Yes, you do."

"Right." He licks his lips, seeming to collect his thoughts. "Before you came to King's Landing… I dreamed of you."

"How romantic."

"No, not— not so much." Daeron takes a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You see, my dreams… they have a tendency to come true. It isn't always a good thing." He pauses for a long moment, his eyes focused on the middle-distance, appearing to see something that you can't. "When I dreamt of you, it was… I saw you dying, my lady. I saw you on your death bed. And you cursed me for it."

You say nothing, but watch him as his shaking hands smooth against his pants.

"I didn't know what it meant. But I figured, when I saw you, that if I was going to be the reason for your death— in screaming agony— then it would needs be best for both of us if I held no relation to you. If I could refuse you and not speak a word, it would be… you wouldn't have died. And I wouldn't have been the cause."

"But, I have not died, my lord."

"No." Daeron lets out a short laugh, void of humor. "But, you had an affliction some weeks back, did you not? I heard it was rather a close call." He fixes his eyes on you, and he looks so deeply apologetic. Like a kicked dog, he peers up at you through his lashes. "If I was in any way responsible for— for any pain caused, I am truly sorry, my lady. My intentions were noble, I assure you. My execution, however…"

"Leaves something to be desired, yes." You close your eyes, breathe in slowly. Daeron reeks of alcohol, but you don't allow it to deter you from stepping closer to his chair. "In your dream, what was it that I said? How did I curse you?"

Daeron swallows, his eyes flicking around the room briefly. "You said… 'I don't want Daeron. He doesn't want me. I didn't take the fucking thing for him.'" Your face must betray your thoughts, because Daeron regards you closely before nodding solemnly, folding his hands in his lap. "Right. So, it was that."

Your heart pounds so hard that you swear it's trying to leap up into your throat. "Daeron. Whatever you think you saw—"

"It's not for me to pry." His eyes continuously move from your face to various areas of the room, like he doesn't want to look at you head-on. "What I know is that you are well now, and marrying my uncle. And I am happy for you, my lady. I truly am. It has been many years since I saw him smile the way he does, when you aren't looking." Daeron finally chances to look you directly in the eye, and he looks gravely serious. "Do not take this the wrong way, but I think that we would have been terrible for each other. Wouldn't you agree?"

For the first time since Daeron stepped into your chambers, a smile crosses your face. "You know, I think you're absolutely right. We would have killed each other."

Daeron lets out a sad chuckle. "Quite so."

He looks around, at a loss for a few seconds, before he heaves himself up and stands over you. He's quite a bit taller than you first thought— maybe it's because he isn't slouching as much, now.

"Forgive me, my lady. I've taken enough of your time. I wish you a long and happy marriage." He winks. "Only, one not to me."

That finally earns him a giggle from you, and Daeron smiles, before lifting your hand and pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles. You watch him cross the room, narrowly avoiding bumping into your vanity chair as he moves.

At the door, Daeron pauses and turns back to you with a reserved smirk. "Just so you know. My cock does work. If the need should ever arise again."

He ducks out of the room before the pillow you throw can hit him.

The waiting room was… normal. You weren’t sure what you had been expecting. Of course it was normal. Why would this office be any different to the other waiting rooms and offices you had been in? Just because it was a… yeah, ok. You still couldn’t quite admit it, couldn’t quite get yourself to say it, to even believe that you were doing this. How had you been convinced into doing this? No, no, this was a good thing, Vivian had said so, and you trusted Vivian. 

The chairs were soft and comfortable, which was the most surprising thing about the waiting room, you supposed. The lighting was low and comfortable, warm yellow lamps on the little corner tables. The receptionist had checked you in, but this space was after her desk so you felt quite alone. The walls were painted a dark colour, and the wood accents were all dark as well. You felt rather cozy now that you thought about it, snug and protected. There was something to be said about the dark actually being good for comfort and vulnerability. 

You were dressed comfortably, soft trousers and a full sleeve top, trainers on, light jacket for the cooler weather (despite it being springtime), and your usual bag on your arm. You resisted the urge to keep checking your phone, to use it as your safety net as you usually did. You and Vivian had been working on that too, a sort of side bit of homework to help you become more comfortable being in your own skin, of being on your own. 

There was art on the walls, and you turned your eyes to it. It was all beautiful, the kind of paintings you yourself enjoyed, a mix of impressionist and renaissance style, either blurred or hyperrealistic, glossy and shadowed in the lamplight. There was one of a dragon, black and sharp, tall and imposing, looking down at a singular man standing on a beach. It was stormy around them, and the man was a miniscule thing next to the beast. But there was a connection between them, something soft and unspoken, mutual respect perhaps, or even care. It was a rather simple picture on the face of it, but you fell in love with it at that moment. 

There was only one door going off from the waiting room, and it had been shut since the moment you had arrived, but now it opened, a little swiftly, and a man stepped out just enough so that his feet were over the threshold but he was still holding onto the doorknob with one hand. In the other was a clipboard, held up a little so he could read from it, then he turned up to look at you and smiled gently. 

“Hello, Y/n, is it?” You nodded quickly, eyes a little wide, lips parted. “Am I pronouncing that right?” He asked kindly, frowning a little and mouthing it again. 

“Yes! Yes, perfectly, thank you,” you jumped in, nodding and clutching tightly onto your bag strap. 

He paused for a moment, looked you over, then with that same soft smile he stepped back a little into the doorway and nudged his head into the room. 

“Would you like to come in?” He asked, and you nodded quickly, eyes still a little wide as you jumped up and hurried into the room, like a little mouse scurrying around when the cat has finally found them. 

You could not quite absorb what he looked like. It felt… too good. That was an odd thing to say. You shouldn’t be describing an intimacy therapist like that… But it was also true. 

He wore a dark turtleneck, black and rolled up at the sleeves to display strong tanned forearms. He had little freckles on the skin there, dark but fine hairs, and big hands, long fingers and veins. He had a beard, a little scruffy but well-looked after, and wavy hair that had gone grey and was now scattered with white. It was a bit messy too, rather like the beard. He seemed to run his hand through it in thought, ruining whatever combing he might have done in the morning, but you liked it that way. It made him more human. He had a soft set to his face when he smiled, deep lines creasing between his cheeks and his mouth, and he had one blue eye and one brown eye. 

That was a little jarring at first, the stark difference, and you sort of wanted to compliment him on them, but he probably heard it a million times over, and you didn’t have the confidence to say anything like that to him just yet. Perhaps after working with him for a while you might do, but not yet. 

His office was similar to the waiting room in the sense that everything was dark in here as well. There was a desk in the back corner, with framed degrees and certificates and awards on the wall behind it. A cork noticeboard was on the adjacent wall, the one that the side of the desk touched, and it was pinned with lots of things, calendars and reminders and pictures and cards. The desk itself was fancy, dark wood and carved with designs, and the computer on it was all sleek lines and high-tech. There were papers and folders on the desk, pens and post-it notes, but it was all neatly organised and he even had picture frames facing toward him. That warmed your heart a little. 

The main bit was right in front of you though, a black leather couch with end tables on either side facing an armchair with its own end tables. There were already pens and paper and notebooks on the end table by the armchair, and there were lamps on each of them too, low yellow light with coloured and patterned lampshades. There were cushions on the sofa which made you happy, something to grab, something to hide with. All of this on top of a dark rug that looked lovely and plush. The sofa faced a wall of windows, lovely and big but covered by blinds right now to keep the room all cool and dim. 

He gestured you toward the sofa, waiting for you to sit down before taking his own seat, fiddling with his clipboard and all the pens and papers on the table beside him. As he did that, you took your bag off and put it to the side of the sofa, rocking back and forth a little in your seat, looking around, frankly anywhere but right at him. You felt far too awkward. You took one of the sofa cushions and brought it to sit on your lap, feeling a little more settled with it covering you, but then you felt rude for taking it without asking. Finally, he settled a little into his chair, slouching slightly and looking far more comfortable than you, and smiled directly in your direction. 

“Did Marion have you sign all the paperwork when you came in?” He asked kindly, just getting the ball rolling, you supposed, and you nodded, pursing your lips a little. “Just to go over it again, I prefer being as transparent and open as possible, even if it’s a little tedious. Everything you say to me, whether that be in this room or over correspondence is private and completely confidential unless I perceive that you intend to cause real harm to yourself or another person. While I will not record anything, I do take notes during the session and of course there will be a record of any communication via phone, message, or email, but again, this is all protected under confidentiality. Is that alright?” 

He had no judgement on his face, just a serene look, this spiel practiced by now. You nodded again, and then felt stupid for not having said anything yet. 

“Yes, uh yes, of course, uh… Mr Martell? Is that what I call you? Sorry, that’s a stupid question,” you wanted to hide your face in your hands, to physically shut your mouth by pinching it with your fingers, but you just clenched them in the cushion and darted your eyes away from his face, feeling hot all over from embarrassment. But he was smiling, nodding, twisting his pen around in his hands. 

“You can call me what you like. If you prefer Mr Martell, that’s alright, and if you’d prefer Baelor, that’s alright too,” his smile was far too kind, it made you more conscious somehow. You nodded and attempted a smile of your own, but you could bet it came out strained and stupid. 

Baelor had been careful since the start of his career to use his mother’s last name. He did not need his family’s reputation following him into this office, not in the career he had truly curated for himself. He had become used to being Mr Martell in one room, and Mr Targaryen in another. 

You couldn’t look at him for too long, it was too intimidating, which meant your eyes travelled a lot, especially to the covered windows behind him. He noticed, because of course he did, that was his job wasn’t it, and turned to glance at them as well. 

“Would you like me to open the curtains?” He asked kindly, half-twisted in his seat and looking back at you. You felt hot with mortification again, for whatever reason, and instantly shook your head. 

“Oh, no, it’s ok.” You waved it off, chewing on your lip and glancing down, clutching the cushion a little tighter. 

“Are you sure? It’s rather a lovely view,” he added, smiling still and you smiled at that, this one a little more relaxed than before, and a quiet huff of a chuckle left you. 

“Yeah, no, it’s alright, don’t worry. Maybe next time,” you answered, rubbing at your cheek a little to attempt hiding your smile. It went quiet again, that heavy silence that came with expectation. 

“It’s alright if you’re nervous,” he said then, something softer coming into his eyes, as if he was keenly aware of how you were feeling, as if he had seen it a million times before and wanted to comfort you. “It’s natural to feel that way.” 

You let out a breath, closing your eyes for a moment and nodding, smoothing your hands over the cushion then looking at it instead of him. 

“I’m really nervous. I don’t even know why, I agreed to this, but… I don’t know, I just am.” You felt a bit pathetic, your lips drooping a little naturally, and you heard his pen being placed down on the notebook. When you glanced up, he had laced his fingers together and was nodding at you, the smallest frown creasing his brow, concern it seemed like. 

“Well, why don’t we start with why you’ve come to see me?” He asked gently. 

You settled into your seat, leaning back a little into the softness of the sofa, allowing yourself to get comfortable. You liked his voice. It was silky, soft but intentional in your ears, and you had the sneaking suspicion that he only spoke words he deemed necessary. You liked that, it made you feel comfortable trusting him. You had been preparing for this question too, but now you felt a bit blank in the head. 

“Um, well, my therapist, Vivian, recommended I try this, coming to see you, I mean. I’ve been working with her for a while, on a lot of stuff, but recently… Hm, I feel really awkward saying this,” then you did actually put your head in your hands, shaking it a little as you felt overcome with nervousness again, but he didn’t say anything, just shifted in his seat a little and gave you the space to say it. You cleared your throat, brought your hands down, and spoke facing the cushion on your lap. “I’ve never really been with anyone in a relationship before. No one asked me out at school, no one asked me out at university, nothing’s ever really happened. It’s not even for a lack of trying, which sounds so pathetic. Like, I tried getting on a dating app but I just couldn’t take it seriously, and the guys I talked to were either weirdos or it just didn’t amount to anything. Which leads me here, never even having kissed someone, and terrified of ever doing anything with anyone. And it gets worse, because finally, finally, a guy has asked me out, and he’s… amazing. He’s literally everything I could want, kind, patient, handsome, and I just can’t get over myself. He’s happy to take things slow, to work at my speed, but… I just feel wrong. I feel like I can’t get over this fear, and until I get over that, I can’t be a good partner for him.” 

You pressed a hand to your face as you felt the overwhelming rush of tears to your eyes. You didn’t want to cry in your first session with him, didn’t want to cry over just explaining this, but you had felt so bogged down by it recently, overwhelmed by your own inability, that it was constantly on your mind and constantly tiring you. 

You heard some shuffling, and without saying a word, Baelor had stood, taken a box of tissues and brought it over to the sofa. He placed it down near you, then went back to his seat, crossing one leg over the other and twisting his pen around in his hands again. He nodded wordlessly at your quiet thank you, waited for you to dab at your eyes and take a few deep breaths in, to look at him again, before speaking. 

“Let’s unpack some of what you said there. You’ve met someone recently, and you’d like to be able to be intimate with him?” 

“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling a little at the thought of him. “It’s still quite new, but I think he’s the kind of guy I could see myself marrying. But I feel like I can’t even imagine a future with him without addressing… this.” Baelor hummed and nodded, writing something down. 

“And you spoke about your lack of experience. You mentioned that you haven’t really been in a relationship before?” 

“Yeah,” you swallowed, grimacing a little. “I… All throughout school I watched my friends get boyfriends, or I watched people get partners and start having all these experiences that I just… never got. No one’s ever asked me out, no one’s ever seen me in that way. It’s embarrassing. I’ve confessed to my crush like three times and every single time I was rejected. I know it shouldn’t be, but it’s so demeaning and confidence killing. And then I’ve just never had the confidence to ever confess again. I got busy in the middle too, life and stuff, and my mental health was so bad for a while and just… I don’t know. I feel… I feel ugly, and unlovable.” You closed your eyes, swallowing harshly again, unable to look at him at the confession. You were opening your mouth too much, being too vulnerable too soon, you were sure of it. It was irrational, you knew that. You knew he wouldn’t get you up and throw you out and tell you all of this was true, but that irrational bit of your brain was rather annoying even at the best of times. 

“I know it’s only your first time meeting me, but I can assure you with full confidence that you are neither ugly nor unloveable.” His voice was quiet when he said it, gentle but firm, and you blinked open your eyes, blurred with tears and stared right at him. He was not smiling now but serious, sure, firm in his belief. You licked your lips and nodded, eyes a little wide, and you wiped at them haphazardly, gathering yourself. 

“We can take this slow as well, hm?” He asked then, gentle and smiling a little to comfort you. “We’ll start with just some more discussions, what you are comfortable with, what you actually want to achieve, and then I can make some other recommendations. Does that sound alright with you?” He tapped his pen against the notebook, punctuating his sentence with it, and you nodded quickly, smiling with relief. 

And you felt it too, relieved. When you walked out of the session, there was already less of a weight on your shoulders. Instead it was replaced with the lightness of faith, of trusting that Baelor would help you, of trusting that you might actually be alright in the end. 

“Why do you think there’s something wrong with being a virgin at your age?” 

You were back in the office again, the same pillow on your lap. This time you had removed your shoes before stepping onto the plush rug. You had wanted to feel it a little closer, just under your socks, as soft as you had imagined, and you sat with your feet up on the sofa, curled around the cushion, chin on your knees. 

“I don’t know,” was your first answer, automatic, too easy, and you knew by now that he wouldn’t let you get away with it. He stayed silent, waiting for you to actually think, to be honest. He always did that, you realised, stayed silent until you gave him something worth responding to. You would appreciate it more if it wasn’t so frustrating sometimes when you truly didn’t know how to respond. 

He was wearing a button-up today, blue and white stripes, neat and ironed, unbuttoned at the collar so it was a little more casual. He had his smart trousers on, as he always did, with a dark belt that blended into the fabric, navy blue socks, and leather dress shoes. He was always smartly dressed, and though sometimes it made you feel a little insecure, underdressed, you also really liked it. It made him look lovely and clean, trustworthy. 

“I feel left behind I guess. Like there’s something wrong with me because so many other people my age have already done this big milestone.” You picked at a corner of the pillow, almost mumbling as you spoke. “It’s not even just that I’m a virgin, it’s that I haven’t done anything. I haven’t even held hands with a boy let alone had sex with a guy.” 

Baelor sighed and nodded, wrote something down then placed his pen flat on the paper, folding his hands on top of it. He looked you right in the eye, that serious and determined expression in them that always came with him saying something important that you should remember and pay particular attention to. 

“I know it may feel odd, or wrong, but before anything else, you should know that there is nothing wrong with being experienced, whatever age you reach. It may not sound comforting, but unfortunately, sometimes that is the way life happens, with different experiences defining people differently. But again, there is nothing wrong with being inexperienced at your age.” 

You nodded, but then stayed silent, chewing on your lip and glaring at the floor. Usually you would say something in response, would agree with him or repeat what he said to affirm it to yourself, but this time you remained lost in your own head. 

“What is it?” Baelor asked, not allowing you to stew alone. 

“It’s just… of course you would say that. Like… look at you. You probably never had to worry about this. You’re all… handsome and charming and older, like of course you would say that.” You said it with such confidence all of a sudden, like you believed it wholeheartedly, but when you finally absorbed the words that had slipped out of your own mouth, you instantly felt your heart drop into the pit of your stomach. You could not believe you had actually said that. How could you have said that to him?? Just because it was true didn’t mean you should have said it! Oh gods, now he knew you thought he was handsome and charming. Oh gods, he would terminate this. He would say it’s inappropriate, that you had crossed a line, that you didn’t deserve to get help and that this stupidity was the obvious reason why you were still a virg-

He was chuckling. You looked up to find him smiling brightly, eyes squinted, shoulders moving up and down a little as he giggled at your words. You smiled too, couldn’t help it because his own was so contagious, and all the tension that had begun to build inside you slowly melted out of your bones. 

