What brought you to me?

You came to him with wet eyes, clutching a piece of parchment in your hand, voice wavering with anguish as you told him of your father falling ill, and fearing the worst of this fever, you begged him to let you go to him.

Although he understood your reasons, your father being the only family you had left, he could not allow you to go.

Even if he allowed it — it was futile, for all he knew, your father has been dead and for a while now too. This plague ravaged it's hosts like nothing he's ever heard of — but he did not say this to you though, those words were too cruel to say, much less hear.

Instead, he took the letter from your hands and threw it into the hearth, then held your face in his hands and wiped away at your falling tears, doing his best to ignore the betrayed look in your eyes.

"I cannot allow it," He said, the voice you loved gentle but firm, yet you couldn't find it in you to melt to the timbre the way you used to, instead your shoulders went rigid and your wet eyes glared where they would have softened. "I'm so sorry, starlight, it's not safe."

When he bent to give you chaste kiss to soothe you, you didn't reciprocate nor pull away, meeting him with defiant eyes when he drew back, it felt more patronizing than comforting.

Baelor gave no comment—as much as it hurt his heart to see you like this—instead, he gently told you to cleanse your hands, wary of the letter bearing contaminants. Because he understood that time is what you needed, you'll understand then.

Despite his plans to leave you to process— he could not do it.

He could not bear to see you like this, it wasn't like you at all.

You used to be so cheery and carefree before that letter came—even after the keep closed its doors and you could not host your banquets nor see your friends anymore, you remained bright and sweet.

That smile and cheer was what drew him to you in the first place — you were like a star that steered him through the dark, you were the sweetness that kept his days from tasting sour, you were lovely and easy to love.

That was the reasoning he gave the King when he brought forth the idea of your betrothal, you were charismatic and had no problem making friends of the stoniest persons.

Even Valarr and Matarys couldn't keep their initial silent displeasure and distance for long, especially when you gave them Naerys.

Naerys…

His sweet Naerys…

Baelor was not one for superstition, but he could not stop wondering if he doomed his girl by giving her that name, that sweet girl was more prone to fevers than most, and the thought of this plague touching the same air she breathed terrified him more than anything, he could not bear the thought.

And he could not bear to have her lose her mother to grief either.

The gloom could be felt even from the other side of your shared bedchambers. Lounged on the settee, you mindlessly eyed the book laid out on the cushions.

Baelor was sure you weren't reading a single word, your eyes were moving along the words, but you haven't turned the page for what felt like ages.

He took it upon himself to cut through this eerie silence.

"My love?"

"Hmm?" You replied, the sound coming out hoarse and weak, your eyes remained in their looped movements.

"Come to bed."

A heartbeat passed, then another skipped at your eyes flicking to him for a moment, his heart gladdened that you looked at him even if it was hardly anything of note.

"I'm not tired," you said.

"You've been up as long as I have, starlight, you are not fooling me," he joked, but you found no humor.

"I will come to bed—just not now."

That wasn't going to happen.

Baelor off the bed and closed the distance until you could not help but look up at him. He knelt before you, placing his chin on the arm he perched on the cushion, your attention turned back to the pages, only for a moment, because Baelor decided he wanted to borrow it.

"I was reading that," you said as you sat up. "give it back."

"I did not know you were interested in valyrian folktales," Baelor remarked while he eyed the contents of the pages, he turned to you and delighted at your bashful expression.

"I am not," you argued, ignoring the heat that flushed your face. "it's for Naerys, I want to read to her too—it's difficult enough that she likes you more than me so don't mock me."

"I am not mocking you, love," Baelor smiled, set the book on the table behind him and settled back on his arm. "and she does not favor me over you."

He paused in thought as he stared up at you with those eyes that never failed to make you feel seen, inside and out. "In truth, I do not believe she favors you over me either—its far simpler than that—she yearns most for whomever is farthest from her. For all we know she's dreaming of us both while we are discussing who she likes most."

That seemed to placate you somewhat, slightly softened the frown of your lips and the furrow of your brow. So he took the chance to hold your hand up to his lips and kiss it with his eyes on yours.

"There will be time for reading later—come to bed, please?" he implored, caressing the back of your hand with his lips that has long since lost their softness, dried from the stress of everything. The feeling of them stung at your heart, more than the prickling of the salty trail your tears left in their wake.

You wanted to, but you couldn't.

The sight of your lips trembling tore the smile from his face. "I'm sorry, Baelor," the tears already fell once more, following along the burning trail down your cheeks. "I can't sleep—I tried already, but all I can do is toss and turn and think about him—I feel badly for him, Baelor, if I sent for him to come like I wished and hadn't lazed over it he would've been here! safe and well and he would've seen his granddaughter walk for the first time, but he isn't and it's all my fault it turned out this way,"

You let him press you hard and close, trapping your arms between you and giving you no choice but to clutch at the fabrics of his tunic, his all-encompassing warmth soothed and surrounded you whole.

Baelor never lacked for patience and affection, and it never failed to leave you awestruck, how he was always tied up by duties from dawn to dusk and still found it in him to put you first, all gladly and ungrudgingly no matter how tired he was and no matter how unfair you acted.

It only made you press your face harder into the crook of his neck and revive the dying sobs you tried to bury.

The ache of his knees screamed at him to give them rest, but he could not have that until your grief lulled itself away first, and so he ran his hands comfortingly up and down your back until those sobs turned to soft hiccups, but even then he did not let go until you felt comfortable to do it first, and as soon as you did he wasted no time in wiping away your tears and peppered kisses on your face.

Feeling a surge of overwhelming fondness you turned your face to catch his lips with your own, pouring every emotion you felt for him into the kiss, all the love and gratefulness you felt.

You separated to draw breath into your lungs, but you couldn't find it in you to be away from him, your lips brushing over his like feathers. "I'm sorry for today, that was not right of me,"

"No, no, it's alright," Baelor said against your lips then kissed you again. "you have nothing to be sorry for."

You didn't believe that at all—but you didn't want to argue because you knew if you went down that path it would be an endless chain of apologies and misplaced reassurances. You would let him think you believe you were guiltless if it made him smile.

Baelor got off his knees and offered you a hand that you took eagerly.

"If you cannot sleep—would you like me to read that book for you? I'll help you learn the words you don't know," he proposed and you looked up at him with concern.

Yes, you would very much like that.

Your husband's voice was enchanting enough in the common tongue, you swore (and you have actually sworn) that you could listen to him speak on for days about the blandest of things and never get bored—but there was something about the way the valyrian words rolled off his tongue that had you convinced it was only good when he spoke it.

"You need to rest more than me, sunlight, you've been awake longer than I," you told him, unaware of the flutters you caused in his stomach when he finally heard you say that nickname. "are you sure you want to do that?"

"With all my heart," he said earnestly.

You gave him a kiss in lieu of a response and let him lead you to bed.

Despite all your assertions and insistences that you would not be able to sleep, it took a measly ten minutes of reading for you to drift off to sleep, your soft snores and the way you went lax on his chest gave you away immediately.

Baelor couldn't resist the urge to press his lips along your face, breathing you in between each kiss and whispering promises he vowed to repeat when you woke up.

"Why-ever not?" He says as he invites himself into your home. "I am a prince, you are a royal subject I am expected to look after."

He seats himself on the chair like he's done the first time moons ago. "And I still owe you–"

"You already paid me back, my lord," you say abruptly, heart dropping once you realized you interrupted him but it was too late not to continue anyways. "and it was nothing as I've told you before."

"No," he tells you simply. "my son means much to me, and for that reason, my debt to you is not something easily paid, what I gave you is nothing compared to what you have done."

A moment of silence passes before he speaks up again. "Speaking of him, he very much liked to grant you this invitation."

He passes you a piece of rolled parchment, with the seal of the three-headed dragon.

You break the wax-seal as the prince continues. "His seventh name-day is fast approaching, and he would like for you to attend." The words looked clearly penned by a child—from all the wobbly lettering and spelling errors—you would have been concerned for the man's education if he hadn't said that the princeling was the one who invited you.

It must have been important to him, if he'd written it himself, the sweetness of the gesture warmed your chest and you found yourself agreeing without much thought to the consequences.

"Okay."

Okay? Maekar expected he would need to convince you, this went better than he thought. It was true that Aegon wanted you to attend along with your beast of a guard dog—but he was the nameday boy so he could not refuse him such a small request.

"Excellent," he says with a satisfied smile. "I'll send some skilled laborers your way to tend the field and animals while you take residence in Summerhall—the celebrations will be going for a week after all."

You hadn't thought of that, a flush rose up your neck.

Wait a minute…

Take residence? In the castle? You thought it would be for a single day…

"I will also send for a garment maker to pay you a visit, as royal blood will be in attendance – and no matter how much you deny it, you are still of noble blood, even if it is through your mother's line alone, therefore you must look the part."

You nod weakly, hoping you do not have to see your kin, or if they do attend (or when they attend, you doubt they would miss such a royal occasion) you hope that they do not recognize you.

"Do not forget," Maekar reminds. "you cannot change your mind on a whim, if you find yourself having second thoughts, voice them now, do not waste my time."

Your eyes flickered the sunlight back to him as you silently returned his gaze, he could not tell if you were having second thoughts from your unreadable expression.

It was only three seconds of thinking on how you would fix your schedule around his plan, organize the tasks you will have to do, such as disabling the traps around the perimeter of your home, writing down instructions to the workers on each animal's behavior and routine, locking your valuables somewhere safe (the prince may trust them but you don't know these people) and other cumbersome chores.

He did not see that silence as you planning out your next weeks, he took it as you ruminating on how to voice your reconsideration.