“While I appreciate the sentiment,” he finally said, still smiling as if you had charmed him with your little moment of unfiltered yammering, “my words are still true. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s the truth.” You harrumphed a little, but nodded just the same, repeating it to yourself that you were normal, that this was normal. 

You discussed a little more, spoke about how you should not feel shame, or should not take your lack of experience as a judgement of your worth and beauty, and you felt sufficiently exhausted by the end of the session. When there were about ten minutes remaining, Baelor paused and looked at you with that serious expression again. 

“I’d like to propose something. I do not need your answer now, or even during the next session. Take as much time as you would like to deliberate, ask as many as you would wish, but please do consider it thoroughly. I think you may benefit from a more intimate approach to this. Your worries about your lack of experience seem to overshadow much of your other thoughts and I think it prevents you from moving on from some of your other insecurities. I would seriously advise you to consider surrogate partner therapy. I think it would allow you to gain some experience in a safe environment where you can ask questions and learn without feeling any possible judgement for your lack of experience.” He said it all with such a calm face, hands folded in his lap, and you nodded in response, chewing on your lip as you stared right at him, focused.  

“Do some research of your own of course, to gain a better understanding of the concept, but essentially, you would have guided experiences with another person the same way you would with a romantic partner, and you would learn how to conduct it in a real-world scenario. Do you understand?” 

“Um, I think so,” you answered quietly, nodding and chewing on your lip with a small frown as you flicked your eyes back up to meet his. “So… I would like… practice kissing with this person?” He hummed and nodded. 

“You could. You would only do what you are comfortable doing, would go only as far as you wish to go. You could stop at hugging or hand-holding if you wished. It’s meant to be a comfortable environment to help you push past the physical elements holding you back.” You nodded again, glancing up at him with wary eyes. 

“Who… would you be… who would… would it be with you?” You finally got out, heart clenching in your chest. He hummed and nodded, then moved his head side to side a little. 

“It could be. While I am trained, I do not conduct it myself often. I haven’t in many years, and you should be aware of that. There are professionals we could find for you if you would prefer to do it with someone else, but I would be comfortable providing that experience for you if you are comfortable to have me do it.” He nodded again and placed his palms on his thighs, moving to stand up as he looked at the clock and realised the time. 

“Ok,” you sighed quietly, standing up as well and moving to put your shoes back on, slinging your bag over your arm and heading for the door. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.” 

“Of course,” he replied kindly, smiling at you as he waited for you to head for the door before reaching out and opening it for you. “I would hope you do. Take all the time you need. I’ll ask again during our next session but do not worry if you have not come to a decision.” 

You nodded once more, smiled kindly at him, then bid him a quick goodbye before hurrying out of the office, popping your headphones into your ears and trying to sort through the million thoughts running through your head. 

Baelor closed the door behind you, gathered up his notebooks and went to sit at his desk. He began typing up the notes he had taken during the session, adding anything he hadn’t thought of before. He paused for a moment, staring off into space. He hoped this would help you. He hoped you would say yes. 

The weather had gotten a bit warmer, so you ditched the jacket for only a t-shirt during the session. You wore one of those pretty white cotton skirts, the tiered ones that everyone had nowadays and you thought sort of looked like a wedding cake, but again, you wanted to take advantage of the warm weather while it lasted. 

You took your shoes off again before walking on his carpet, this time feeling the plushness between your bare toes, and you sat with your legs folded up and tucked beside you, making sure to keep the skirt appropriately covering you. You wrung your hands in your lap, fiddling with the fabric of your skirt, and only looked up at Baelor in short glances. 

Baelor was a little dressed down too, a plain white undershirt peeking out at his chest under a vibrant electric blue button-down, his usual smart trousers in navy and his shiny dress shoes still making an appearance. He sat down with a quiet huff, bringing his notebook to his lap and tapping his pen on it as he smiled at you. 

“You look rather more nervous than usual. Is everything alright?” He watched you carefully but without expectation and without judgement. You nodded quickly, an innate reaction, then paused, chewing on your lip before looking up and meeting his eyes. 

“I- yeah, I’m fine, but it’s just… I think I’ve come to a decision about… what we talked about last time,” you finally broke out, smiling nervously and letting out a pathetic little chuckle. 

“Oh? That’s good to hear. What is it?” He asked, settling a little more comfortably in his seat. 

“I… think I’d like to give it a go. I trust you, and if you think it could help me then I’ll do it. But…” 

“But?” He asked, raising one eyebrow as he watched you look down to the pillow you clutched in your lap again, picking at a thread by the zipper. 

“I want it to be with you,” you mumbled, looking like a shy, scolded, child. You couldn’t meet his eye as you said it, couldn’t face your own decision despite making it. You knew he had said he would, that he felt comfortable doing it, but you didn’t want it to be that he had suddenly decided that he actually wouldn’t do it, and you would be embarrassed for asking. You didn’t want to see any sympathy in his eyes as he decided to let you down gently. 

“Of course,” he answered gently, and when you looked up, he had that small serene smile on again. “Like I said last week, I haven’t done it myself in many years but I would be willing as long as you were comfortable.” You let out a long breath, sighing and smiling again, nodding quickly in response. 

“Yes, yes, I am. Thank you,” you breathed out, smoothing your hands over the pillow in your lap and finally looking at him properly once more. 

“Right, we don’t have to start right away if that was a worry for you. I won’t force you to jump into anything yet. We can just talk some more today, continue with what we discussed before,” he explained, gesturing with his hands and pen. You smiled again, nodding as you breathed deeply to calm any last jitters you had been feeling before. “But I would like to make one change if you are comfortable with that.” You looked at him with wide eyes, blinking slowly as you waited for him to expand, suddenly feeling tense all over again. “Would it be alright if I came and sat on the sofa with you? Just on the other end.” 

“Oh,” you let out, blinking quickly before shifting so you were right on one end of the sofa then glancing at the other end, the spot he wanted to take up. “Yeah, yes, of course, if you want.” 

He smiled kindly at that then stood up. He was tall. You had noticed it before of course, but now you were sitting down, sunken in a little into the plush cushions, and it made him seem even more imposing. He walked over and sat down on the other end of the sofa, relaxed and without worry. You felt it move under you, shift a little with his weight, and you curled up just a tad more, making sure your feet were tucked under your skirt and wouldn’t go near him. He sighed, slumping comfortably into the pillows, and crossed one leg over the other, ensuring he was at an angle so he could still speak facing you. His legs were quite close to you, and if you reached out with your hand you could place it on his knee. It was odd that you wanted to. 

“Is this alright?” He finally asked, eyes flicking all over your face as you swallowed and nodded, your heart pounding a little. 

“Mhm,” you assented, but your voice was a little higher pitched than usual and he could see you clutching the cushion on your lap a little tighter, but he decided not to comment. 

“Does this make you nervous?” 

“A little, yeah,” you whispered, fluttering your eyelashes at him. Baelor felt a pang of something in his chest but chose not to focus on it, looking instead at the way you settled further back into the cushions and watched him in return. 

“What about this makes you nervous?” He asked quietly. 

“I don’t know. You’re just… very close, and I’m worried that I’ll do something wrong.” 

“What could you do wrong if we’re just sitting together?” He asked without an ounce of judgement. It pointed you toward the absurdity of your thoughts without making you feel bad for it. 

“I don’t know. I guess that’s a good point. I don’t know, I guess I feel like I would sit weird or touch you accidentally when you don’t want me to and you would just instantly be repulsed by me.” You spoke quickly, as if suddenly desperate to tell him everything you were thinking, and he hummed and nodded. “Like, if you were the guy I have a crush on, and you came and sat like this, I would be freaking out. I am freaking out.” 

“What would sitting weird do? Or accidentally touching me? What do you think would happen?” He asked gently, tapping his pen against the notebook in his lap. 

“Realistically, nothing. In my crazy head? You would be repulsed by me and never want to come near me ever again and you would tell everyone that and I would die alone.” Baelor raised an eyebrow at you and you pursed your lips, nodding for a moment before sighing and giggling a little, hot with bashfulness. “I know. I know that’s unrealistic.” 

“Good,” was his simple answer. Then he reached down and patted the side of his thigh. “Stretch out your leg, and imagine you’ve accidentally kicked me.” You looked at him, both eyebrows raising. 

“Really?” 

“Yes. Let’s play out the scenario. Reach out and tap my leg as if it was an accident,” he patted the side of his thigh again, face all seriousness, and waited for you to comply. He looked away to give the illusion of this being anywhere outside of a therapist’s office, and waited. 

You reached out, gentle and hesitant, and lightly tapped the side of his thigh with your big toe. It was barely a touch, just enough to be felt, and he reached down and lightly tickled the sole of your foot. You squealed, jumped a little, and instantly curled your foot back into yourself, staring at him with wide eyes as he attempted to hide a smirk behind his hand. 

“Baelor!” You squealed, mouth dropping open as a shocked laugh punched out of you. 

“Is that not something you would have expected to happen?” He asked teasingly, and you giggled freely, perhaps for the first time since he had met you. He watched the way your face lit up, the way you rocked back and forth a little as you laughed. His chest felt warm at the sight. He was happy to see you happy. 

When you finally caught your breath again, you leaned your elbow on the arm of the sofa and rested your cheek in your hand, looking at him from under slightly hooded eyes. “Weirdly effective strategy Mister,” you responded teasingly, and he hummed and nodded, smiling brightly. 

You spoke for a little while. He asked how you were feeling over the past week, if you had seen your guy again, and you told him how you had been a bit busy with work, how you and him had been texting back and forth but you had been hesitant to accept any invitation to meet up. You still felt too nervous. 

“Why don’t we try something else until the end of the session?” Baelor prompted after a moment, putting his pen down and shifting to sit up a little. You nodded, clutching the pillow to you. “Would you like to hold my hand?” He asked, leaning forward to rest his hand palm up on the seat between you. You glanced down to it, swallowing harshly, then nodded. You reached out, hesitant, and placed your palm on top of his. 

His hand was warm, the comforting sort, like the kind of heat that emanated from a hot water bottle. His palm was soft, but he had callouses here and there, like he used his hands for more than just writing. Did he play sports over the weekends? Did he have a manual labour job at some point? Did he do a lot of DIY at home? You wanted to know all of these things all of a sudden, wanted to know how his hands became the way they were the moment you first held them. 

He didn’t say anything, just watched you carefully place your hand in his. Yours was smaller than his, soft in the way that hands became when one was diligent about moisturising them. Gently, he threaded his fingers through yours, turning your joined hands over so his was atop yours, then turning them back over. He caressed the back of your hand with his thumb, slow strokes, and dragged his eyes up your arm then to your face. 

“How does this feel?” He asked quietly, voice hushed to match the new heaviness in the air. 

“Lovely,” you sighed, holding his hand a little tighter. You had gotten used to it far too quickly. You did not want to let go now. It felt safe, right. “I like this. It makes me feel good. Makes me feel… chosen.” 

The two of you sat there together in silence just like that. You held his hand, and he held yours right back. He softly caressed the back of your hand with his fingertips, watching you shiver occasionally at the silky touches, at the teasing little drags. You could not say anything, and he chose not to. You were hit with the sudden urge to lift your hands and kiss his. You wanted it so much you were blindsided by it. The embarrassment at your own feelings burned in your cheeks and you tightened your grip on him as if he could read your mind and would throw you off in an instant. 

The two of you sat like that until the end of the session, absorbed in your own thoughts, softly feeling each other’s palms. When the clock struck the final possible minute, you quickly pulled your hand back, breathing in deeply and looking anywhere but at him. Baelor smiled, soft and kind, and reached over to gently pat you on the back of the shoulder. 

“I’m very proud of you for taking these first steps,” he said simply, fully sincere. He stood and waited for you to pull your sandals on before opening the door for you. You were still hearing his words in your ears, still feeling all warm and mushy inside because he was proud of you. You had made progress, done something scary and made him proud in the process. 

“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly, but your face couldn’t help breaking into a smile. “See you next time.” 

“See you next time,” Baelor waved once then shut the door when you had disappeared around the corner. He was smiling too. 

“Might I hold your hand again?” Baelor asked, slumped comfortably on the other side of the sofa. He had sat there at the start of the session rather than taking up his seat in the armchair, and you were all tucked up on the other side, watching him. 

“Mhm,” you answered softly, reaching out without hesitance this time and threading your fingers through his. This was the third session where he had asked this, and you were beginning to expect it now. You sat a little closer to him than before, bringing his hand to your lap so you could hold it there, fiddle with his fingers and his rings as you spoke. You hadn’t realised how comforting it actually was to be holding his hand during the session, to have that warm presence just there that somehow made it easier to delve into the darkest and saddest parts of your mind. 

It was a couple sessions later when you initiated for the first time. The two of you sat down, and before he could ask, you gently reached out and said, “would you… would you hold my hand?” Baelor smiled, the kind that shined in his eyes too, and he nodded, reaching out and gripping your hand firmly. 

He wore a dark brown, almost maroon, shirt today, with white buttons. It looked soft, thick like a jumper, but you didn’t think it was wool. You wanted to feel it. Another thought you batted away quickly. 

“Have you become more comfortable with this action, do you think?” He asked, caressing your hand gently with his thumb as he readied his pen to write on his notebook atop his leg. 

“Yeah, I think so. It doesn’t feel so daunting now that I’ve done it,” you answered honestly, smiling shyly at him. 

“That’s good to hear,” he responded, “I’m proud of you for taking initiative.” You beamed again, body alight with the praise, then he slowly unthreaded his fingers from yours and put his notebook and pen onto the table beside the sofa on his side. “Why don’t we move it along again? Why don’t you come and sit right here?” He patted the spot directly beside him, “Right by me.” 

You gulped and nodded, swift and shaky, then slowly began shuffling over the sofa seats. He was smiling softly, encouragingly, and you moved until the side of your thigh pressed to his and you could feel the warmth of his body gently emanating against your side. Your breaths were shallow, too light in your chest, and you attempted to focus on anything but how nervous you felt. 

You could smell his cologne, something cool scented that you enjoyed, that inadvertently soothed you. You kept your arms tucked close to you, your hands clasped tightly together and pressed to your stomach. He was looking down at you, watching you situate yourself back against the sofa, and then he carefully raised up his arm and lay it along the back of the sofa behind you. 

“Would you be alright with me wrapping my arm over you?” He asked then, his voice almost a whisper, and you turned to look up at him. You could see the peppering of white in his beard closer here, could see the occasional little freckle on his skin and the flecks in his eyes that added so much dimension and beauty to them. You nodded because your throat was too thick for words. He nodded in return before moving his arm to come rest along your shoulders, his hand curling around your upper arm lightly. 

His arm was a little heavy, but it was the comforting sort, the kind of weight that made everything feel real and secure. He tucked you up close to him, bringing you in even further so your shoulder pressed into his ribs under his arm and you were practically leaning your entire body into his side. 

You were hesitant to allow it, worried you would somehow make him uncomfortable or put him off, but he seemed determined to tuck you against him, to wrap his arm tight and snuggle you into his side. You brought your legs up, bending them and tucking them against you on the other side to where he sat, and it leaned you even further into him. He hummed a little and you felt the rumble in his chest, the transfer of it into you. 

You breathed slowly, sucking in lungfuls of his cologne, shivering into his warmth. You wondered if he ran hot. He must do with how warm he was. You brought up the hand not tucked against him and carefully splayed it onto his chest, a bold move but one that felt right despite the tremble in your arm. You tipped your head back a little so you could look up at him, and he pressed his chin down to ensure your gazes met. 

“Is this alright?” You whispered, allowing your hand to spread over the soft material of his shirt just above his heart. He nodded, the smallest motion. 

“Of course,” he answered kindly, voice as low as yours, then his free hand came up and began caressing your hair. You hummed softly with pleasure, your eyes fluttering a little. His hand was big and his fingers were careful, threading through your hair and caressing along your scalp. You shivered, full body, and he felt it, smiling a little to himself at the way you began snuggling a little further into him, your limbs beginning to fully relax. You allowed your head to rest against the place where his shoulder joined his chest, your cheek pressing into the material of his shirt and the thick muscle there. Your eyes had closed now and you just rested there in his arms. Eventually he rested his cheek on top of your head, taking soft breaths that ruffled your hair a little. He smelt your shampoo, the lovely scent of it, and allowed his own eyes to be closed. 

“How does this feel?” He asked, the smallest whisper, and you only hummed in response at first, far too busy enjoying the closeness, the softness and the warmth of being in his arms. 

“Really good,” you finally breathed out. “I could fall asleep right here.” He chuckled, low and soft and the motion of it in his body moved through you too, like a baby being gently rocked. 

Then Baelor lifted his head a little before leaning down so he was a bit closer to your face and said, “would you like to sit on my lap?” 

He felt you tense against him, threaded through with steel all over again. He felt you shift back, sit up a little so you weren’t as cradled against him, and your hair brushed against his chin as you tipped your head back, muttering a quiet, “what…”. 

“You can refuse if you do not wish to. I don’t want to push you farther than you are ready for. But if you would like, then why don’t you try sitting in my lap for a little while.” He had that soft patient look in his eyes again, the one that showed gentleness, care, trust, and not one ounce of expectation or judgement. You sometimes wish you could take that look from his eyes and wrap it around yourself like a safety blanket, carrying it with you everywhere you go. 

You chewed on your lip a little, instinctively fiddling with the fingers on his hand, twisting his rings around as you mumbled, “are you sure? I… I might be too heavy.” Baelor’s face softened even further at that, and he gently caressed the back of your shoulder, a warm and comforting pet. 

“Well, why don’t you sit on my lap and we’ll find out? If you are, I’ll tell you.” He paused then, stopping his comforting caress, and he gently brought his hand around to nudge the underside of your chin until you were looking up into his eyes. “Even if you are, that is not a judgement on anything. It does not somehow take away from you, nor signify anything about you. You remain a beautiful young woman.” He could see your eyes go glassy, the way you chewed on your lower lip as it naturally began to pout a little more with your tears. You breathed shakily and nodded hesitantly, shifting forward to get on your knees. 