"It's settled then," the anvil declared as he stood. "I will be back with the garment maker in a week's time."

You got on your feet and watched him walk towards the bookcase to inspect it. "I see you have thrown those old things away."

You would never do such a terrible thing. "No, my lord," you reply. "only stored them elsewhere."

The prince hummed lowly in response, and strode off, and you thought he was finally leaving but instead he walked to the pens holding your cattle, nose slightly scrunched at the pungent odor of them, maybe you have gotten desensitized to it, but you believed they could not be so bad for him to look at them like that.

How you lived between these creatures daily and nightly and still managed to have such an… okay scent was beyond Maekar—anyway… that was not why he came here.

"The workers I mentioned," Maekar began. "would you prefer it if you met them some time beforehand?"

You nod. He mirrors your nod and looks back towards your little farm, eyes following a sheep.

"Should not need more than two by the looks of it." Maekar remarks, not quite believing his own words—he's certain two was not enough.

Is this your compensation for the loneliness? surrounding yourself with so many animals and work to busy yourself? It's a miracle how you have not gone mad.

You would not need be so overworked if you just set your pride aside and came with him to Summerhall.

What if you were too sick to take care of yourself? You were smart, he doubts the thought did not cross your mind, and still you refuse to cease living such a difficult life.

There's unbending resolve and there's senseless stubbornness — and he believes that same stubbornness would be the death of you.

That's why he came here — right?

If all goes to plan you would like Summerhall so much so that you would never want to leave.

"This will be all for today," Maekar says. "like I told you, I will be back with the dressmaker next week – have an idea of how you'd want your gowns because he will be asking questions."

You really do not believe all of this was necessary. Surely the dresses you've been given already were lavish enough?

You could not decline him though, you've done that enough, so with a small smile you nod. "I understand."

No more words were exchanged thereafter, and the Anvil took his leave.

True to his word, he was in your home at midday the following week, with the resident tailor of Summerhall in tow, Dorron of Myr.

That man was a perfectionist through and through. You could not deny he had passion for his work, but you could only endure so many questions and the prince staring ominously in the corner of the room did not help put you at ease at all.

The young woman named Tessa, who assisted him in taking your measurements conducted herself in a way that told you that this was not her usual work, not to mention she was not dressed as extravagantly as that dressmaker.

Your guess is that she was a servant girl at the castle that's been picked at random to take the measurements in place of him, which was very thoughtful of the dressmaker.

Once again, the credit does not find it's way to the Anvil.

Not that he'd know of your thoughts, of course.

Although those holes he's drilling into you might puncture into your mind and have them spill out for all to see — did his station permit he relinquish all manners?

"What is the sigil of your house?" The man asks you.

"Is that of importance?" You respond posture stiff to let the girl do her job accurately.

"Yes, one must need one look at you to know which house you belong to, colors are not enough."

You would not say you had a house sigil, could your father's coat of arms count?

"An icy blue bluebell flower on white."

Maekar knows house Stryker, and that was nowhere close to their sigil. Not in the slightest. Their colors were black and yellow and their sigil was as Stormlander as can be.

Two clashing battleaxes with sparks flying from their impact.

Have you made up a sigil for your father's on the spot?

No one has seen a sigil of a house Stallard, because this surname was of no renown, there were no lesser or great house of that name.

Hopefully no one finds themselves curious and interested in who you were, although it feels impossible, he's sure you would draw some eyes.

A pretty woman by her lonesome. No ladies-in-waiting nor any relatives at her side.

He needs to fix that.

"Please not so tight," you say when she binds the measuring ribbon tight around your chest. She mumbles an apology and loosens it, causing the dressmaker to click his tongue in mock disapproval.

He takes the ribbon from Tessa's hands and pulls the edges together slowly. "Why if it were any looser I'd lose all my fabrics. Tell me when it's just right, my lady."

You hum in response, grateful he was so careful with not touching you with his knuckles. "That's good."

"Excellent." The man says distractedly as he writes down the result.

He looks up at his prince and he swears he saw images of his enroaching execution flashing across his vision. While he's used to seeing the prince scowl and glare at everything. He's never seen him look so murderous before.

He has overstepped. He must rectify his mistake.

"I would like to apologize, my lady," you give a confused look. "Whatever for?"

"I should not have been so forward as to measure you myself, my prince told me of your aversion to touch and for that I apologize, I'd forgotten about it."

Your aversion to touch?

You had an aversion to people, not touches borne out of practicality, and it may have been odd but it was purely business and he had not been unpleasant or pervasive about it.

You give him a reassuring smile. "You hardly grazed me, ser, not much for me to forgive."

The man chuckles. "I am not a knight, my lady, you needn't call me ser."

"Well, I am not a lady but I allow you to address me as one." You counter.

When he goes to respond a deep voice rumbles out from behind you, impatience dripping from his tone. "Are you quite done?"

Dorron keeps the smile he gave you frozen on his face as he looks up towards his prince.

"Yes, your grace, all done," he replies wiggling his logbook up in affirmation, your name and measurements on the page adjacent to the one belonging to little Rhae.

"And when can the dresses be finished?"

"I think I can have them perfected and ready to doubly pretty up my lady by–" Dorron could not even finish his sentence.

"Next week?" The anvil deadpans.

The curt inquiry was more of an order, if you read into his tone that beheld absolute conviction, or simply look upon the man's impatient expression.

What the prince was asking of him was strenuous—fourteen extravagant gowns, two to wear throughout the day for a whole week—and they were to be done in the span of a single week!

Surely this was his punishment for his blundering mistake, but to Dorron of Myr, it was a challenge all the same.

"Certainly, your grace." Dorron says charmingly.

"Good." The prince sounds out venomously.

Maekar turns to you, and you tense up, slightly more than you did whilst watching the uncomfortable exchange.

"We shall see you next week then, my lady." He says stonily, and takes his leave, his entourage following after him but not before giving you respectful curtsies and nods.

Nearly a week passes, the gowns were not done, but he comes to you anyway.

A discomfort in his stomach urges him to, brought on by a dream.

You covered in red. Kneeling with blustering heavy breaths on the ground.

He wakes with a start at your crazed bloodshot eyes meeting his at a snap of your head towards him.

His concerns were brought to life when he found your front-door wide open, and your beast of a mutt was cowering and whining in fear in the corner. What has she to fear?

Furniture strewn about as if a battle stormed through.

No signs of you or the intruder.

If he were of sounder mind, he would have realized there was no intruder.

The trap you'd lain at your doorstep was untouched – inactive.

There was no intruder.

Only you.

He'd only realized that when thundering footsteps sounded at his side — and you lunged at him with your knife.

----

Oh you've heard all about that, but it was adorable how she wanted to share this 'secret' piece of information with you, so you pretended to be caught off guard anyway, she was the nameday girl after-all, and a little white lie never hurt anyone, now did it? You did not know if she was to have another nameday as good as this one, considering the amount your father spent to show off, insurmountable amounts of coin that may never find their way back to the coffers.

You could not say you were particularly excited about the arrival of your guests of honor, being what you were. The kind term used for you was "natural daughter", although many preferred the short and sweet title of "bastard" when your back was turned.

And while the reputation of bastards were never truly as flowery as that surname branded upon you the moment you drew breath—it did not help at all that the war waged by one that shared your affliction was still fresh on the minds of all. Sufficed to say you were unsure of the wisdom of your being here—more so on your task of "earning favor" from your honored, royal guests, which was a more dignified way to say you were to doll yourself up to entice them into taking you as paramour—that was the best case scenario.

You doubted anything would come of it. For one, even if it was a trivial thing, you hardly knew a thing of the royal princes for you did not expect to meet them in person, much less see them a single time in your life.

As a result of that realization, you decided to pay a visit to that increasingly packed meadow, confident that you would find what you desired there, because you certainly weren't going to get any from your lord-father.

Naturally, the information was easy to find, and even more so entertaining was the night you spent acquiring it, this was one upside of bastardy, prying eyes were not constant and you were allowed to do as you wished so long as you were not recognized—an easy feat.

Opinions and telltales on the Targaryens were as clashing as night and day, you'd found.

Most were not completely content with them, one man drunkenly regaled you with tales of times he never really witnessed himself, of times before the Conquerors, when the kingdoms were independent and spent ample time affronting the house of dragon with a blistering, audacious loudness — you left him mid-rant, of course.

You doubted that any of the treason he was wasting your time and his breath with was truly any of your business, if it was anything true, and it certainly was not giving you anything of substance for you to use.

The song of the Hammer and Anvil kindly gave you a little perspective on them, not much on their personalities besides them being an excellent, unrivaled pair of soldiers, but you learned about one other thing. If you enjoyed his company enough and were so inclined to try and solicit the older prince to take you to bed—you would have a good time, if the song held any truth, what with his giant veiny "host of dornish spear-men."

The Hammer's son, Valarr, was married so that was that, you were not exactly desperate enough to be a homewrecker.

The Anvil's sons, Prince Daeron and Aerion were close to you in age, you found, neither of them had any tales or accounts that tugged at your heartstrings, they were not particularly the type of men you would swoon over. You liked your gentlemen older, leaving you only two choices, their fathers.

The older prince seemed the kind to humor a young maiden and allow you his time and conversation, but the younger prince? You were unsure of him, the man would most likely kick you right out, you doubted someone with as many sons and daughters, many of which were described with distasteful words such as "disappointing" and "monsterous", a man who had to take care of such a brood alone would not care nor have the time or energy for baser pleasures such as a woman's company.