Baelor placed one hand carefully on your waist, shifting towards where you had sat before to give you a bit more space to bring your knee over. You slotted it into the space between his thigh and the arm of the sofa. When you were straddling him, both his hands spanning on either side of your waist, he looked up at you. You looked concerned, chewing on your lip, a furrow to your brow. Your hands had naturally come to rest on his shoulders, your fingers clutching the strong muscles there a little tightly. You could tell he worked out even through the shirt. 

“Just sit back on my knees for now, hm?” He prompted quietly, watching you nod quickly then rest yourself down onto his thighs. He resisted the urge to caress up your body, to run his hands over your sides and cup your face the way he would do a lover. You licked your lips and glanced up at his face, the worry clear in your eyes. “Is this alright?” 

“Yes,” you breathed out quickly, hurriedly, as if to appease him, and he just raised an eyebrow while waiting for your real response. “It is, I promise. I’m just nervous. I don’t want to do anything wrong.” He nodded, caressing his thumb back and forth over your waist. Your mind honed in on the motion. You prayed he would never stop. 

“What could you do wrong?” He asked, so similar to all those sessions ago, and you almost smiled. Actually, you did, just a little one. 

“Not sure, knee you in the groin?” He chuckled at that, squeezing your waist a little, and shook his head. 

“Hm, realistic, but as long as you try not to, then I think we’re safe. And even if you do, then I’ll know it was an accident, and it won’t change anything. Right?” He nudged, nodding as if to guide your answer. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” 

“Good. It’s alright to be nervous,” he continued, tilting his head back to look into your eyes. “Even in a real situation, many people are nervous when conducting actions like that. It’s perfectly normal. But communication and trust are very important, and the more experiences you have with your partner, the more comfortable you’ll become.” You nodded, blinking quickly as you met his eyes and the small smile he offered you again. 

“Can… Can I hug you?” You asked hesitantly, feeling hot with bashfulness. Why in the world were you so nervous just to ask for things? You wanted to berate yourself, to swallow the words back, but when his smile brightened, as if he was proud of you for taking the initiative again, your brain instantly quieted. 

“Of course, come here,” he slid his hands around to your back, waiting for you to lean forward and tuck yourself against his chest. You shuffled your hips down a little then snuggled up against his chest, fluttering your eyes shut as you took long slow breaths. You tucked your face into the side of his neck, wrapping your arms over his shoulders and pressing yourself right against him. 

You loved everything about this moment. If you were to die now, you could be sure you at least died happy. He was so lovely and warm. Truly, like having the heating on in winter, cozy and soft and… perfect. His smell was lovely too, his cologne something cool-scented. You imagined if water had a smell, that’s what it would be like, clean and smooth. He was strong and muscular, a firm presence under you. His thighs and hips forced your own open wide, and his stomach, chest, shoulders, were all expansive and perfect for you to find refuge in. The place where you tucked your face now, the soft stretch of his neck, was warm and his cologne was stronger there, probably sprayed there just before he left this morning. 

You could feel his beard brush against your ear when you shifted, and you couldn’t help yourself from letting out a little sigh of pleasure. You snuggled a little further into him, eyes fluttering a little but remaining closed as you somehow relaxed even further into his grip. Baelor ran a palm up your back, gently caressing you along your spine, his large hand spanning far. He sighed too, the soft breath rustling through your hair, and allowed himself to rest his cheek against the side of your head comfortably. 

“Mmm, this is nice, isn’t it?” He said quietly, and you gave a small nod, humming softly again. “While I do not claim to speak for all men, I cannot imagine that many would complain at having the comforting weight of a pretty young woman on their lap.” 

You felt your entire body go hot. The flush crept through you, pulsing in your stomach and core, then gently reaching its warmth into your legs and arms, all the way up to your cheeks and ears and down into your toes. You held onto him a little tighter, swallowing down the whimper that wanted to tremble out of you. Hearing him call you pretty might be everything you needed in your life and more. 

The two of you sat like that for a long while, just enjoying your shared warmth and softness. He would occasionally murmur something in your ear, something to speak about or something to remember if this ever comes up in a relationship. The two of you would shift sometimes, just to get a little more comfortable, but it was relatively still and silent. 

When the session was nearing its end, he rubbed his hand up and down your back again and murmured, “you’re a good girl. I’m proud of you for taking these steps for yourself.” Your hands clenched into his shirt, your entire body feeling ready to tremble. Your legs tightened around him, a strong pulse clenching in your core. You felt it searing your insides, in your chest and right through to your nipples. This time a breathy sound left your lips, like a strong exhale, and you were instantly filled with embarrassment at it, curling in on yourself even further. 

But Baelor didn’t say anything, just paused his rubbing and pressed his palm a little harder into your back. You pulled back a little, suddenly feeling too hot, and you blinked quickly at him, your eyes still a little dazed and lost. Your lips were parted, and his own were open just so, soft but quick breaths falling from him. You looked right into his eyes, trembling properly now. His hand came up, caressing over your shoulder, his fingers grazing your neck before he cupped your cheek. His thumb stroked over the side of your face, along your cheekbone and just grazed the corner of your mouth. His fingers were threaded through your hair, splayed along your scalp, and you felt engulfed by him, totally in his control. 

You licked your lips, the quickest flick of your tongue. You would have kissed him if you had any confidence. He watched the motion, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes. He would have kissed you if he had any less propriety and control. 

The ticking of the clock signifying the end of session pulled you both out of whatever trance you had fallen into. He glanced in its direction, head tilting to the side and giving you a lovely view of his jaw, and you quickly slid off his lap, falling back onto the sofa beside him before standing and beginning to smooth out your hair and clothes. You felt like you had been caught doing something wrong. You weren’t quite sure why. 

Baelor cleared his throat a little, smoothed his hands down his thighs then stood as well, gathering up his notebook and pen from the table beside the sofa and holding it close to himself. He smiled at you, attempting a comforting look, though it came out a little strained. 

“I would usually sit and debrief with you for a bit but I’m afraid we got a bit distracted. We’ll continue next time, alright?” He asked kindly, watching you nod hurriedly, a bit of a panicked look in your eyes. You had pulled your shoes on again and were clutching the strap of your bag tightly. “Y/n,” he called to you, gathering your attention once more. He reached out and gently patted the back of your shoulder, his smile a little softer now. “Well done.” 

You smiled in return, taking a deep breath and nodding. You looked into his eyes once more, blue and brown, but both soft and comforting. One look there and you could feel your entire chest become smooth and soft and relaxed. You nodded once more and headed out the door, knowing you would be thinking about that moment for a long time to come. 

“I didn’t feel very good yesterday,” you murmured to Baelor, chewing on your lip as you sat curled up in your corner of the sofa. He sat on the other end again, one leg crossed over the other, slouched down as he usually was, notebook on his lap and pen scrawling away. 

When you had entered that day, he could tell you needed to speak. He didn’t attempt to initiate anything, just smiled and gestured for you to sit then sat down himself and waited. You were wearing jogger bottoms and a hoodie today, grey and black, far more colourless than you would usually be. You had toed off your shoes and curled yourself up into the corner of the sofa, barely even looking at him. 

“How are you?” He had asked once you had both settled in, voice quiet and silky in your ear, and you had shrugged at first. 

“I didn’t feel very good yesterday is all,” you murmured, like it was nothing, but he nodded without saying a word. After a moment of silence, you continued. “Some of my friends were going to the beach and I was just feeling like crap about myself. I was so scared of having to wear a swimsuit, of having to be so open with my body that I couldn’t… I didn’t even go.” You shook your head and brought your knees up close to you, chewing lightly at your fingernail and keeping your eyes focused on the floor. You curled your arms around your shins and just kept yourself tucked up, safe, hidden. 

Baelor watched you carefully, the picture of despair before him made his chest hurt. He wanted to reach out and pet your head again, to grip your chin and force you to meet his eyes, to kiss lightly at your face and- no. No he didn’t want to do any of that. He knew that just telling someone they were beautiful didn’t necessarily do anything. You need to learn to believe it yourself. 

“I don’t know, it feels worse somehow. I thought I was doing better. That insecurity hasn’t been that bad in a while. I’ve been swimming and to the beach, but… I don’t know. Yesterday I just felt horrible and I couldn’t… could barely look at myself in the mirror.” 

Baelor placed his pen down and moved to put the notebook on the table beside the sofa. His chest felt a little too tight, and he took a moment to breathe before sitting up properly and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He looked at you for a long while, waiting for your face to smooth out from the pained expression and for you to open your eyes to look at him again. 

“Before I tell you anything else, I want you to know I only see a beautiful person in front of me. Inside and out.” His voice was quiet but full of conviction, and you felt it right in your chest. You blinked quickly, the tears overflowing, wet streaks down your cheeks. You nodded quickly, the hot lump in your throat rendering you incapable of speech, and swiped haphazardly at your cheeks and eyes. You opened your mouth as if to say something then shut it again, pursing your lips and licking your tears off them. 

Baelor took the box of tissues and placed it between you, nudging it gently in your direction. You nodded in thanks and quickly grabbed one to dab at your face and eyes. Baelor cleared his throat and leaned back into his seat once more. 

“I have some homework for you,” he began quietly once more when you looked a bit more settled and your breaths did not rattle through you. 

“Ok,” you whispered, nodding and looking at him with wide, innocent, eyes. 

“I want you to think of at least three things you like about yourself. Real things, things that you can see in yourself. And I want you to tell yourself about those things. Say that you like those things about yourself, at least once every morning and evening until our next session. Alright?” His eyes were firm again, his mouth set in a straight line, and he waited to see you nod before going on. You were hesitant, chewing on your lip and tugging on the strings of your hoodie, but you did eventually nod, glancing up at him in quick little flicks.

“Right, good. I have more though,” he continued, and you smiled a little to yourself. Of course he wouldn’t let it be that easy. “I want you to take some time in the evening, whether it be tonight or tomorrow, to strip down naked, and look at yourself in the mirror.”

You reared back a little, snapping your head to the side to stare at him with wide eyes. His expression did not change save for the slightest raise of his eyebrows. You spluttered a little, curling your hands close to your chest. 

“I don’t think I can do that,” you told him quickly, shaking your head and chewing on your lip again. 

“You can, and you will,” he affirmed, and his tone left no room for argument. You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him you truly couldn’t, but he shot you one look, hard and steely, and you snapped your lips closed once more. You were sure that with that look he could make the entire world listen to what he had to say. So you bit your lip and nodded, and he nodded in return. “Good.” 

You wore a pretty dress this time. Baelor felt… bowled over by it. He had not seen you in a dress yet. Though it did not show on his face, at least he hoped it didn’t, he felt his breath catch in his throat a little. Your hair was mostly loose, a cascade over your shoulders, a few strands from the front pulled back to keep it clear of your face. You looked better than last time, healthier, smilier. You wore something of soft cotton or linen, a wonderful pastel butter yellow, soft and beautiful on your skin. It was a simple summer dress, something pretty and easy to run errands in, and you wore matching ankle socks which made him smile. 

“How are you today?” He asked, resting his arm casually along the back of the sofa. 

He wore a plain white shirt under a black cardigan today, simple and soft. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows giving you a wonderful view of his strong forearms. You felt like a demure Victorian maiden getting hot at the sight of them. 

“Good. Really good. I went out for dinner with him a couple nights ago,” you told Baelor with a bright smile, hiding it a little behind your hand. He smiled too, nodding happily at your pure joy. It was lovely to see again. “And, you know what, if you tell yourself something enough times, you start believing it.” 

“Ah, so you’ve been following through on your homework. That’s good to hear,” he perked up at that, picking up his pen once more and writing something in his notebook swiftly without even looking down at the paper. 

“Mostly,” you told him hesitantly, looking a little embarrassed once more. You fiddled with a strand of your own hair, curling it around your finger and tugging on it gently. 

“Mostly?” He prompted, raising one eyebrow in question. 

“I’ve been doing what you said, picking out three things that I like about myself and telling myself that I like them every night. It’s been good. But…” you cleared your throat then, looking down at your lap as you mumbled, “I couldn’t get myself to do the other thing.” He paused, nodded once, wrote something in his notebook then looked at you again. 

“Did you attempt it?” He asked. 

“Sort of,” you nodded, “I stood in front of the mirror. And I looked at myself. I couldn’t… I couldn’t get naked. And I felt like crying every time I tried to say the words. I did eventually. But I couldn’t look at myself for very long.” You kept your head bowed, staring at your own lap rather than at him. You didn’t want to see his disappointment. You didn’t want to see his brow furrowed, his head shaking, a tut falling from his lips. He of course did none of those things. 

“That’s alright,” he finally spoke, his voice quiet and comforting. He offered you a small smile when you glanced up to his face. “It’s a good start, I’d say.” You nodded in response but found you had nothing else to say. 

Baelor stood up and walked over to the wall of windows. You followed him with your eyes, frowning a little when you noticed the thing he walked toward. It leaned against the wall but was covered in a brown cloth, and when he whipped it off, you realised it was a full length standing mirror. He brought it over to the open space between the windows and his armchair, standing it securely before turning to you. 

“Come,” he beckoned, waving you over with one hand as the other sat comfortably in his pocket. You gaped at him, standing only because your body innately followed his orders. You padded over to him, hands sliding into the pockets over your dress and clenching into fists there to stop the trembling in your limbs. Despite your wariness, you still stood close to him, your arm brushing against his. You were careful not to tuck any closer despite how much you wanted to. 

Baelor walked behind you, carefully placing his hands on your upper arms. His palms were warm and dry against your skin. He looked into your eyes in the mirror, waiting for you to nod to say you were comfortable before continuing. He walked you forward until you were in the centre of the mirror, reaching around to nudge your chin slightly to make sure you kept your head up and your eyes on the reflection. Your face felt too hot. Then he let go of you, not stepping back but not holding on either. The smell of his cologne stayed in your nostrils though, something hot and a little spicy today. 

“Right, look at yourself,” he guided quietly. He watched on carefully, making sure you followed his instructions. He watched you peruse your eyes up and down yourself, something hesitant and a little pained in them. “Good,” he whispered, before carefully dragging his fingertips down your arms. You felt them touch the curves of your elbows, felt the whisper of them on your forearms, and you shivered. He grasped your wrists and pulled your hands from your pockets, placing them at your sides before removing his grip and putting his own hands into his pockets. 

“I want you to look yourself in the eye, and I want you to say, ‘I am beautiful’. Can you do that?” He was patient, so so patient, you thought, and you wanted to do this for him. He probably would have told you to do it for yourself if you had voiced the thought, but you felt it anyway. You gulped, a harsh movement in your throat, and nodded. You met your own gaze in the mirror and trembling said, “I am beautiful.” 

Your voice came out a whisper, hesitant and stilted, but the words were out in the air now. You glanced up in the mirror and he was nodding, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes, and you wanted to bathe in it. 

“Wonderful,” he murmured, “once more.” 

“I am beautiful.” Your voice was more confident now, more firm, and you even nodded a little, standing up straighter. Perhaps if you pretended it was true, it might feel like it. Again he nodded, pacing a little behind you. 

“If you feel comfortable, and only if, you could try taking off your dress,” he broached. He stood just behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. You couldn’t feel him per se, just his presence at your shoulder, and you blinked quickly up at his reflection. You wrung your hands together, looking down as you contemplated it. You could do it. You knew you could. You could. 

You glanced up again, nodded, then reached back to grasp at your zipper. Your fingers were a little clumsy, slipping off the small thing, but eventually you managed to grasp on with a blush burning in your cheeks and pulled it down. You slid your arms out of the off-the-shoulder straps and then pushed the dress down until it fell at your feet. 

Your eyes were clenched shut. You couldn’t look in the mirror knowing he was looking at you. You didn’t want to see anything akin to disappointment, to disgust and repulsion, on his face. You did not want to see pity, to see that look that said, “oh poor thing. No wonder no one wants her.” 

You shivered a little at the cool air and crossed your arms tightly over yourself. You were wearing a pair of skin-coloured safety shorts, and your favourite go-to bra. You were not naked, but you felt it. Your breaths shook through you. 

“Will you open your eyes?” Baelor whispered, and you felt him closer now, this gentle warmth at your back. You wanted to shake your head. You wanted to tell him no, that you could not, that you would put your dress back on and sit on the sofa and cry as much as you wanted. But you didn’t. You nodded, and carefully pried your eyes open. 

You looked at his reflection before your own, and he was… he was smiling. His face was open, bright, proud. His eyes crinkled at the corners and his smile was breathtaking. You wanted to hug him. Rather, you wanted him to hug you, to wrap you up in his arms and tell you you were safe and beautiful and everything was going to be alright. 

You shivered once more then looked at yourself. You ran your eyes down your neck, over the slopes of your shoulders and arms. You looked at your bra straps and the cups holding onto your chest, the expanse of your stomach and thighs, the waistband of your shorts and the crinkles of your knees. You looked over it all, and before he could prompt you, you swallowed and murmured, “I am beautiful.” 

He sucked in a breath and nodded, whispering a “good” as you chewed on your lip and nodded too, the tears filling your eyes. Your face crumpled, and you felt a bit stuck. You could not look away, but you wanted to. You could not believe the words you had said, but oh how you wanted to. 

Baelor stood just behind you, this young woman who could not see what he saw, and he felt this desperate sense of urgency inside of him. He wanted to hold your face in his hands, to curl you close and look into your eyes and tell you how beautiful you were. He wanted to whisper it right into your brain, to say it right to the source, to press it into your mind so you were forced to believe him. His breath was too thick in his chest as he looked at the tear tracks begin to shine on your cheeks. He… he wanted to kiss you. Yes, he wanted to turn you around, to wrap his arm around your back and hoist you to him, to cup your cheek and kiss you until you were breathless, until he was breathless. 