But at a certain point during your little investigation and plans you decided not to overthink it. Princes they may be, they were no different than the men you've brought to heel before. A fact, self-evident and unchanged was as followed: there was nothing so undoing to a man than a lady's touch and smile. And you will prove it once again when those black and red banners finally show themselves in Ashford Meadow.

"Our Lord of Ashford humbly welcomes the great and honorable Baelor Targaryen, firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King and heir to the Iron Throne," the Herald might as well pause to drink some water from how many titles he had to mention and no one would fault him for it.

And if his titles hadn't made you dizzy, the man himself made sure to make it so you were. Draped in Targaryen black, he took your breath away; with his broad shoulders, his greying hair and beard that only emphasized how handsome he was.

He towered over them all even from your perch on the stands above, you were thankful for your bastardy then, because you knew you would make a fool of yourself if he were before you now, and smiled at you like that.

"and his brother, Maekar." The herald rushed in a near stumble of words, that misstep not missed by the man heralded, you were certain his name was not said correctly either—or you thought you were certain, at least.

Was it 'may-kar' or 'my-kar'? Maybe the herald was onto something with that 'mee-kar'.

Oh who in the hells cared?

That chain of thought that only sprang out as a futile distraction from the intense heat and dizziness you felt when you saw his brother was abandoned as quickly as your mind took it up, because what little sense remained—what little he spared you at the sight of him—reminded you that you mustn't even be here.

And so you retreated back within the castle with your marching steps matched with the rushing rhythm of your heart. Your quickened pace made some castle servants slow their own to see if you were well, some instead staring at your retreating form with a raised eyebrow, wondering what managed to chip at the Lady Flowers' polished poise so much so that she would rush in a manner so unlike herself.

In the solar that doubled as a chamber for guest reception, you waited, willing away all the jitters you felt as you inspected the bowls of fruits laid out on the table for what felt like the hundredth time but truly was the fifth.

It would not do to lose composure like this.

You believed that you've perfected the art of pretending.

Ever since you've known what it meant, you've been a pretender.

You've pretended to not notice the little slights of Lady Ashford, the biggest of all being the creation of your moniker: "Lady Flowers."

It used to wound, but now you were numbed to such artless mockery.

Adding to that your many dresses being devoid of the Ashford sun, but each generously overflowing with flowers from the tops of the bodice down to the base of the skirts—each petal a reminder, underhanded yet as clear as that sun you were deprived of for so long.

It was only after your sweet sister's insistence that you would match her in garments when you finally got the chance to know what it felt to bear the sun—it felt empty.

Your grandest performance was in pretending that it did not annoy or upset you how many times you were thrown onto lords for alliances that would never bear fruition, because no matter how charmed a man would be he would much rather marry the daughter of a greater lord to better serve his position, you were momentary, an alluring distraction that was to be forgotten the second the hoofbeats of departure drummed their way out of town.

You did not understand what your father hoped to gain from this. Did he think the princes—the heir apparent and the man who was more soldier than prince—would ever think to ask for your hand?

It was laughable—but hey, at least you would be spending time with Him, and if you were lucky it would be until the morning, your father would not shame you for it, apparently—annoyingly. It seemed your "whoring" was acceptable if it was with a prince.

Speaking of, you could hear a march of steps and your father's voice following along the sounds, carrying on a conversation you'd rather not interrupt. With a deep breath, you smiled gently and charmingly, the smile of a lady who has never been tense a day in her life, the smile of a lady that doesn't know the meaning of trouble, but would be down to get up close and personal with it — the smile men liked to see.

The silver-haired prince did not even realize you were there, as did most of them, not even your father realized you were in the room, but you did not truly blame them, because you stood in their blind-spot beside the solar's entrance, and you did not announce yourself, who were you really, even your lord-father let the conversation proceed without him, so why interfere?

The older prince saw you first, his gaze sweeping, eyes sharpened with the honed perceptiveness of a man who had to learn to count every head and to whose body they were connected to before he could let his guard down for even a second in any room he stepped into.

You held his gaze, his eyes of light and dark unfaltering in their focus.

They were pretty, you decided, especially when they flitted down to take you in. The motion quick and one you wouldn't have noticed if you weren't staring back at him.

Perhaps staring directly at a prince was insolence, but he did not seem to mind, so neither should you.

Your smile grew wider, the nerves you felt settled down, he was as gallant as they all said, respectful and humble, gentle and kind with the servants, calm and understanding with his agitated brother. Regardless of his lack of respect for his hosts, deeming your sister's nameday celebrations a "miserable circus."

Your father turned around and nearly jumped in place, making the princes turn sharply to where he was staring, your name burst out of his lips in a shout.

Your smile stayed unmoving, no matter how many times you scared your father like this it was always hysterical, it was made more amusing by how the hands of the princes found the hilts of their daggers in a flash, thinking there was some danger by the way your father jolted, you allowed yourself a passing glance at the older prince's hand—just for a moment.

"Your graces, allow me to introduce you," your father started as you walked towards him at the outstretch of his arm beckoning you close.