Baelor blinked quickly, rubbing a hand over his mouth and looking away. No, he did not want those things. He did not want those things because wanting them was wrong, was unprofessional, was inappropriate, was unethical. You trusted him. You came to him for help and guidance, and he could not want that without betraying everything else. He should… he should separate from this. He should tell you that this could no longer continue, that he was too emotionally invested and it was not healthy for either of you. He should refer you to someone, perhaps pass you along to Rowan in the offices near Ashford or that new therapist from Lys. He should… he should let you g- 

You turned away from the mirror, your hands clutched tight to your chest. Your face had well and truly crumpled now, and you were shaking with your sobs. Without a word, you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his torso and pressing your face to his chest. You cried into the warm shirt there, eyes shut as you shook with your tears. He shushed you gently, his own pain at the sight clenching in his chest. He instantly wrapped his arms around you, bands over your back and shoulders. He tucked you close, his voice whispering softly against the top of your head, his lips pressing gently to your hair. 

“It’s alright,” he soothed, “it’s alright.” You trembled in his grip. “Well done, darling. I’m very proud of you. Well done.” 

Baelor held you tight and continued murmuring softly to you, rubbing one hand up and down your spine as the other kept you tucked up against him. He rested his head against yours softly, feeling you slowly quiet down, allowing his own heart to settle with yours. But when he glanced back up, when he met his own eyes in the mirror behind you, he only saw himself on the edge of a precipice, teetering far too close to the edge, only the gentlest push away from falling off… 

You were sitting in his lap again, sideways on this time, leaning back against the arm of the sofa. You wore a white tank top and a pair of flowy black linen trousers, your fingers fiddling with the drawstrings. 

“Is kissing really that good?” You asked quietly, your shoulders curled in a little. He rested one arm over your knees and caressed the outer side of your leg just so, his thumb running back and forth on your thigh. 

“What do you mean?” He asked, brows furrowing a little as he turned to look at your face. 

“I mean like… is it really that good? People are always making out and stuff… is it really that nice?” You chewed on your lip as you looked up at him, truly seeking an honest answer, and he smiled and nodded. 

“Kissing can be wonderful. Done right, it can be extremely pleasurable,” he informed you, not stopping in his caresses. You nodded, still chewing on your lip, and he waited patiently for whatever it was you clearly wanted to say. 

“The guy I’ve been seeing… he tried to kiss me last night.” You finally blurted it out, looking up at him with wide worried eyes. “We were on his sofa watching a film, and it was really nice. We even cuddled for a bit, and I felt… I felt so good. We were talking about something that happened in the movie, and he was smiling and looking at me, and then he started leaning in, and I just- I panicked, and I turned my head so he kissed my cheek. Then I pretended like I thought that was what he meant to do and just sort of cooed about how sweet he was. I kissed his cheek in return and like ten minutes later I made some pathetic excuse to leave and ran.” You groaned loudly and pressed your face into your hands, shaking your head in despair. “I can’t believe I did that. I must look so crazy and pathetic to him. For the first time in my life I have a guy who actually wants to kiss me and I can’t even do it.” 

“Sh, do not say things like that. We do not call ourselves mean things in this office, hm?” He nudged quickly, grasping one of your wrists and tugging your hand down so he could look at your face. You kept the other hand up for a moment before dropping it too and meeting his eyes. You nodded but didn’t take back your words and he sighed. “There is nothing wrong with what you did. It may have been better for you to communicate openly, to tell him that you weren’t comfortable, or perhaps you didn’t know what you were doing, but there is nothing wrong with avoiding a situation you did not feel ready for. I do not want to hear you berate yourself for it any further.” 

You nodded, sighing and allowing your shoulders to slump a little as you relaxed back against the arm of the sofa. You returned to fiddling with your drawstrings, glancing back up to Baelor’s face every now again. 

“I’m just scared I’ll fuck it up. I have zero clue on what to do. Like, zero.” You looked him right in the eye as you said it, nodding your head as if to emphasise the point. “I know you put your mouths together but after that… nothing.” Baelor hummed in acknowledgment and turned back to you. His notebook and pen were on his other side, carefully out of your view, and he put his pen down once more. He looked up at you, smoothing a hand over your knee as he said, 

“Would you like to practice?”

You blinked quickly, excitement surging in your chest. You bit your lip, hands tightening into fists as your insides began to flutter. Perhaps it was stupid and manipulative, desperate and naive, to have wished for this. You had wanted him to suggest this, had wanted him to want to teach you. You trusted him more than anyone, you had quickly realised, and the evening before had cemented it. You could only tell him these things, could only hope that he would help you with these things. 

“Yes please,” you whispered, the smallest smile on your face as you reached out and softly traced the collar of his shirt. He was wearing another button-up, this one in pale blue, and it was impossibly smooth under your hands. 

“Right, why don’t you straddle me again, like before, hm?” He prompted, shifting a little as you nodded and moved off. You stood just in front of him, your knees brushing his, and you looked down on him. His head tilted back to meet your eyes, and one of his hands automatically came up to rest on your hip. Your breath hitched a little in your throat, that simple touch searing, and you felt everything inside you tighten. 

Baelor’s eyes drifted down over your body as you moved forward, bringing your knee up and into the space between his thigh and the sofa. His eyes traced down over your breasts, heaving a little with your quick breaths. Your nipples had hardened, and he could see them poking out through your bra and the thin tanktop. His mouth watered. He wanted to lean forward and press his mouth right there, to close his eyes and focus on the sounds that you may let out. 

He gulped harshly, forcing his eyes away, and ran his hand down the side of your leg as you brought the other up and settled down on his lap. You sighed softly, running your hands along his shoulders, back and forth, before finally settling them on either side of his neck. You looked right at him now, not bashful little glances but an unabashed stare that traced over his salt and pepper beard, over the strong bridge of his nose, the small freckles that decorated his skin like kisses from the sun. You wanted to kiss each one, to press your mouth more places than just his lips. 

His eyes were bright, colourful, and you looked right into them as you leaned a little closer, moving purely on instinct. His palms traced up your sides, one settling on your hip, the other continuing up and to your neck, then cupping the side of your jaw. You gasped, his grip was firm and tipped your head back just a little. His lips parted as he flicked his eyes down to your mouth. Your fingertips traversed up from his collar and gently touched the warm skin of his neck, the lightest trace, and he shivered a little. You felt it through you, in the places where your thighs touched his ribs, and you sighed breathily, leaning in even closer until your chest touched his and the tip of your nose whispered against his. 

“Will you kiss me, please?” You asked, your voice barely a breath. You were trembling in his grip, and he let go of your hip to wrap his arm around your waist and hoist you even closer, until your core pressed right into his stomach. A small gasp left you. You felt hot all over, tingles turning to flurries in your stomach and chest. He was firm there, and you tilted your hips a little to press your core even harder there. 

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, and you felt the barest hint of his lips against yours. You breathed shakily again, a small sound falling from your mouth, and his arm around you tightened, his grip on your face became firmer, and as your eyelids fluttered shut, he fully pressed his mouth to yours. 

You hadn’t expected to be so… aware. You could feel everything. The tip of his nose pressed into the crease of your cheek. His face was warm and you could feel it against your own skin. You could feel his lashes brush the high points of your cheeks. His hands were searing on your body, somehow hotter now that his mouth had joined yours. His lips were wet, hot, moving gently against yours, coaxing your mouth in small suctioning motions. His beard was rough against your face, ticklish at your chin and cheeks and upper lip, and you almost felt overstimulated by it, torn between pulling away to make it stop and pressing harder into it. You chose the latter. 

A small moan left your mouth and Baelor groaned a little, the sound rumbling through you and triggering another little sigh. Your fingers curled at the nap of his neck, clenching a little in his hair. Your body rolled a little against him, your breasts pressing into his chest and your nipples rubbing into the fabric of your bra. Baelor’s hand slid further back and into the hair at the base of your neck, his fingers clenching a little as a high pitched sound left your mouth. 

He pulled back for a second, not far, just enough for him to be able to push back in again, a little more hurried, a little more fervent. He coaxed your mouth open with his lips, and you gasped, twitching against him at the feeling of his tongue slowly licking into you. Your nails pressed into his scalp, scraping there, and he shivered, groaning harshly into your mouth. 

You pulled back quickly, huffing and heaving in his lap. Your eyes fluttered but you didn’t want to open them fully just yet. You were… overwhelmed. Your heart raced and your hands trembled and you so desperately wanted to dive back in again, to taste his mouth until you died from lack of oxygen. He tasted like the green Extra gum, sweet spearmint, and you hoped you tasted half as good to him in return. 

Baelor looked at you with heavy eyes. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He felt… wild. Yes, that was the word. He felt like a wild animal. He wanted to grasp you by the back of your neck and pull you in again, to devour your mouth, to lick your tongue like a lion with a kill. He wanted to thrust his hands under your shirt and feel along your skin, warm and smooth and simply perfect under his palms. He wanted to know the weight of your breasts, to feel the ripple of your arse against him. He wanted to know how soft the skin of your inner thighs was and how wet your core could get. He wanted to run his fingers there, to press against your clit until you shook. He wanted to taste everything. 

“That was…” you panted, eyes shining and sparkling. He had never seen your eyes like that. They were full of wonder and joy and made him want to kiss you again. 

“That was very good,” he finally broke out, licking his lips and nodding, attempting to recapture a professional tone as he looked up at you. You shifted on his lap, not back or forward, just pressing down a little, and his breath hitched. He hoped you couldn’t feel the situation brewing… 

“Yeah,” you sighed, blinking slowly but still looking into his eyes. “Yeah, it-it felt good.” 

“Kissing can be quite instinctual sometimes,” he told you softly, allowing himself to relax into the sofa as you softened in his arms and nodded, brushing your nose against his without thinking. He caressed your cheek with his thumb, feeling the soft skin there. “You follow each other, listen to what seems to pleasure the other person. It is give and take.” You nodded again, glancing between his eyes and his mouth. Now that you had caught your breath, you wanted to kiss him again.

“Can we do it again?” you asked quickly, heat burning under your skin as you bit your lip and curled in on yourself a little. 

“Yes,” Baelor sighed out just as hurriedly, and then he was leaning in once more. 

Baelor sipped slowly from the crystal glass, his eyes unfocused where he looked out of the windows. He had pulled the curtains back after you left from another session, as if a vampire punishing himself with the sun. But the view was lovely at sunset, and he needed something to look at as he contemplated. He did not usually indulge at the office, but it had seemed necessary and the decanter was calling his name. 

The clinks were satisfying, the stopper, the pour, the stopper again. It was a lovely amber in the glass, expensive even in its colour, and it slipped down his throat like water, hot and smooth. He drank the first glass quickly, one throw back, but was now savouring the second. He rested his elbows on the desk, slumped forward a little as he thought back to your session. 

He was getting far too used to you crawling over to him now, to your sweet eyes as you batted your lashes at him and asked if you could sit in his lap again. He should have started saying no to you. He should have started building that separation back up again. You said you felt comfortable in his lap now, that you really liked it, it made you feel safe and honest. He should have stopped it right then when you had carefully admitted that in a whisper against his neck as you snuggled into him. He should not have wrapped his arms around you and hugged you a little tighter. He should not have pressed his mouth to your hair in a silent kiss and allowed his eyes to flutter shut. 

You were becoming too close, too dependent, and it would not do. It was his duty as a professional to stop this at once and pull away, to refer you to someone else. Not just because you were too dependent, but because his own mind was straying. He looked at you sometimes and found it impossible not to smile. He felt things in his chest that he should not have been feeling as an objective professional. His hands were always tight with the need to reach out and touch you. His lips were always tingling with the need to kiss you. 

Baelor sighed, clenched his eyes shut, and shook his head. He took another long sip from the glass, rubbing a hand over his face. He was not viewing you as a client anymore, and that was the most dangerous part of it all. 

He thought back to the session earlier, to your face, the way your eyes lit up as you spoke about this man you were seeing. 

“It’s been really good, Baelor! Really! We went out for dinner the other night, and he held my hand, and we went for a stroll after and he wrapped his arm around me and I didn’t even flinch. And… and he even kissed me goodbye. It was small and soft but it was a real kiss!” You giggled then, clenching your hand in the lapel of his blazer as you told him all the news excitedly. How odd that he should be happy and sad hearing this at the same time. Your excitement was beautiful, infectious, and he felt proud that you had come so far since your sessions began. He felt proud at having had even the smallest part in building your confidence. But he also felt shamefully jealous of this man, whoever he was, and how he got to do all these things with you. 

“That’s wonderful news,” he had told you, softly caressing a strand of your hair, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Yeah… yeah it is,” and you smiled so brightly, giggling a little with your giddiness, and it took an otherworldly sort of strength to stop him from leaning in and kissing you. “I think things are getting serious. I can’t really believe it but… he likes me. Like, he really likes me. I guess I never thought it would happen.” Tears had gathered in your eyes and he had simply held you as you cried, daintily wiping one from your cheek before you pressed your face to his neck again and sighed softly. 

There were a million things he had wanted to say in that moment. He had wanted to tell you that you deserved all the love there was to be given. He had wanted to say that he believed it, that he believed everyone was in love with you, because how could they not be? He had wanted to tell you that… that he loved you. 

Baelor clenched his eyes shut again and drank what remained of his glass before gulping down another. He picked up his pen and quickly wrote at the bottom of the page, “SEND FOR REFERRAL”. He underlined it three times, then slammed the notebook shut. 

You were wearing a red dress. Perhaps it was to torture Baelor, a punishment for not following through and referring you on to another therapist. It was another summer dress, vibrantly red, softly flowing around your shins. You seemed to favour off the shoulder straps, this one having lovely puffy and ruched short sleeves, and he could almost imagine the dress sliding down your body, piling on the floor at your feet. 

You were back to your old positions, you curled up in the corner of the sofa, and him in his armchair, attempting some form of separation lest he get too lost again. But this felt worse somehow, because now he had a clear view of you. He could see your ankles and smooth shins where the dress had ridden up. He could see the goosebumps on your arms and the place where your earring was stuck in your hair. And he could see the way you chewed at your lip, looking at him nervously as if there was something on the tip of your tongue that you were attempting to gather the courage to say. 

“I-” you began, then swiftly stopped. You glanced up at him and then shook your head, bringing your hand up and chewing at the side of your finger. “Nothing,” you murmured, waving your other hand in the air and looking back down to the floor. 

Baelor put his pen down and cleared his throat, waiting until you were looking at him before raising his eyebrows to prompt you into speaking. It was that look, the expectant one, the one that would have even the most disciplined of monks crumbling in their vows of silence. 

“Stop looking at me like that, it makes me want to tell you everything,” you grumbled, scowling a little. Baelor chuckled, shaking his head and sliding his hand over his mouth before resting it there, leaning into it on the arm of his chair as he watched you. 

“You should attempt to do so then,” he answered wryly, raising his eyebrow again as he waited for you to finally become forthcoming during this session. 

“Why are you sitting over there again?” You asked instead, looking back to the spot he usually took up then back to him. He paused a moment, jaw clenching for the smallest second (though hidden well behind the cover of his beard).  

“So I can see you better,” he finally answered, shrugging as if it meant nothing. You nodded, earnest, and he felt a twinge of guilt for the lie. Then you snorted a chuckle. 

“You know what? That makes you sound like the wolf from red riding hood,” you giggled, hiding your laugh behind your hand and looking at him with sparkling eyes. He smirked, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly but unable to hold off his smile at your joy. He much preferred seeing you like this, especially compared to the nervous wreck from moments before. 

You chewed on your lip again when your laughs subsided. You rubbed a hand down your face, shook your head, then looked up at him from under your lashes as you said, “can you come sit here again? I like it better that way.” 

He didn’t move instantly. It was a war inside him, the desperate desire to do as you asked, and the weaker, sensible, side of him that told him to stay put, to tell you that it would be better to remain this way. He could see worry begin to descend in your eyes at his inaction, could see the gnawing at your lip become harsher, and that sensible side of him failed once more. 

Baelor stood and moved over to the sofa, sitting down on the other end and settling his notebook in his lap. Perhaps if he kept his notebook there this time, and didn't allow you to settle on his lap, then everything would end up alright. You smiled a little once he was sat, and he felt it like a kiss on his heart. 

You pulled your knees up close to your chest and he could see your toes poking out from under your dress. You fiddled with your fingers on your lap and glanced up at him one more time before you blurted, 

“I think he wants to sleep with me.” 

Baelor paused where he had been twisting his ring around, eyebrows raising and eyes widening as he met your eyes. 

“Oh,” he breathed out, nodding, pausing to pick up his pen and twirl it around once. 

“I… I think so. Last night, I went over to his place again. We watched a movie, had a cuddle, it was… it was amazing, as usual.” Your eyes were off in the distance, a distracted but warm smile on your mouth. “We kissed, for a while. Like, properly. Like, his mouth went places other than mine.” You felt heat burn through you as you told him, glancing back to Baelor as you pressed a hand to your hot cheek. “He… he kissed down my neck and his hands started moving around, you know, like-like he started feeling me up and it was really nice. He asked me if I wanted to go to his room to get more comfortable. I panicked and said I had an early morning so I had to leave. He’s so nice. He’s like, the absolute sweetest guy ever. I don’t know why I keep lying to him about this stuff but I just feel like if I tell him how scared I am, he won’t want me anymore.” 

Baelor pursed his lips and nodded, writing in the notebook again before looking at you. Your eyes were hesitant, looking to him for guidance, assurance, anything really. 

“Is someone who would be angry about their partner being inexperienced the kind of person you would want to be with?” He asked after a while, carefully enunciating each word. Your eyes widened a fraction, lips parting, and you lifted your head to look at him properly. It should not have been such an epiphany but it still felt groundbreaking. 

“I mean, of course not,” you answered, shaking your head and pursing your lips for a moment. “But I don’t think it’s about that either. In my head, I know he wouldn’t dump me. Honestly, I think it would be the opposite. I think he would be really kind about it all. But the anxious irrational side of my head feels like I just can’t. It’s not about him being nice or not, it’s about me not being able to do it. I don’t want to have the experience with him like that.” 

You glanced up at Baelor with worried eyes. It felt wrong to admit that somehow, that you wanted to be picky and choosy about this when you should just be grateful that someone wanted to be with you in the first place. 

Baelor hummed and nodded again, brows furrowing a little in thought, and you scooted down in your seat a little to watch him. His hair was a little neater today despite his habit of running his hand through it. His beard had been trimmed recently, you could tell now, and the intense desire to feel it against your own cheek hit you so suddenly you went breathless. His lashes fluttered prettily when he blinked, and those eyes, blue and brown, warm and cold, were the perfect reflections of the balance that seemed to live within him. 

“Hm, that is rather tricky. I suppose you need to decide if you want to eventually push through this, obviously not pressuring yourself but working on it until you feel comfortable, to have the experience with him. Or if you wish to break it off and try with someone else.” Though his tone was careful, not unkind, you felt as if it was so final. 

You nodded first, pursing your lips and then pressing them tight together as tears began to burn at your eyes. Your face crumpled slowly and you pressed it to the backs of your knees, shaking your head as you sucked in a wet, crackling, breath. Then you lifted your head and shifted, slowly crawling closer to him until you were kneeling right beside him on the sofa. 

“Can I please have a hug?” You asked, your voice small and watery as the tears continued to pour. You sniffled as you waited and Baelor’s face contorted with pain. He nodded quickly and pushed his notebook to the side, bringing you into his arms. He hushed you quietly, wrapping both arms around you, one hand softly petting the back of your head as you burrowed your face into his neck and shoulder and cried quietly. 

He kept you there until your sniffling quieted and the hand that had clenched at the collar of his button-up loosened a little. You pulled back to look him in the eye, but your faces were impossibly close. You could feel his breaths brushing lightly against your nose and mouth. You reached up with one trembling hand and wiped at your cheek and undereye. Your nose brushed against his lightly, and you blinked once, slow and long. 

“Would you… would you do it with me?” You asked, voice hushed and small. Baelor stiffened a little under you as he attempted to comprehend what you were truly asking. His eyes flicked up from your lips and to your own. His hand stilled on your back. 

“Y/n…” he said your name as a warning, but it sounded far too lovely from his mouth for you to heed it. You rolled your lips against one another and shifted a little in his lap, pressing impossibly closer, until your face was all he could see. 

“Please, Baelor,” you begged, voice soft and breathy. He could feel it almost against his lips, and his eyes fluttered closed at the sound, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed harshly. You begged far too prettily for it to be anything other than seductive, anything other than a punishment. “I trust you more than anyone, especially for this.” 

Baelor’s eyes clenched a little where they had shut, his breaths harsher now. His throat moved again, and you followed it greedily with your eyes, suddenly desperate for it all. Gods, you were hot with want. It was a fire in your core, pulsing hot at the apex of your thighs and in tingling sparks in your breasts. You shifted your hips again, not thinking, not knowing how it dragged you right over his cock, hard and pulsing under his trousers and underwear, how it made him want to bite down on the naked skin of your shoulder. 

“It would not be right,” he finally managed to grit out, his hands coming down to settle on either side of your waist. You worried he would push you away, but his grip on you only tightened, neither pushing nor pulling. 

“You would be helping me, please,” you begged again, your breaths shuddering along his mouth and chin. He wanted to open his lips and suck them in, wanted to swallow everything you had to give. 

“I…” but he could not continue because somehow your mouths were joined together. Somehow his tongue was pressed past your lips, licking strong and wet into the heat there, tasting the fruit flavoured gum you had been chewing on just before the session. 

You moaned into his mouth, small and quiet, but it made everything from his neck down pulse hot and had him dragging you even closer to him. He tried not to hurry as he kissed you, tried to maintain a steady pace, deep and dragging with each movement of his lips, but it became increasingly difficult. 

You felt hot all over, like your skin was touched by the sun, and everything inside you was electrified, sensitive to every breath and graze. His arm was strong where it wrapped around your waist to drag you closer. You were straddling him, the dress ridden up to expose your knees, and the motion of him moving you closer dragged your core right over where his cock had hardened along his leg. You were wet under your panties, slick in a way that moved your lips against each other and lightly teased your clit. Your cunt pressed right into the seams over his zipper and you let out a high-pitched keen, your mouth falling open against his. The drag of it, the pressure right there, it was electric. 

He did it again, grasped your hips in his hands and dragged you back then forward again, pressing down a little more. Again that feeling, that lovely clenching inside you, the wet pulsing and rubbing feeling. He felt your moan against him, your hot damp breath over his lips, and he kissed you again until you were breathless and tingling from the rub of his beard. 

“If we are going to do this,” he finally panted out, pulling away from your mouth to reach up and begin pushing your hair out of your face. “We are going to do it properly, hm?” He nudged your nose with his, making sure you were looking in his eyes when you nodded frantically. “I’m going to teach you, and you’re going to communicate. You’re going to tell me if something feels good, if something feels bad, if something hurts or you want to do it differently. Understood?” You nodded once more and licked your lips. 

“Yes, yes I will,” you hurried out, sitting up and resting your hands on his shoulders. He groaned softly, hands flexing on you, and nodded once. 

“Right, stand up,” he ordered, patting you on the side and watching you quickly scramble off him, huffing and puffing as if you had run a mile. The movement of your chest made your breasts push against the dress and it took significant willpower not to reach out and grasp them. 

Baelor followed after you, standing up to his full height and gazing down at you. Your hair was dishevelled now, your eyes and lips glossy, and your dress had become rumpled and wrinkled. But when you looked up at him with such trusting and expectant eyes, he could not help himself from leaning down and giving you a quick, chaste, kiss on the lips before pulling back and refocusing. 

“Depending on the situation, you may undress yourself, or your partner may undress you. It happens in the moment, and can depend on how fast or slow you are going, but it does not hurt to communicate here either.” As Baelor spoke, his hands went up to his own shirt, slowly beginning to unbutton and exposing the white vest he wore underneath. You stepped closer to him then, licking your lips and reaching out to caress the backs of his hands. 

“Can- can I do that?” You asked, hesitant and small, but he smiled appreciatively and nodded, removing his own hands and instead busying them in caressing the skin of your upper arms and shoulders. You shivered at the feeling. 

Carefully, you undid each button, moving all the way down to his waistband and pulling up to untuck the shirt. You pushed the sides open and carefully touched along his chest and stomach over the vest, feeling the soft material and the firm muscle underneath. He shrugged the shirt off and tossed it onto the sofa, leaving you to gawp at his arms. They were big, thicker than you were expecting and was belied by his shirts. You carefully splayed your palm on one, feeling the soft skin there, and squeezed a little, blushing hot when he chuckled. 

Baelor reached down and undid his belt, pulling it from the loops and tossing it where his shirt was. You gulped at the motion, eyes dragging down his abdomen and to the place where you could see something pushing against his trousers. You reached out and pulled his vest from his waistband as well, gathering the white material up and up until it was bunched in your hands and you could begin pulling it up his torso. You dragged your knuckles up the lines of his stomach, up to the definition of his chest, and held your arms aloft so he could grip the vest and take it fully off. When that too was tossed on the sofa, you allowed yourself free reign, pressing your palms to his chest, to the scraggly hairs there that were the same mix of dark brown and grey. 

You could see freckles here and there too, how his skin had gone softer as he had aged, and you carefully dragged your nails along his stomach. He shivered, huffing out a breath as he felt the scratching down over his stomach and toward his waistband. You followed his happy trail. You had finally felt a happy trail, you thought giddily, and you just allowed yourself to rub back and forth along the hair there until he was reaching down to grip your wrists. 

You glanced up at him then, a new openness and almost-smiling quality to your mouth. You blinked quickly and flipped your hands so you could loosen his grip from your wrists and grab his instead. You brought his hands to your body, gulping as you placed them on your waist. 

“Will you take off my dress please?” you asked, and he nodded, slowly dragging his palms up your sides, taking a moment to just cup your breasts over the dress. Your nipples rubbed against the inside of your bra as he did it, and you let out a shaky breath. 

Baelor hooked his fingers into the neckline of your dress, sliding his fingers out to the side and stretching the elastic so you could pull first one arm out then the other. He held onto the neckline and brought it down, stretching it over your breasts then dragging it down your stomach, over the curves of your hips and arse and then down your legs. Each new inch of skin exposed was another he ate with his eyes, absorbing the details of pores or freckles or marks or hairs. When the dress was at your feet, you stepped out of it and he picked it up, gently draping it on the sofa beside his own clothes. 

He looked back to you, to the white bandeau bra and panties, to the wet spot he could see there that made his mouth salivate. He reached out and placed his palms on your waist again, flat to bare skin, and you shivered at the searing warmth. He dragged his hands up and down your sides, feeling along the skin, heating you up further, and your shaky breaths left from parted lips. 

Baelor leaned down and kissed you once more, that same soft chaste style, then pulled away to nudge his head in the direction of the floor. 

“Lie down,” he ordered, pulling away from you to grab a cushion from the sofa and drop it on the floor for your head. You nodded, getting down on your knees first. You looked up at him, gulping at the angle. He looked impossibly taller like this. You paused there, watching his hands go to the button of his trousers, flicking it open before pinching the zipper and dragging it down. You were fluttering, in your stomach, in your veins. He paused there to toe off his shoes, nudging them off to the side before gripping the waistband of his trousers and pushing them off. 

You watched him as he had watched you, greedily. He wore black underwear, the tight shorts kind that had seams around the bulge area. You could see that he was hard under them, could see his cock pressing harshly against the fabric. You licked your lips, trembling, and watched him bend a little to cup your cheek with his hand. You tilted your head back to look at him, but he bent at the waist and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. You preened at it, going warm in the chest, and shuddered with pleasure. 

He stepped back and held up a finger to you, then moved around the sofa towards his desk. You watched him as much as you could from where you leaned, but you only got a lovely view of the tan skin sprawled along his back and his firm buttocks under the black fabric. He opened a desk drawer, rummaged around, grabbed something, then shut it and walked back over. You traced his legs with your eyes this time, the strong muscles of his thighs, the tight lines that moved up and down from his knees, the black hairs that dusted him all over. 

Baelor placed the thing down on the edge of the sofa and you realised it was a condom, the foil wrapper crinkling a little. You hadn’t even thought about that in your desperation, and you felt a zap of embarrassment through you. Baelor kneeled down in front of you then, cupping your neck on either side and kissing you, licking into your mouth and emptying the thoughts from your head. You ran your hands down his chest, taking comfort from the warm skin. He pulled back, flicking his eyes down to your bra then tracing the band that lay just under your breasts. 

“Do you want to take this off?” he asked, running his thumb over the curve of it, over where your nipple was firm under the fabric and you let out a breathy sound as you nodded. He hooked his fingers under it and dragged it over your breasts, watching them as he raised it up and over your outstretched arms. You shivered, the cool air brushing places no man had ever seen before, and you raised your hands quickly to hide behind them. Baelor didn’t say anything, just reached up and caressed your cheek as you clenched your eyes shut. 

You felt scared suddenly, scared at him seeing such intimate parts of you, parts that you worried would disappoint him. He leaned forward, a soft kiss to your forehead, to your left cheek, to your right, to the bridge of your nose, and when your eyes fluttered open again, he nudged your nose with his. 

“You do not have to do anything. You can put your clothes back on and leave. You can leave the bra on and continue. Tell me how you’re feeling.” You gulped and nodded, slowly moving your hands away and resting them on his shoulders instead. 

“I want to continue. Please. I just… Do you think I’m ugly?” Your eyes were a little teary as you asked it, your lower lip trembling, and his hands tightened on you. His eyes flashed, his brow creasing with concern, and he traced your bottom lip with his thumb. 

“I think you are beyond beautiful. I think you are stunning, and sexy. But I want you to think that too.” He traced his thumb down, watching your lip bounce back into place before moving it down your chin, to the underside of it and down the middle of your neck. Down it went, over your chest and to the space between your breasts, the flat of your sternum. Then the thumb followed the curve of your left breast, pressing into the underside before pushing up and simply feeling the soft flesh there. “Anyone would be lucky to see you in this way,” he murmured, and you shivered. 

Baelor leant down and pressed a feather-light kiss to your jaw. His lips pressed another and another along it until he reached your ear. He kissed under the lobe, a soft spot just behind it that reacted to his hot breath like water on hot coals. He kissed down your neck, big, open-mouthed, kisses that had his tongue pressing out and licking the skin. His teeth gently caught some skin between them, rolling it back and forth before letting it go and kissing down.

You allowed him to push you back until you were slowly being laid down, your head settled comfortably against the cushion. Your eyes fluttered closed as you focused on the sensation of his hot mouth on the plush skin of your breasts and his beard rubbing. You felt his lips close around your nipple, wet, the tightening feeling of the skin there puckering with desire. You felt his teeth tease it, felt his tongue lap against it, felt the air begin to cool the saliva there when he pulled away and did the same to your other nipple. 

Baelor kissed down your stomach, light presses of his mouth to the fluttering skin, and you cracked your eyes open and pushed your head up to watch him. He rubbed his big hands along the sides of your thighs, groping your behind a little, before he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties. 

“Off?” He asked quietly, looking up at you from between your legs. The sight of it, of his blue and brown eye, of his beard, of his mussed hair, all situated comfortably between your thighs and peering up at you had you gulping and pulsing once more. You could feel the slick pouring out of you, hot and slippery, and you felt the cold air there like a kiss. 

He dragged your panties down to your ankles then pulled them off, tossing them onto the sofa with everything else. Carefully, he had you bend your knees, then reached between them to splay his hands on the insides of your thighs, thick fingers spanning the sensitive skin before he began pushing them apart. You shivered and licked your lips but allowed it, following the press of his hands until your legs fell naturally open. 

He gazed down at you, eyes fixating on the flushed and wet skin. You looked soft and damp, dewy and puffy in a way that called to him like nothing else. He could see your clit where your lips pulled apart a little, the swollen little nub begging for his tongue and touch. He could see your hole, fluttering a little where you clenched and unclenched with every pulse inside you, the slick and shiny wetness that coated you. He rubbed your inner thighs once before he looked back up at you. 

“As it is your first time, it’s always best to have some preparation. We’ll start with my tongue, maybe a finger or two before we attempt anything, alright?” He watched you lick your lips, eyes lighting up, and nod quickly. “This goes for the future as well. Foreplay and preparation are essential to having a pleasant time. Some can handle penetration without preparation once they become regularly sexually active, but others need preparation every single time. It all depends on how you feel and what you communicate with your partner.” 

You nodded eagerly once more. Your mouth was full of saliva no matter how much you swallowed, and your skin tingled everywhere. You wanted to tell him to hurry, that you were desperate to feel him now, but that would not do. He was trying to teach you something. It was not his fault that he was also the reason you were so riled up you couldn’t focus. 

Baelor nodded once then sighed as he shuffled down and lay his stomach on the carpet in front of you. He caressed a finger up the back of one of your thighs and you shivered, your leg twitching at the ticklish sensation. He smiled a little and began moving you around, taking one of your legs and draping it over his shoulder before doing the same with the other. Once they were secure, he shuffled forward until suddenly you could feel him breathing against your core. 

You clenched your eyes shut, your thighs tightening around his head, but he just shushed you gently and began blowing softly along your hot skin. You shivered, the cold air caressing your hot slick. He curved one arm around and splayed his hand over your stomach, carefully holding you there. The other hand slithered up and his thumb began touching the soft lips of your cunt. He rubbed the slick into the skin, then separated the lips so he could look properly at your clit. 

He breathed in your small, warm and dewy, and his eyes fluttered shut. He moaned low in his throat then pressed forward, lightly touching the tip of his tongue to your clit. 

He mouthed at you there until you couldn’t tell your body apart from a series of electric sensations. You felt his tongue licking at you, hot rough drags that pushed and pulled at your clit, that made something that was already on fire burn like an inferno. You felt each touch inside you, felt the sparks and the zaps and the tingles like someone was playing the triangle right inside you, hitting the thing that reverberated within you over and over. 

He groaned against you, his rough beard overstimulating the skin of your thighs. He pressed his tongue into your core and the feeling of it breaching your hole sent you into your first orgasm, built too quickly and crashing fast. You clenched your hands into the carpet beside you and twitched, legs stretching and pressing into the floor beside his ribs. He licked you until you were whining then brought the tip of his index finger to where he had just pulled his tongue from. He looked up at you then, lifting a little between your legs to meet your eyes. 

His beard was wet. It shined in the light. The sight of it was orgasmic in itself. His lips were shiny too, and he licked them like he had indulged in a delicacy, like he needed to savour it, and you would have twitched into another orgasm right then. 

“I’m going to push my finger in now. Tell me if it hurts or you wish to stop at any time,” he ordered, and you nodded, your lips parting as you panted. 

Baelor touched your clit softly with his index finger and your hips jerked harshly, a strangled sound falling from your mouth. You would have whined at him that it was sensitive if you didn’t think he did it for that exact reaction. He pressed the back of his middle finger between your lips and dragged up and down, making sure it was wet with your slick before he brought it down to your hole and began pressing in. 

You closed your eyes again and allowed yourself just to feel the sensation. It was an intrusion, and you clenched and unclenched around it. You were warm and wet on the inside too, but it was ten times as much, like a perfect furnace. The texture of your walls was soft and fleshy, pushing and pulling and pulsing, and he pushed his finger to the hilt then dragged it back and forth. 