You gave a curtsy as you were introduced, just like those disdained septas taught you, back straight as an arrow when you bent down, swift and graceful. To your surprise (and utter delight) Baelor extended a hand, palm facing up in a polite and wordless request to take your hand in a kiss, a request you granted in a near instant with girlish eagerness shrouded by a lady's restraint.

Just before his lips touched your hand the booming voice of the Anvil had him draw back. You did not like that man—at all.

"You!" He shouted and all heads turned to the doorway to find what held the man's ire.

"Who are you? What do you mean by spying on us?"

A tall man timidly showed himself from behind the carved, curved wall, the way he believed that he hid himself well was comical, something told you that was a thing that happened to him a lot. No man of that stature can really blend anywhere, but his posture disagreed with him, he slouched as if that could make the prior statement untrue.

Having realized the impropriety of your proximity, that his hand was still holding onto yours, you pulled away reluctantly and took your place next to the steward, and you watched. Looked on to the hedge knight's appeal to the prince, who only responded with grace and patience, unlike his brother who kept on interrupting, disgruntled by everything.

The admiration you held for him only grew stronger and stronger. You've never met a nobleman that was as devoid of arrogance as he. To remember a hedge knight, a stranger one met once upon a joust was not something any would bother doing, but he did.

It was refreshing, and you could tell the knight thought so too, having been turned away by so many men who have had his old master nearly die countless times under their service but were too entrenched in their own splendor to care about him over his lack of a great noble name. You were happy for him, truly, it was your sincerest hope that he would win, if not you wish he'd be agreeable to having his horse and armor bought back by a lady and not prattle on about propriety and how it would be unseemly for him to let a woman spend her silvers on him, he seemed the type, you could see it in his big doe eyes.

Now that you thought about it—does he even own any armor? Seemingly not, from that sorry string of rope tied around his waist acting as belt.

After all was said and done, and the hedge knight took his leave, you felt that it was your turn. You were done with the prelude; You have introduced yourself to them, might even go as far as to say that you already held their interest—Baelor more so than Maekar, you could not tell if the latter's looks were of interest or not, what with his scowl etched deep in his face, he was offended by your presence, most like.

But Baelor?

Everything pointed to him taking a liking to you—it was exciting. His mindful eyes spread a pleasant warmth at the core of your stomach, spreading outwards, like the warmth of a hot drink in a cold winter's night. If only that hedge night hid himself better, maybe you'd know what his lips felt like on your skin, you wonder if you might've fainted then if only his eyes had caused butterflies to swirl in your stomach.

The tall doors of your father's chambers loomed overhead — you stared blankly at them, but the frustration was close to showing itself on your face.

Mind absent, you didn't hear the footsteps approach.

"If you mean to speak to your lord-father, my lady," a genteel voice that was sure to haunt your dreams cut through the fog surrounding your mind. "you will not find him here—he has been kind to allow me residence in his chambers for the time being."

The surprise lasted hardly a second before you quelled it and gave him a curtsy. It wasn't that you hadn't known about this lodging agreement, it didn't surprise you at all when you were informed of it, your father is arguably the physical manifestation of sycophancy, it was more embarrassing than anything else if you were to be honest.

"Your grace," you greeted with a small smile. "I did not know of this change—I apologize,"

"Do not apologize, this is your home," Baelor reassured with a small smile.

Quietly, you nodded. "I will not disturb you any longer, your grace."

"Enjoy your night," you said as you passed him and the kingsguard whose name you did not know. Perhaps you could have made an excuse and said you wanted to take back something of yours, a necklace, a book, anything, you were sure he would be kind enough to let you in — but did you want to disturb him after such an eventful night and day? His patience and hospitality surely had limits.

Baelor's gaze followed your retreating form—eyes drifting down despite himself at the bare of your back—he watched until you left the corridor and his vision turned their focus towards Ser Willem, who watched the doorway you exited through with some unfounded interest—still.

The scene irked him, the man should approach his duty with the mindfulness and zeal it required—not stare stupidly like a love-struck boy.

"Ser Willem," the call of his name snapped the knight out of his stupor. "the lady is no threat— be sure to mind your manners," he said before striding off to his bedchamber, the knight following behind with a lowered head.

"I understand, your grace," the knight replied respectfully, head inclined.

The prince only gave a hum in response, eyeing him before he stepped into the unfamiliar room.

Baelor had only been here once, the feeling of discomfort he felt then remained even now—especially now. Because he could only think about it's owner's daughter, the odd feeling of want made even odder now that he inhabited the man's quarters.

It seemed that everywhere he looked he could only find the sun, whether carved into wood or stones, that sun-in-splendor would look back at him. It was not a bad thing, not quite, he found it rather amusing—until a flash of your sun-shaped pendant which hung too low off your chain crossed his mind's eye. It was not amusing then.