You felt that hot sparkle inside you again, those waves that increased in frequency until it was a frantic up and down. He held your hips steady with his other hand as you writhed and humped against his hand. In and out, in and out. His thumb moved up and dragged against your clit, taking your wetness and smearing it along the swollen nub until you were whining and moaning from your tight throat, calling his name. He pressed another finger in with the first, watching you writhe a little more at the stretch and burn. He pushed and pulled, panted as he watched you twitch and stretch and cum against his hand. 

This one had been even more intense. It left you splayed out and trembling, melted into the carpet and spinning in the head. You focused on the shadows behind your eyelids, panting and slowly loosening. Baelor caressed your legs, the outside of your thigh and the expanse of your stomach. He watched you carefully, waited patiently until your eyes fluttered open and you were looking at him with amazement. He tilted his head and kissed the inside of your knee. 

“Would you like to continue or stop here?” He asked quietly, his voice a murmur against your skin. You gulped and wet your lips. 

“Continue, please,” you breathed out, and he nodded, bringing your knees from his shoulders and placing your feet on the carpet either side of him. 

He rose onto his knees and pulled down the waistband of his underwear. He dragged it down his thighs then under one knee and then the other. You blinked at the sight of his cock, flushed red at the tip and ready. Perhaps that was your biggest vote of confidence, that he was already hard. Surely that meant you did something right, that he found you even a little attractive. The sight had you both tensing and melting further into the carpet. 

His cock was flushed red and thick, just the right size all over you guessed. It was shiny with precum and as he reached over for the condom, his other hand dragged over it, rubbing up and down once or twice as he shivered. With shaking arms, you pushed yourself up, leaning back onto one palm as the other began reaching out for his cock. 

“Can I touch it?” You asked in a ragged whisper, flicking your eyes up to his. You watched him rip the packet of the condom open with his teeth, and you almost threw yourself at him. Why was such a simple sight so frenzy inducing? 

“Of course,” he answered, shivering when your fingers gently wrapped around his appendage. He was hot to the touch, damp with cum, and softer than you had expected. You weren’t quite sure what you had been expecting, but it was nice. You kept your grip relatively loose, not realising how teasing that felt when you traversed it up and down him. His breathing became ragged, his chest heaving at the light touches you dragged along his cock and down to his balls. You touched the skin there too, fascinated by the tightness there, and he huffed and puffed from his mouth, not wishing to stop you but becoming more and more desperate to be inside you. 

When you had had your fill, you pulled back and leaned on both hands to watch him roll the condom down onto his cock. He did it with practiced ease, slipping it over the head and rolling it down securely. Once it was done, he was quick to lean over you, pressing his mouth to yours. He kissed you, laved his tongue between your lips, rubbed his beard to your chin and cheeks as he pushed forward until you were laying back down and he was hovering over you, his hips encased between your thighs. You could taste yourself on him and his beard, could taste that dewiness as he smashed his mouth to yours until you couldn’t breathe. 

He pressed his weight down on you, your chest to his, your nipples rubbing against his skin and chest hair. Your stomach rubbed his with every heaving breath, and you could feel his cock just touching your cunt. He caressed your cheek with one hand and looked into your eyes. 

“You can say no at any point. You can ask me to stop whenever you wish, to end everything without any consequences or questions. Understood?” You nodded hurriedly in response but you were so close now, so desperate despite your fear and hesitance. 

Baelor nodded once then kissed you as he reached down with his hand and notched his cock at your entrance. He began to push in, groaning into your mouth as your wet heat enveloped him. You felt it press through you, separate places that had always been together. You felt it all the way inside you, heavy and hot and rubbing against those spots that pulsed electricity into the rest of you. He kept a steady pace and kissed you to distract from the discomfort and stinging at your entrance. Your muscles were too spent from the previous orgasms to fight against his cock too much. 

He paused at the end, panting against your mouth. He felt your hands splay against his back, your nails curling into the skin at his ribs. He felt every shift of your hips, the tightening of your thighs over his waist. The place just above his cock pushed at your cunt and rubbed against your clit, forcing it to pulse frantically and send your brain reeling. 

He waited for the contortions on your face to loosen a little, for your panting breaths to slow and the way you clenched your cunt around him to become more steady and deliberate. You ran your hand down his back and cupped his waist, just feeling his skin and muscles. He kissed you again, pressed his tongue past your lips, then began to move. You felt it drag through you, as if pulling the pleasure and then pushing it back in. 

You whined against his lips, head dropping back as your body went weak. One of his hands threaded under your arm and then up to cup the back of your neck, holding you tight to his body as he sped up his thrusts. His other hand held tight to your waist, pulling you up against his thrusts. 

Every motion your body made felt instinctual, involuntary. Every twitch was wrought from the fiery pleasure that pulsed from the drag of your clit against his skin. Every moan was punched from your throat as he thrust his cock back into you, a little harder than before. You pressed your mouth to his shoulder, biting a little when the drags began to push you higher onto the precipice. 

“Baelor,” you moaned, turning your head to begin mouthing at the skin of his neck, kissing and sucking at it. 

He groaned loudly, a low and rough sound in your hair, and his grip on you tightened. His thrusts became quicker, the sound of skin slapping and wet squelching unmistakable now. You whined. The pleasure was a pulse between your thighs. Everything was electric. Your ears were dull thumping rushes. Your fingertips were blunt and twitching. Your nipples taut, rubbing against his chest and zapping your insides with heat. You panted, clenched, pressed into his thrusts. Your fingernails dug into his back, your arms trembling. You trembled entirely. 

And then the wave washed over, your mouth dropping open on a long moan. It covered you from head to toe, warmth and throbbing and weakness. You were spent, a mass of flesh and skin and pulsing warmth. 

He bit down on the side of your neck when he came, groaning loudly and huffing and puffing. He held you tightly as his hips twitched, the last drags of his own pleasure swimming out of him. He attempted to roll off of you, but you whined and wrapped your arms around him, whimpering a ‘stay here please’ at the pleasant weight of him there. He hesitated a fraction, blinked quickly to try and look down at your face, ask if you were sure, but you whined again and pulled him back down and he went with it. 

He hummed softly as you caressed his back, pressing gentle kisses to your shoulder. He murmured little words of praise, how you did so well, how you looked beautiful, how you were utterly perfect. It felt almost like another orgasm, a soft wave of warmth over you, stemming from the whispers that entered your ears. 

When you had finally caught your breath enough to deem your mind coherent, you caressed a hand through his hair and pressed your lips to his cheek for a chaste kiss before dragging them up to his ear and whispering, “thank you.” 

Baelor hummed quietly to himself as he quickly sliced an entire cucumber. ‘Here Comes The Sun’ by the Beatles played softly in the background just over the boiling of the pasta and the hum of the oven. It would be a late lunch, he thought, as he looked out onto the back garden through the sliding doors, to the lovely sunshine on the green grass and the little table set with plates and cutlery and glasses. 

He was in a particularly good mood that day. He woke up rather late, slowly and without an alarm blaring to the bright sunshine streaming through the sheer white curtains. He had rolled out of bed, ambled his way to the bathroom and carefully examined the now slowly fading marks of your teeth on his shoulder, the one purplish bruise just above his collarbone. He pressed lightly on them, thought back to how he had been wearing collared shirts and turtlenecks for the past week, and smiled slightly, shaking his head as he hopped in the shower. 

He was dressed casually, a black polo that Matarys deemed his most ‘dad’ shirt, and a loose pair of jogger bottoms. He ate a quick breakfast over the counter as he put on the tv in the background, and now here he was, finishing off lunch just in time for his sons to arrive. He had more than one reason to be happy today. He loved Saturdays, because they meant family lunch with Valarr and Matarys, and you had a session booked in for Monday which meant he would get to see you very soon. He was almost scared by how much he longed for it… 

“Daaaad!” The door opened and then a long call, surely Matarys returning from his hockey practice if the rustling and banging by the door was anything to go by. “Val’s here too!” 

Baelor smiled brightly, wiping his hands on the dish towel and walking around the counter to head in the direction of the entryway. It was a particularly big day for another reason: Valarr was bringing his girlfriend home for the first time. 

Baelor rounded the corner, a warm smile already pulling at his lips as he spotted his youngest son, his hair a sweaty mop as he toed off his shoes and turned back to speak quickly to his elder brother. Then Valarr, sunglasses pushed up onto his head, wearing a navy blue button down casually opened at the top and a pair of jeans, smiling softly at the girl beside hi- 

There you were, standing in a beautiful navy blue dress, lips parted and staring at him like a deer in headlights. Baelor felt his heart stop beating. Your hair was neatly pinned in a half-up half-down style, the dress was respectfully modest, and you clutched a bouquet of flowers and a candle politely in front of you. Baelor couldn’t get his body to cooperate. Your hands began to shake, your lips parting as you stared up into his mismatched eyes. Valarr rubbed the small of your back gently looking between you and Baelor, his smile a picture of restrained excitement. He had been telling you non-stop how excited he was for you to meet his father. 

“Dad, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Y/n.”

You heard your brother's wounded cry. Shrill and high, like a child in pain.

"AERION!" You heard your father's voice thunder.

You watched as Baelor tried to grab for him, to pull him back from the chaos. Too many swords, too much heated blood, too much confusion. For a moment, you were worried that Ser Duncan might kill Aerion, and you knew that was your father's fear. Despite his children's aggravation, you knew he loved you all dearly, and he would protect you all to the ends of the earth.

"MY BOY! MY BOY!" Maekar pushed through, making his way towards Aerion.

You gripped Egg's hand as you watched your father move like a man possessed. He drove a lance through Lord Lyonel's horse, sending the Baratheon man toppling to the ground. That fateful moment changed the tide. The slaying of his horse sent Lyonel Baratheon into a rage.

It all unfolded too fast to comprehend. The heavy swing of Lyonel's sword, your father's block with the shield. The crack. The splinter. This spar continued as the two skilled warriors faced off, each holding their own. A heavy silence filled the air as the two men battled, one driven by rage and a noble cause and the other by concern and fear for the life of his son. The very son who had caused such a mess. Then the sharp tip of Lyonel's sword pierced your father's flesh through a small gap in the armor. The mace fell from his hand, Lyonel scooping it up, swinging it in his powerful hand, and dealing the fateful blow to the back of your father's head. You did not think he meant to kill your father, but in the violent throes of a fight, blood was spilled, and a life was taken.

Tragedy oft loomed close to the dragon house: you wondered if that was a curse, and true happiness would be impossible for your family. A brother must die for another to prosper.

Your nails dug into Egg's flesh as you watched your father twitch on that muddy field, blood pouring from him. Baelor pushed his way through as Raymun and a heavily injured Dunk dragged the powerful Laughing Storm away. Your father had managed to crack Lyonel's visor in his wake, and you believed the Baratheon man had swung the mace blindly. Baelor cradled Maekar's head in his lap after removing his helm.

"I yield, I yield," Aerion brayed, tears streaming down his face as he crawled toward his uncle and dying father.

Maekar sputtered, blood foaming from his mouth. "My boy," he whispered, reaching up with a frail arm to cup Aerion's face. You ran, feet barely touching the ground, with the mud desperately trying to pull you down. It clung to your crimson gown as you cupped your father's face, falling beside him and Aerion. You clutched his armored hand tightly.

His violet eyes watered as he gave you a soft smile before his body went rigid. A part of you died with him that day. His blood dripped into the mud, mixing with it, turning a russet color.

"No, no, no," you whimpered before turning a sharp gaze on Aerion. "This is your doing, you selfish, vain prat."

"Stop! This is not the time," Baelor said firmly, his mismatched eyes filled with unshed tears. You could see the pain etched deeply on his face. An older brother mourning the loss of the younger. "I was supposed to die first, you fool." His voice shook as his palm pressed against Maekar's eyes to shut them.

Your father's body was carried off the field, and Baelor helped you to your feet, pulling you close as you trembled.

"You need to set your anger aside. You are the eldest, and your siblings will need you."

You pulled out of his grip and stormed away, not wanting your father to be alone. Perhaps that was silly with all things considered. The septon, still a green boy, paled as he stood watch over your father's body. He was barely out of boyhood, and you felt pity for him. You stroked your father's cold face and placed a kiss on his forehead while your tears fell. It was hard to see him in such a state. Such a formidable man with a large presence, even if he often felt in the shadow of his eldest brother. Gently, you slipped the rings from his fingers, placing them on yours.

"I will take care of them, do not worry. Say hello to mother for me, at least you will be safe with her," you whispered before leaving the room. Egg ran into your arms, clinging to you as his tears soaked the fabric of your gown. You planned to burn this horrible frock once the day was done. You sat down, cradling him in your lap as Baelor and Daeron paid their respects.

"I want to see him," Egg whispered.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes." His voice trembled.

You took him back into the room where Baelor was holding Maekar's cold hand, his head bowed in reverence. Daeron had his hands folded in front of him, his head dipped low. Both your brothers had taken quite the beating in the trial. Egg stepped forward, his indigo eyes swollen as he placed his small hand on Maekar's leg.

"Father," he whispered before a heart wrenching sob tore through him and he clung to Baelor's leg while his small body shook with tears. Baelor held his nephew close.

Your back hit the stone wall as grief consumed you, making you sink towards the ground. Thick tears streamed down, making it hard to breathe until Baelor lifted you into his arms. The Silent Sisters filed in to finish preparing the body and wrap him in a shroud.

Maester Yormwell fixed a sleeping draught for you, but you knocked it from his hands. Baelor sighed, exhaustion seeping into his bones. A purple bruise blossomed over his right cheek.

"Please, sweet girl, allow yourself some relief," he tried to reason.

"No, I want to feel it all, Uncle," you whimpered.

His palm rested against your forehead. "Your father would not wish to see you tormented."

"Do not," you growled. How dare he? The rage curled inside you like a hissing dragon.

Normally, he would have scolded you for such behavior, but he allowed it for now. You were entitled to it. A sudden panic replaced the anger boiling beneath your skin. You gripped Baelor's arm tightly.

"What is to become of us now? We are orphans," you whimpered. You thought of Rhae, poor little Rhae, who had never known her mother and was now robbed of the father she loved so dearly.

Baelor cupped your chin, his thumb smoothing over your flesh. "You are not without family, sweet girl. You need not bear this burden alone. Make her another, Yormwell."

The maester fixed another draught, and you allowed Baelor to help you drink this one down. Your uncle tucked you against his chest, holding you until sleep took hold. It was blissful, black, and dreamless, and when you woke, you discovered yourself out of your soiled gown and wrapped in a black and red robe belted tightly around your waist. Fresh tears sprang to your eyes when you realized the robe was your father's. You found the gown draped over a chair, and you tossed it into the blazing fire, watching the flames consume it.

Baelor was asleep in the chair, chin resting on his hand, and you took a moment to study his bruised and battered face. None had emerged from the trial unscathed. You tucked yourself at his feet, resting your head in his lap, a position you often shared with your father when you had been upset. You had been a rather affectionate child growing up, and Maekar never minded when you attached yourself to him. Baelor and Maekar had long held a strong bond, you needed your Uncle now. You needed him to help guide and support you, but above all else, you needed his love.

Baelor stirred, puffing out a small stream of air before stroking the top of your head tenderly. "Do not sit on the floor." He reached down, pulling you into his lap and letting your head rest on his shoulder. Perhaps you were too grown for such treatment, but it comforted you. "We will burn his body on the morrow."

"No, we must send for my sisters first," you insisted.

Baelor sighed. "Alright, I'll have them sent for; it should not take them long to arrive. I know it will be hard, but you must be strong."

"I…will do my best," you murmured, breathing in the warm scent of his skin. Cloves. Oranges. Spice.

"Little Aegon is quite distraught. I had Yormwell fix him a draught as well," he told you.

"I should see to him," you whispered.

"When you are ready."

You drew in warmth and strength from him before standing carefully. Baelor steadied you with his hand, and you went to Egg's room. You couldn't wait to be rid of Ashford Castle. You supposed Summerhall would be Daeron's now, as he was the eldest son. After a heavy sigh, you entered Egg's room. The small boy was curled up tightly in the center of the bed; you sat next to him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Slowly, he unfurled and crawled into your lap, his arms wrapped around your neck.

"It is my fault," he hiccuped.

"Shhh, do not speak such nonsense." You blamed Aerion.

"If I h…had not asked Ser Dunk…"

"Oh, Egg," you sighed, squeezing him close and rubbing his back, remembering when you first held him in his arms after he was born. How proud your father was to have yet another healthy son. "Father would not wish for you to blame yourself. He died in battle, defending his son. It was an honorable death."

He gave a pathetic sniffle. "I want my hair back," he sobbed. How he had once hated that he looked like Aerion, but it was his father's hair too, and now he wanted that part of him back.

You had to bite back a smile. "Now, now, that will grow back in time." You rocked him gently, staying with him until the sun fell in the sky while his tears dried on your skin.

None had much of an appetite, so food was left untouched, but you found solace in a flagon of sweet Arbor gold. When you were halfway through it, Baelor pulled the cup from your hand. Egg remained attached to your side, his small face tucked against your bodice. Aerion was still recovering from his wounds, and you wickedly hoped he would succumb to them.

"You're going to make yourself ill," he scolded, doing the same with Daeron. Even though your brother had fallen in the mud as he had promised, he was worse for wear with his own wounds. Missing half an ear, a cheek ripped open, and a burst vessel in his eye. You wondered if your father thought him dead when he saw him face down in the mud.

"Do you mean to parent us now?" Daeron groaned, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

"If I must," Baelor replied seriously. "I do not intend to abandon my brother's children."

It was a sleepless night as all of you remained in the solar among the blazing candles, fire, and books. You and Daeron took turns tending to Egg, who eventually fell into a sleep from such a state of exhaustion in your lap. You placed him on the chaise, draping a blanket over him. Sweat beaded over Daeron's forehead, his hands shaking.

"Yormwell made a draught for me, I did not dream," you whispered to him, rubbing your hand between his shoulder blades.