He stroked the spines of books as he walked along the towering bookcases, hoping that he would find something boring enough to make him drowse off as soon as he could, and stop himself from thinking about those cheeky eyes and soft hands.

Half an hour passed and he has already discarded two books, the third making the same mistake as the ones prior and failing in its job to distract him.

The headache did not help ease his plight, after a minute of massaging his temple he decided he didn't want to be in this place anymore.

"You may rest now, Ser," Baelor dismissed the knight. Ser Willem thanked his prince with some reluctance in his voice, but he didn't argue and took his leave.

He stepped onto the sundeck, eager to just get some cool air on his skin and into his lungs. Leaned onto the banisters, he took a deep breath.

A grinning honeyed voice to his right made itself known.

"Can't sleep, your grace?"

He turned, the motion quick and graceless—unlike him.

You were here.

Leaned on the palm of your hand and cross-legged with a bottle of wine beside a cyvasse board sat on the table, you had a finger playing with a dragon piece, your soft digit petting it's head with slow and gentle motions, and for a moment, an absurd feeling of envy crossed his heart.

"My lady," he greeted calmly after regaining his composure from the surprise and quite honestly, the scare. "I apologize, I did not realize you were here."

"It's alright," you reassured smilingly. "it seems like this is a habit of mine."

"Not being noticed?" Baelor questioned with a tilt of his head, he could not believe that for a second.

You hummed as you frowned, matching the tilt of his head with one of your own, looking thoughtfully at something in the far distance. He almost apologized for the offense he caused before you spoke up again.

"No, I have no issues with that," you said, then grinned again. "I meant my habit of scaring the living daylights out of the poor souls around me."

"and it seems you are my victim for the night," you said playfully and casually before raising the goblet to your lips—unknowing of the less than innocent thoughts those reckless words put in his head, dishonorable thoughts unbecoming of a man like him.

"Sorry for that, your grace."

"You needn't worry about that, I was hardly startled," Baelor lied with a smile, pleased that you hadn't run away yet. His eyes found the table once more. He was not unfamiliar with this game, but he would not say he understood nor knew much of it, busy as he was and will be for the rest of his life, most like.

"Will your friend be returning? I may leave if you wish – I would hate to intrude on your fun," He inquired, eyes set on the pieces that were out of place, who was with you? that ridiculous feeling returned to him.

"No, there is no one, I was playing with myself," you replied casually as if what you just said doesn't sound deranged to anyone with ears to hear and a mind to process.

Baelor did not comment. He sat down across from you.

"I must confess, I've never gotten to play this," he confessed.

"Too busy huh?" You asked and he nodded, smiling steadily.

"I have seen it firsthand many moons ago, a Volantene trading caravan passed King's Landing on route," he told you as he held up an ivory colored piece, examining it, it's details, the timbered feel of it. "among the many items was this game—I dare say I've never seen the courtiers more enthralled by a pastime that was not a tourney nor a feast."

"I imagine they were more docile then," you commented offhandedly, and he laughed, the sound pleasant but carried a degree of exhaustion that told you everything you needed to know.

"Oh no—no," he refuted gently. "the court is not a place for serenity, but I will admit it was… amusing to watch them compete."

Baelor looked at the disorganized board with a pair of pieces in his hand, he had the look of a lost man trying to finish a task with no instruction. He thought that maybe he should have paid more attention as he spectated Valarr and Matarys' games the few times he sat with them of late.

"Where do these go, my lady?" He asked you, lost and unsure.

"The pieces go wherever you want them to — it is a game of strategy," you explained, gathering the pieces on your side in a line, readying them for introductions.

"I can teach you the rules, then you can best decide where each piece should be—" you looked up to him with a glint in your eyes. "—that is assuming you do want to play with me, of course."

Baelor hoped that he would have enough patience and willpower to survive the night without any tainted thoughts to sully his mind. "Enlighten me, my lady." You slid the cup you were sipping on to his side, and he only realized then that there was only one. "You will need some of this to ease the headache this will bring you, your grace."

What you told him was no lie, the rules of this game were hard to take in, but he learned regardless. Time passed by, and he hasn't won a single game yet, but he was not particularly interested in winning.

Strangely, the game was not the main source of his fun, it was your conversation. You spoke with him like he was an old friend, not a prince. You spoke to him so naturally, you weren't afraid to tease and taunt, you made him question his moves with a tsk and a smirk in your eyes, not going easy on him nor letting him win—and he let you, it felt freeing in a way.

"Do you believe in spectres, my prince?" you asked, your catapult taking his dragon again. His brow arched at the strange turn of conversation – not in mockery, of course – it was a bit unexpected to go from telling him (or taunting him) on how you were going to win this match in three moves to discuss whether dead spirits walked among you.

"I could not say," he replied honestly, trying to assess whether this was a tactic to throw him off his game or not, finding no answer in your lovely eyes.

You smiled. "So… it's a no then?"