"I've tried them before; they do not work for me," Daeron sighed.

You stood, grasping the flagon and pouring him a cup.

"I do not think…" Baelor started to say.

"I do not wish to watch Daeron suffer this evening," you interrupted, placing the cup in your brother's hand.

A stern look settled over Baelor's face, but he dropped the matter for now. Daeron whispered his thanks before diving into his cup. Aegon slept on the chaise and you picked the chair by Baelor's side, settling your hand over his as the fire crackled and sputtered. The firelight caught on the large ruby resting on your middle finger. Baelor's thumb grazed over it.

"Your mother gave him that one," he whispered.

"I remember well. Shortly after Aerion was born, for father's nameday," you smiled.

"A very joyous occasion as I recall."

"He and Uncle Rhaegel got drunk on Dornish sour red and sang that blasted song," you smiled, letting your head drop onto his shoulder.

"My sweet girl, we must continue to share our memories; we will not let him fade away."

"No, we cannot allow that to happen."

Just before the sunlight bled onto the horizon, you fell asleep against your uncle. Two days later, Daella and Rhae arrived at Ashford, having traveled with your beloved Lady Jessa Blackmont. Rhae's silvery hair streamed behind you as she ran into your arms while Daella took Baelor's hand. Both their faces were red and tearstained.

"I cannot believe father is dead," Daella whispered. Rhae sniffled against your shoulder.

"It is hard to believe, my dear girls," Baelor said, drawing them both into his embrace.

The funeral pyre was prepared, and your father's body was set ablaze as the young septon recited the rites. Rhae and Egg clung to you while you held onto your uncle's hand for dear life. You noticed Ser Dunk lingering towards the back, the poor man battered and swollen. Valarr helped to support Aerion, and rage bubbled in your stomach once more. Beside you, Baelor let out a soft groan.

"Dear girl, your grip," he whispered softly, and you released your hand. You managed to dig your nails into his palm, leaving behind crescent shapes and a soft well of blood.

"Apologies," you murmured. He gently squeezed your elbow. You lingered behind, wishing to watch the flames finish their job and turn your father to ash. Winds carrying him away to the afterlife, and you wish it would take away this void forming inside you. Strangely enough, it unburdened your heart, lifting a bit of the grief. You twisted his signet ring around your forefinger. "I love you, father."

Preparations were made to return to the Red Keep, and further arrangements would be made to bring some things from Summerhall. None of you could stomach going back home just yet. Maekar's presence loomed large in those halls. His mark on every corner. Valarr kissed your cheek as the carts and wheelhouses were prepared.

"I've told Father that I will help with anything that is needed, including minding the little ones."

"Thank you, I remember when we used to frighten you when we were children," you teased.

"It was all those violet eyes," Valarr chuckled. "And an endless sea of them staring into my very soul."

"I promise we will not disrupt everyone's lives too much."

"We are family, cousin, do not make yourself small on account of us."

"You say that now."

You felt Egg's arms circle around your waist. That spirited little boy seemed so broken, and it tugged on your heart. Gently, you patted his hands.

"Would you like to ride with your brother and cousin? Perhaps that would make you feel better?"

"Mayhaps," Egg murmured.

"Let us make sure a horse is prepared for you then."

As you walked with your cousin and brother, you noticed Baelor conversing with Dunk.

"Dear niece, might I borrow you for a moment?" he called out.

"Go with Valarr," you told Egg and stepped over to your uncle.

"Good morrow, Ser Dunk," you said, greeting him politely.

"Good morrow, princess."

"I have asked Ser Duncan to accompany us back to King's Landing. I mean to make him your sworn shield for the time being if you agree, though he has also agreed to protect your siblings as well."

"Even Aerion?"

"Yes, princess. It would be my duty."

You nodded. "Yes, I agree, and perhaps having you around might help cheer up Egg."

You wiped some sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, eager for some wine. It was almost as if Daeron had read your mind, passing you the bloated wineskin as he walked past. You took a hearty gulp before going to thank Lord Ashford for being such a gracious and accommodating host, then joining your sisters in the wheelhouse, cradling them against your sides.

There was a state of disarray once arriving at the Red Keep, and you noticed Rhaegel lingering behind a column in Maegor's Holdfast.

"What has happened?" he whispered.

You stepped closer, gently taking his hands in yours. "Maekar died at Ashford, during combat."

"Heavens no!" Rhaegel gasped.

"Please fetch Lady Alys," you whispered to one of the guards as you held Rhaegel's trembling hands while he wept openly.

"Oh my brother, my sweet little brother. I remember when he was born, you know? Little scowl on his face. He was a good man, a very good man. Always good to me," Rhaegel rambled through his tears as you held him in your arms.

You stayed with him until Alys arrived, gathering her husband into her embrace.

A state of weeping fell over the castle, your grandmother confined to her rooms with her ladies, your younger sisters and Egg. You were thankful to be surrounded by family, for the help they would provide attending to your siblings, otherwise you feared you might be drained dry of all your energy. But perhaps that was better than being left with your grief. You pressed a hand to your chest after rubbing Rhaegel's shoulders before gathering your skirts and continuing to your rooms. On your way, you passed by your grandfather's quarters and paused to listen.

"My boy, my boy," King Daeron sobbed as Baelor knelt before him, one hand pressed to his father's knee. The sound of that made your heart briefly stop as you remembered your father's cry for Aerion. Your throat tightened, the grief sticking inside it.

Dunk stood outside your rooms as you filled the void inside you with wine. Too much wine, which left you heaving over your chamber pot. Your mouth was dry, your vision blurry, and your stomach ached, but you felt numb.

"Princess? Might I send for the maester?" Dunk asked gently.

Your hazy gaze fell on the dagger around his waist. Two little slices were all that would be needed.

"Give me your dagger, Ser Duncan." Your tongue felt heavy and fuzzy, slipping over your words.

"No, I will not."

"I gave you an order!"

"I swore an oath to protect you, even from yourself," he reasoned. He may have been thick in the head over some matters, but he understood all too well what you meant to do with the dagger. He picked you up with ease, depositing you onto the bed.

"I will tell my uncle of this," you slurred, hot tears rolling down your cheeks.

"I think he will support my decision, milady," he reasoned. You dropped your head and sniffled, knowing he was correct and shame burned your cheeks.

"Egg told me you lost your Ser Arlan. Did you feel despondent?" you whispered.

"Um, begging my pardon, but I don't know that word, milady," he admitted, his cheeks red.

You gave him a soft smile. "It means to feel a profound sadness, almost a hopelessness," you explained.

"Oh! Yes, I did. He showed me such kindness even if he could be harsh at times, was for my own good really. He was a good man, an honorable man. Much like your father, I reckon. I still feel a sadness inside me at times."

"I am sorry you lost him."

"And I am sorry you lost your father, milady. If only…"

"Hush, what's done is done. I do not blame you any more than I blame Egg. You had every right to defend your honor," you whispered. "Return to your post, Ser Duncan."

"Yes, milady."

"And thank you," you whispered.

You felt like all of the seven hells when you woke the next morning, your head pounding like thundering horse hooves galloping through, and you were annoyed to find all your wine was gone. A sickness came over you, and you dropped to your knees, wretching into your chamber pot. Your door creaked open, and Baelor stepped in with Lady Jessa.

"I'll have a bath arranged for her, my lord," Jessa said.

"Have some food sent up as well, some bread and a fried egg would do her good. Gods be good, dear girl," Baelor sighed. Jessa turned on her heels, dashing off to make arrangements.

"Please do not stand there and watch me vomit," you whimpered.

"I can assure you I have seen many people vomit during my days on this earth," Baelor scoffed. "It might even shock you to learn I have done so myself."

You wiped the back of your mouth, a small laugh toppling forth.

"I do not wish to be stern, but I will not accept this behavior from you much longer. I will not witness you descend into drink and madness," he scolded.

"I feel…so lost," you whispered.

He knelt before you, using his handkerchief to wipe up your face. "That is understandable, but you can come to me. No one expects you to shoulder this alone."

"I get my stubbornness from my father," you jested.

Baelor helped you stand, made you sit, then carefully dragged a brush through your tangled hair. You pressed a hand to your mouth, choking back a sob as the feeling reminded you of your father brushing your hair shortly after your mother's death. The awkwardness of his large, thick fingers, the slight pull of the bristles, though he refused to let it defeat him. Maekar had gotten better as the years went on, and you enjoyed the nighttime ritual of him brushing your hair before tucking you into bed.

"I have sent a missive to the Citadel to request leave for young Aemon. I believe it would do everyone some good to have him around," Baelor said as the servants filed in to prepare the bath and serve food.

"Thank you, it would be nice to have him join us for a bit," you murmured. Baelor placed the plate of fried eggs and crusty bread before you. "Do you mean to watch me eat?"

"I do," he said, sitting across from you and fixing you with a stern look.

You sighed and tucked into the food, feeling famished, and it did make you feel better.

"Good girl," Baelor praised. "I will leave you alone to bathe." He squeezed your shoulders before departing.

The hot, steaming bath was heavenly and had you feeling better by the end. You dressed and had Dunk escort you to your grandmother's chambers, where your sisters and Egg had been lodging.

"My darling girl," Myriah smiled. Rhae was folded into her lap, her pale hair spread over the vivid yellow of your grandmother's dress as she was cradled like a small babe. You stepped closer to kiss her cheek. Egg played on the floor with an orange and cream cat.

"Grandmother says he can be mine if I wish," Egg murmured.

"That is lovely," you smiled.

Daella sat in a chair by the window, staring listlessly up at the sky, swelling with gray clouds. A few raindrops pattered to the ground.

"The Gods are finally crying for father," she whispered.

You sat with her, watching the skies open and the rain flood down. Your hand quickly covered her eyes when you spotted Rhaegel walking naked through the rain, his arms raised to the sky.

"Ser Duncan, I require your help!" you called out.

Soon, Rhaegel was tossed over the tall hedgeknight's shoulder as if he weighed nothing. Luckily, your uncle found this rather amusing.

"Gods, you are a big man!" Rhaegel laughed, clapping Dunk along the back.

"I am, milord," Duncan agreed.

Alys was waiting to attend to him once Rhaegel was returned to his quarters.

"Many thanks, Ser Duncan," she told him kindly, wrapping her wet, naked husband in a cloak.

"I'm sure this is not how you were envisioning things," you sighed.

"It is a bit unexpected, milady, but I'm grateful for what Prince Baelor has given me."

"I'm certain once a position opens, he will make you a Kingsguard," you assured him.

"One day, I hope," he smiled down at you.

The rains continued, and on one sleepless night, you found yourself before Baelor's doors, in need of his company. Ser Donnel announced your presence, and your uncle guided you inside his rooms.

"I could not sleep, and I'm tempted to drown my sorrows," you told him softly.

"Well, I am very glad you came to me instead," he said, wrapping you in a warm hug. A chill had set inside the castle as the rains poured, and Baelor placed a black fur over your shoulders to keep you warm. "Yormwell tells me your brothers are healing nicely, though both will bear their scars."

"My father had plenty of them, marks of the warrior," you murmured. "Though I fear my brothers are not warriors."

"You have not spoken to Aerion since Ashford."

"I cannot find it in my heart to forgive him."

"I know it's hard, but you must. Your father would not wish for his children to splinter apart."

"Do not weaponize my dead father against me," you frowned.

"That is not what I'm doing." His tone was clipped and sharp.

"I will try," you sighed.

You stayed up most of the night with him, exchanging stories about Maekar and allowing yourself one cup of wine. If anything good had come from this tragedy, it was that you had grown closer to your uncle. When the hour of the wolf approached, Dunk came to collect you and take over his shift from Ser Roland. The fur remained around your shoulders, and you snuggled beneath it, not scared of the dreams that would come that night.

Sun came with Aemon's arrival, and his presence seemed to lift everyone's spirits. You stood with Dunk as Aemon and Aegon reunited with one another, as the two had once been close. Daeron ruffled Aemon's golden hair and you noticed the sparse silvery locks springing from Egg's scalp.

"Now I know what Egg looks like with hair, milady," Dunk chuckled.

"Yes, they do resemble each other," you smiled and watched Aerion hobble over slowly to embrace his brother. You glanced down at the rings on your hand, fanning out your fingers as the conversation with Baelor echoed in your ears. You hated it, but it was what your father would wish you to do.

When Daella and Rhae swooped in, you stepped in and gently touched Aerion's arm. The bruises and cuts on his face had faded, but the limp remained as he healed from the deep cut Dunk's sword had laid. There was a broken look in his violet eyes. Your father's eyes.

"Come," you said gently, leading him away and allowing him to use you for support.

"I do not need your sharp words. I blame myself. There is nothing you could say that would make me feel worse," he told you.

"I'm certain I could think of one or two," you teased, and he snickered.

"You always were the clever one.

"I think Aemon is far cleverer than I. I did blame you; perhaps there is a small part of me that still does, but we are all that's left of our parents. We cannot be driven apart."

Aerion squeezed your hand. "Every time I close my eyes, I hear him screaming for me."

"I hear him, too, at times. His voice echoes in my ears. I'm afraid of it stopping, I'm afraid of closing my eyes and not seeing his face. I'm afraid he will slip away entirely."

"Me as well, I think all of us are," Aerion admitted.

"He loved you. He loved all of us, even if we drove him absolutely mad. You could irritate him to no end, and yet he still came to save you. To defend you. Father was a good man," you whispered. "He was so happy when you were born, Aerion. I remember the smile on his face."

"He was the best man," Aerion agreed, tears smattered over his cheeks. You decided that your brother was not truly lost in his way, there was still time to bring him back to the sweet boy he had once been.

"Then be a better man for him, be a better man because he allowed you to live," you told him seriously before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

As the weather remained sunny, Baelor took you all for an outing into the Kingswood. The peppery, earthy scent of the grass made you think of the time when you were about four, riding in the saddle with Maekar on one of the hunts. You felt so special and important, even if it was a bit bloody for your tastes. Aemon enjoyed sending a hawk forth to collect prey. Matarys picked wildflowers for Daella to braid in Rhae's hair while Valarr went hunting with Aerion. Daeron lazed by the river before showing Egg how to fish. Baelor stood behind you, showing you how to draw a bow.

"Very good, select your aim and release," he instructed, his beard tickling your cheek.

You let the arrow fly, and well, it did not hit the center, but it at least landed on the target.

"Not bad for a first attempt," he grinned. "With more practice, you'll get better." His hands squeezed your arms, and you felt like you were floating.

Evening fell, and Dunk started a fire. You sat with Baelor under the pavilion, sharing good and wine with him. His mismatched eyes met yours, and you felt a strong pull, like. a string wrapped around your heart and the other end attached to him. You wondered if he felt it too.

Weeks passed, and you began to yearn for home.

"I think it may be time for us to return to Summerhall," you told Baelor one evening over dinner. It was Daeron's by right as eldest son, but you knew he would let you run the household.

"If you're certain. I have to admit it's been wonderful having you all here. Little pieces of my brother to remember, little Rhae possesses many of his expressions," he smiled, letting you have the last piece of honeyed chicken.

"She does," you laughed.

"Would you mind if I accompany you? I would feel better knowing you are settled instead of sending you alone."

"Yes, bring Valarr and Matarys as well. You can make a proper visit out of the trip," you smiled.

"That sounds lovely," Baelor smiled, reaching across the table and settling his hand over yours. You felt a warm spark like a flickering ember. You spent nearly every night dining with him when you weren't with your siblings. The two of you enjoyed exchanging stories about Maekar before slumber.

"I must admit it will be strange to be separated from you. I've come to enjoy our nighttime ritual," you admitted softly.

"As have I, we'll find a way to continue it. We can exchange letters."

"It would not be the same."

His thumb tucked under your palm, squeezing your hand tighter. "Well, I will stay with you at Summerhall for as long as I can, and we can worry about the issue another day."

"Yes, thank you."

You stayed awake that evening, thinking about Baelor's hand on yours. It made your heart beat faster, and you could taste your pulse in your throat.

"Princess, I was hoping that I might stay on with you at Summerhall," Dunk said as preparations were made for departure.

"You do not wish to remain at the Red Keep? I'm certain my uncle could assign you to another member of the family," you said kindly.

"I have grown fond of you, if you will have me, and I do not wish for my secret to be discovered," he admitted, his cheeks flushing.

You gently touched his arm. Dunk could not read, and you had taken to teaching him during the afternoons. Though you suspected Egg knew as well because there were times you'd discover the large hedgeknight hunched over a book with your brother. "Fear not, I shall not reveal it, and would be happy to take you on at Summerhall. We have a good master at arms, who helped train my brothers and father, he can assist you as well while I continue to handle the other matter," you smiled.

"Thank you, milady."

As the horses were readied, you noticed the small wisps of silver hair had emerged as curls. "It's growing back," he grinned, the orange cat in his arms.

"So it is."

Your grandfather leaned on his cane and took your hand. "If you are in need of anything, my dear, write to me at once."

"I will," you promised and kissed his cheek, doing the same to your grandmother.

"Do not stay away too long, please visit from time to time," she said, smiling and holding your face in her hands.

"I promise."

You watched Baelor walk along the courtyard with Rhae in his arms, her face snuggled in his left shoulder. She had been rather upset to be torn apart from Myriah, and he calmed her down.

"I promised your sister I would ride in the wheelhouse with her," Baelor told you.

"Father always said she had a gift for getting her way," you smiled, rubbing Rhae's back.

"The youngest often do. Our father often crumbled when it came to Maekar," Baelor smiled. "Mother was made of sterner resolve."

"You will have to tell me some of those tales."

"I have many to tell you yet, sweet girl."

The wheelhouse felt cozy with your three youngest siblings, Baelor, and the cat, but you liked it. It reminded you of the journeys with your father, how you would curl against his side and fall asleep on his chest. Just as Rhae was doing with Baelor now. There was a sudden ache in your womb, a feeling not yet discovered, but now one that plagued your mind. You shook it off and stroked the cat purring in your lap.

"Uncle, will you live with us forever?" Daella asked.

"No, not forever, dear one, but for a while, until you are sick of me," Baelor teased, a twinkle in his mismatched eyes.

"We could never be sick of you," Daella said seriously.

Summerhall seemed so quiet when the party arrived. Lord Jackar Celtigar held stewardship over Summerhall until Daeron's return.

"Prince Maekar would be happy to see his family has returned. Rooms have been prepared, and the staff has settled. Should you need any assistance, please reach out," he said.

"Thank you, Lord Jackar," you smiled.

The silent house came to life again with the Targaryens nestled inside. Your cousins enjoyed the training yard with your brothers and Dunk. Though everyone gathered around, when Baelor demonstrated his skills. The mighty Hammer showing off his sword skills. You never realized how swift he was on his feet. A spry finesse, while your father had been brute force.

"You are a force of nature, Father," Valarr grinned, exchanging a look with his wife . Kiera had accompanied him as your sisters had taken a liking to her.

"Years of practice, my boy," Baelor said, clapping him on the back.

"The lad is right, milord. You are truly a sight," Dunk grinned. Egg sat on the fence with Matarys.

"Don't give him a big head about it," you called out, a twinkle in your eye. There was an excited thrumming in your chest, a heat in your cheeks as you looked upon him.

Baelor's lips quirked as his gaze fell on you. "Come now, show me what you can do," he told his sons and nephews, and soon the training yard was filled with dueling boys.

Spring brought a fresh bloom and with it a terrible sickness that spread throughout King's Landing, Oldtown, and Lannisport. Summerhall was positioned in a more rural area, cut off from major cities, and you instructed everyone to remain under a tight quarantine to keep everyone safe. The small decision to bring Baelor and your cousins to Summerhall spared their lives, but sadly claimed King Daeron's.

"I suppose you will leave us now that you are to be king," you whispered to Baelor on a warm night beneath the pomegranate tree. A tree your father had planted for your mother. How she loved to crunch the seeds, staining her mouth red. Though his favorite had been the plum tree with its dark purple leaves. He had once tried to find a silk to match the hue, loving how unique it was. None would have suspected Prince Maekar's love for foliage, but he found peace in nature. Perhaps because there were no chattering voices to vex him, but you suspected because it reminded him of your mother and the time he spent with her in the gardens.

"I do not have a choice," he said softly, taking hold of your chin.

"I know. You make a wonderful king, uncle, father always said so."

"I wish he were here to share in this moment with me."

"He is smiling down on you, I can feel it."

He stroked your cheek with his thumb. "And do you think he would smile down on me falling in love with his eldest daughter?"

A soft smile crossed your face. "I think if she also has fallen in love, he would approve."

"And have you?" He moved closer, his face just a hair's breadth away.

"Fallen in love with you?" you teased. "I believe so."

His lips melded against yours in a firm, commanding kiss. More intense than you expected, though you didn't have many to compare it to. A silly one with Daeron as children, a jealous one from Aerion when he learned you had kissed Daeron, and more curious ones with a few servant boys, but never one with a skilled man before. An overwhelming sensation flooded through you, making your belly twist and tighten.

"We would not need to rush things, would we?" you asked softly.

"I would never push you into anything, sweet girl," he promised.

"It is just, I have only returned home and wish to manage here for a bit. Marrying you would make me queen; I'm not blind to the matter."

"It would indeed. Shall we give it a year or two? I do not mean to pursue another."

"Neither do I," you smiled.

You stayed beneath the tree with him, with his fingers laced through yours. You pondered if this would be your fate if your father had not been slain on that muddy field. Would the tides have turned another way?

On the day you married Baelor, a warm breeze blew through the ward, bringing with it a swirl of purple leaves. You touched the ruby ring on your finger and smiled, knowing it was your father giving his blessing. His presence lingered on long after his death.

The heat of the tourney grounds pressed against your skin and made the heavy silks of your gown cling to your body in ways that felt entirely too suffocating. You had slipped away from your septa and your handmaidens near the lists, needing just a moment of air, a breath of freedom that didn't smell of sweat, horses, and steel. The Red Keep loomed in the distance, but you had wandered toward the fringe of the encampment, where the canvas tents flapped in the wind and the noise was a dull roar rather than a deafening clash.

You thought you were hidden enough. You were wrong.

The knight found you near a stack of empty wine casks. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and reeking of cheap ale and stale sweat, his doublet unlaced to reveal a stained tunic underneath. He blocked your path, his shadow falling over you, and when you tried to step around him, he moved with you.

"Now, now, little dove," he slurred, his eyes raking over you with a gaze that felt sticky and unwanted. "A pretty thing like you shouldn't be wandering all alone. A man could get the wrong idea."

"I am returning to the Keep," you said, keeping your voice steady, though your heart hammered against your ribs. You lifted your chin, trying to project the authority your father had drilled into you. "Let me pass."

"Come now, don't be haughty," he laughed, a wet, ugly sound. He reached out, his thick fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve. "I could show you a good time before you scurry back to your tower. I bet you've never even had a real man between those legs, have you?"

Revulsion curdled in your stomach. You tried to jerk your arm away, but his grip tightened, bruisingly hard. "Unhand me," you hissed, your shyness burning away in a flash of hot anger.

"Feisty," he grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "I like that. Makes it better when you break."

He didn't see the slap coming. You swung your hand with every ounce of strength your fear and fury could muster, connecting hard with his cheek. The sound was a sharp crack that echoed off the nearby tents. His head snapped to the side, and he stumbled back a step, more from surprise than pain.

Before he could recover, you kicked him. You aimed for his knee but caught his shin, driving the hard toe of your slipper into the bone. The knight howled, a sound of pure, undignified agony, and crumbled to the dirt, clutching his leg.

"You little bitch!" he spat, tears of pain actually gathering in his eyes as he glared up at you from the ground. "Do you know who I am? I'll have you whipped for this insolence!"

"You'll do nothing," a new voice cut through the air.

The knight froze. You looked up, your breath catching in your throat. A man stood over the drunken knight, his presence instantly commanding the space.

Baelor. The Prince.

He didn't look at you. His eyes were fixed on the heap of a man on the ground. "I suggest you leave, before I decide that a knight who cannot hold his wine has no business holding a sword either."

The knight scrambled backward, his bravado evaporating instantly in the face of royal authority. He muttered a curse, scrambled to his feet, and limped away as fast as his injured leg would carry him, not daring to look back.

Only then did Baelor turn his gaze to you. The intensity of his focus made your knees feel weak, but not from fear. He studied your face, taking in the tears in your eyes, the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

"Are you harmed?" he asked, stepping closer. Up close, he was even more striking. He was tall, with the build of a warrior who had spent a lifetime with sword and shield, tanned skin, arresting eyes, lines of experience around his eyes that only added to his handsomeness.

"I am perfectly fine," you said, perhaps a bit too quickly, smoothing your skirts with trembling hands. "He was... he was just drunk."

"He was a fool," Baelor corrected gently. He looked around the empty patch of ground. "Where are your ladies? Your guard? Tourneys are no place for young maidens to be alone."

You bit your lip, feeling embarrassment creep up your neck. "I... I slipped them. I just wanted a moment of quiet."

A corner of his mouth twitched upward. It wasn't a mocking smile — it was warm, amused. "I see. You handled yourself remarkably well. That was a formidable kick."

"I can take care of myself," you insisted, lifting your chin again, though your voice lacked its earlier bite.

"Yes," he said softly, his eyes roaming over your face with a new kind of interest. "That is apparent."

"Come. I will walk you back. I cannot in good conscience leave you here, waiting for the next drunkard to find you."

"I can find my own way."

"I have no doubt," he said, offering his arm. "But humor an old man. I would feel better knowing you reached safety."

You hesitated. You were annoyed at being treated like a child, at needing a rescue when you had clearly been winning the fight. But you looked at his arm — strong, steady, clothed in fine velvet — and then up at his face. He was incredibly handsome.

You placed your hand on his arm. "Very well, my prince."

The walk back was a slow one. At first, you were silent, stewing in your annoyance, but Baelor did not press you. He spoke of the heat, of the tourney, of the specific breed of hawks his sons were training. You found yourself looking at him more often than not, watching the way the sunlight caught the grey in his beard, the way his amber eye seemed to hold a secret fire.

By the time you reached the shadow of the castle walls, your annoyance had evaporated, replaced by a strange, fluttering sensation in your stomach. He bowed over your hand before leaving, his lips brushing your knuckles in a gesture that was formal yet lingered a fraction of a second too long.

"Take care of yourself, my lady," he murmured.

You watched him walk away, and for the first time in your life, you felt a pang of regret that a conversation was ending.

The months that followed were a blur of stolen glances, secret meetings, and a court that whispered furiously about the Prince's new infatuation. Baelor agonised over the age difference, he was old enough to be your father, but the heart, as the poets often said, rarely listened to reason.

You fell in love with his quiet strength. He fell in love with your fire, your spirit, the way you looked at him not as a prince but as a man.

The wedding was a grand affair, but the wedding night was yours alone.

You had feared a duty, a fumbling, awkward encounter performed in the dark under the sheets. Instead, Baelor had treated your body like a holy site, worshipping every inch of you with a patience and skill that made you weep. When he joined you in the bed, the insecurities about his age, about his ability to please a woman in the flower of her youth, vanished in the heat of your touch. You were insatiable, and he rose to meet you, again and again, proving that experience and endurance were worth far more than youth.

But the whispers did not stop. If anything, they grew louder. Baelor heard them all. They said ladies your age were insatiable, that you needed a stallion, not an ageing warhorse. They said it had been too many years since Baelor had proven himself in the field, and surely he was failing you in the bedchamber. He saw the way men looked at you when you walked through the gardens, old lords and young squires alike, their eyes lingering on your figure, imagining they could give you what he supposedly could not. It ate at him, a quiet, corrosive jealousy. He loved you with a ferocity that terrified him, the thought of losing you, of you looking elsewhere because he failed you, caused physical pain in his chest.

He didn't need to prove anything to you. You were insatiable, it was true, but he was the only one who could quench that thirst. You didn't look at the young squires or the handsome knights. Your eyes were only for your husband. You wanted him constantly, the feel of his rough hands, the scent of his skin, the deep gravelly sound of his voice when he lost control.

You didn't care for propriety. You didn't care if the guards heard your cries through the doors of your chambers. In fact, the thought that they knew exactly what their prince was doing to his young wife only made you wetter, made you claw at his back harder.

It started in the garden. It was a secluded corner, or so you had thought, surrounded by high hedges. The sun was high, casting dappled shadows on the grass. Baelor had been reading a report on a bench, but you had other plans. You missed him. He had been in council for three days straight, and you felt like a starving woman denied her favourite meal.

You dropped to your knees in the dirt before him, not caring about the stains on your velvet skirts. You pushed his tunic up, your mouth finding the hard line of his stomach, trailing kisses downward until you reached the laces of his breeches.

He gasped, his hand tangling in your hair, his resistance crumbling instantly as your fingers worked the leather strings. "Someone will see."

"Let them," you whispered, freeing his cock. It was thick and heavy, already hard for you. You took him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head, tasting the salt of him.

He groaned, a sound that was half-protest, half-surrender. "You are a wicked girl," he breathed, his hips bucking up slightly.

You pulled back and turned around, dropping to your hands and knees. You looked back at him over your shoulder, your hair cascading down your back. "Fuck me, Baelor. Please."

He fell to his knees behind you, gripping your hips with bruising force. He lined himself up and slammed into you, filling you so completely that you cried out, your fingers digging into the earth.

He took you hard and fast, his hips slapping against your backside, driving you into the dirt. There was no gentleness here. You pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, begging for more.

"Gods, you are tight," he gritted out, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I love this cunt."

"It is yours," you moaned, your voice rising. "Only yours. Fuck me harder!"

The snap of a twig broke through the haze of your arousal. You didn't care, but Baelor froze. His head snapped up, his body tensing.

Standing ten feet away, clutching a basket of fallen flowers, was one of your maids. Her eyes were wide as saucers, her mouth open in a silent cry. She stared at the sight of her princess on her hands and knees in the dirt, being taken by the heir to the throne.

Baelor started to pull back, panic flaring in his mismatched eyes. "I told you this was a bad idea," he hissed.

"Don't stop," you commanded, your voice breathless and desperate. You pushed back onto him, taking him deep again, clenching around him to hold him there. "Don't you dare stop. She has already seen."

The maid dropped her basket. Flowers scattered everywhere. She turned and fled, her footsteps pounding away on the gravel path.

Baelor groaned, the exhibitionism clearly infecting him too. He gripped your hips harder and resumed his rhythm, even harder than before.

The stables were next. You had intended to go for a ride in the Kingswood, a leisurely afternoon escape. But as soon as you entered the dim, hay-scented building, the privacy of the high loft overwhelmed you.

Baelor was checking on his black destrier. You walked up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your chest against his back. He smelled of leather and bergamot, a scent that made your head spin.

"I think I would rather ride my dragon than a horse," you whispered against his spine, your hand sliding down to the front of his breeches.

He turned in your arms, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss, lifting you effortlessly and setting you on a bale of hay. He shoved his breeches down just enough, and you hiked your skirts up, opening your legs for him. He stepped between your thighs, lifting your legs to wrap around his waist before impaling you on his cock in one smooth stroke. You gasped, your head falling back against the rough wood of the stall wall.

"Ride me, then," he commanded, his hands gripping your backside.

The friction was exquisite, the stretch intense. You were lost in the rhythm, so focused on the feeling of him filling you, stretching you, that you didn't hear the approach of the stable hand until you heard a sharp intake of breath.

You looked over Baelor's shoulder. The young man stood frozen in the aisle, a curry comb in his hand, his eyes locked on the sight of his prince buried inside his princess. He stood there, his cheeks flushing red, watching.

Baelor realised what was happening, felt the way you clenched around him in response to the voyeur. He chuckled darkly against your neck. "You like being watched, don't you?"

"Yes," you hissed. "I want everyone to see how well you fuck me."

He redoubled his efforts, pounding into you harder. You cried out, your orgasm building fast and hot. When it hit, you shattered, your body convulsing, your cries echoing off the stone walls. Baelor followed you moments later, burying his face in your neck as he emptied himself inside you.

The stable boy was gone when you finally came down, but the knowledge that he had stayed, that he had watched every second, lingered between you like a third presence.

The small council chamber was the ultimate transgression. Baelor sat at the head of the table, surrounded by empty chairs, preparing for the afternoon session. He looked tired, lines of fatigue etched around his eyes.

You slipped into the room, closing the heavy oak door behind you.

"You look exhausted," you said softly, walking up to his high-backed chair.

He looked up, a tired smile transforming his face. "The realm does not rest, my love."

"Rest for a moment," you murmured, climbing onto his lap. You straddled his legs, your skirts pooling around you.

He sighed, wrapping his arms around your waist, burying his face in your cleavage. "You are a distraction," he mumbled, but his hands were already wandering, sliding up your back to pull you closer.

"I want to be your distraction," you whispered, kissing his forehead, his nose, finding his lips.

The kiss was slow and sweet, but it ignited a fire that had been smouldering for days. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you. His hands gripped your waist, lifting you slightly.

"You are bare," he observed with a groan, his fingers encountering nothing but soft skin and wet heat under your layers of silk. "Do you wish to kill me?"

You hummed in response.

"Turn around," he breathed.

He lifted you and turned you so your back was pressed against his chest, your legs draped over the arms of the chair. He quickly unlaced his breeches, freeing his straining erection.

You reached down, guiding him to your entrance. You were dripping wet, ready for him. He gripped your hips and pulled you down onto him, filling you in one long, smooth glide.

"Gods," you gasped, your head falling back against his shoulder. He felt so big like this, stretching you wide.

He held you still, his hips bucking up slightly, grinding deep inside you. "I could stay like this forever," he whispered in your ear, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck.

The door handle rattled. You both froze. The heavy oak door pushed open and Maekar strode in, followed by the other council members. They stopped short when they saw the tableau. Baelor sat in his chair, looking completely at ease. You sat on his lap looking demure, your skirts hiding the fact that your husband was buried inside you.

"My lady," Maekar said, confused. "I... did not realise you were attending."

"Just observing."

Baelor's hand rested on your hip, possessive and heavy. "Shall we begin?"

The meeting was agony. Every shift Baelor made sent jolts of pleasure through you. Every time he coughed or cleared his throat, you felt the vibration in his chest. You sat through discussions of taxes and grain with a dripping cunt and a husband who was slowly, subtly rocking his hips, keeping himself hard inside you.

When the other lords finally filed out an hour later, you were trembling with the effort of staying quiet. Only Maekar remained. He waited for the door to close.

He looked at Baelor sharply. "Is something the matter? You seem... distracted."

Baelor shifted, and you had to bite your lip to keep from moaning. "I am perfectly fine, brother."

Maekar's eyes narrowed. He looked at you, then at Baelor, then down at the way your skirts were arranged, the way Baelor's arm was locked around your waist. The realisation dawned on his face slowly.

He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. He looked at you both with incredulous eyes, then at his brother. "Have you no shame?"

Baelor threw his head back and laughed, a full, rich sound that made his cock twitch inside you. "I assure you, this was not my idea."

Maekar stormed out, shaking his head, muttering about madness and Targaryen blood.

Baelor kissed your neck, his laughter fading into a satisfied hum. "You, my pretty little wife," he whispered, his hand sliding up to cup your breast, "keep getting me into trouble."

"I think you like it," you breathed, finally letting yourself move, grinding down onto him.

"I do," he admitted. "I love you."

He began to move again, intent on finishing what he had started.

The whispers in the court changed. They did not call him an old man anymore. They said the prince and his young wife were mad, insatiable for each other, unable to keep their hands off one another.