"The world is full of oddities, I am impartial on the matter of their existence, the fact I haven't seen one does not dispute that they are real." A snicker left you, he was taking the question too seriously. Baelor gave an amused smile in response.

"May I ask why you have brought this up?"

"Word has it that our castle is haunted by a ghost of a young girl—or it was haunted—it has been a while since anyone spoke of seeing her, although some servant girls swore recently that it was her behind unexplained happenings: such as slammed doors, or that it was her who called them awake by name when they tried to fall asleep, commanding them to do their work,"

"Do you believe any of it?" He asked, eyes on you and unblinking when his king fell and you won once again.

"I do not," you responded as you sat back. "anyone would attribute the doings of the wind and a half-asleep mind to a ghost if they were tired enough, especially if their madame overworks them for nameday preparations,"

"There has to be some explanation to what the servants have seen all those years ago," he said.

A grin fought it's way to your lips again despite your attempts at resisting it, mischief danced in your eyes once more, like you knew more than you were letting on and were itching to reveal it. "The only plausible explanation is that it was merely a prank blown out of scale, there was only so much to talk about that wasn't about the war at that point in time, it was no wonder they clung to the tale."

Baelor hummed thoughtfully before his hands finally moved to rearrange the pieces back in place, this time with the same setup as before.

"It was you wasn't it?" He accused.

A laugh tore through the silence that followed, all sunny and mirthful. "What gave it away?"

Baelor looked at you as if you said something preposterous, he chuckled with an arched brow. "You all but confessed with how knowing you looked, and with your penchant to joke and terrify it was hardly a challenge to connect the dots."

His smirk fell into a gentle smile. "It was good of you though, to distract them,"

Your gleeful gaze turned something coy when it left his. "You flatter me, your grace, I've only done it because I found it funny, nothing more, nothing less,"

Since it didn't seem like you'd relent, Baelor decided to leave it at that and gestured to the board with one hand. "Your turn to start I believe."

"Hm…" You looked at the board, lost in thought — for a moment — the better way to describe the look you had now was one of a trickster in bliss, by the way you tried to hide your scheming grin behind a lonesome finger to no avail, he could not help but smile when your eyes met his. Whatever you had planned he was eager to uncover it.

But uncover Baelor did not, he could not — because how could he expect that your scheme would be turning the board the opposite way? "This is hardly permitted, my lady," Baelor said as he accepted defeat and took in the formation of the pieces that were now his and wondered, should he start trying?

"Oh it's not permitted—but isn't it more fun this way?" You told him, the curl of your lips all happy and sly-like, satisfied with your little ploy.

"I will allow this, but you will be making the first move," he told you.

"Whatever my prince wants," you told him, the silvery words light and teasing, sending his thoughts into frenzy, longing fantasies with you as the sole focus clouded his mind and urged his breaths to quicken ever so slightly.

The silence only fanned the flames of chaos in his mind.

"May I ask you something, my lady?" Baelor said, making you look at him curiously. "Of course," you responded.

"You were not in attendance for the first tilt this evening—how come?"

When he could not find you, he had assumed you were tired or disinterested in such activities. However, owing to all he learned about you in these past few hours you shared—your liveliness and love for your sister—it made little sense that you have not come to enjoy the tourney in her honor.

"No," you said coolly. "I was there."

His brows furrowed in confusion, were you teasing him again? "But I could not find you?" With your chin rested atop your interlocked fingers, you smiled wickedly.

"Oh? Were you looking for me, my prince?"

"I was only curious where you might have been," Baelor replied, the warm hues of the candlelight hid the flush on his face, or he hoped they did.

That impish grin of yours fell into a gentle smile, finding the reaction to his blunder so endearing you decided to have mercy on him.

"I was in the crowd," you shivered, the action causing the strap of your dress to slip off your shoulder, you giggled as you recalled the events and raised the fabric back in place, unaware of his wistful gaze at your skin. "had the closest view of Lord Tully's sensational stunt,"

"That was dangerous," Baelor said, voice steady and stern, but you did not pick up on his meaning.

"I would not be concerned if I were you, the man must have done it so many times I doubt any raw fish would make him sick–" you said laughingly until Baelor cut you off.

"That was not what I was referring to—you should not have been down there—had you even brought any guards along with you?"

"No—there was no need for that," you said, confused by his sudden lecture. He gave you a questioning look. "How so?"

A momentary silence passed over the both of you. It would be a lie to say his concern hadn't sent warmth through you, but you were not about to get scolded for allowing yourself to have a bit of fun without having to sit with people you had to mind your manners with or else you would not hear the end of it. It was only for this night anyway, surely you can be allowed that little freedom?

"I am a woman grown, and there is no shortage of gallant men to save me should anything happen, that is discounting the ashford guards out and about the meadow vehemently instructed by my own lord-father to keep the peace—how could I not walk around without fear or care?"

Baelor's chest rose and fell with heavy, irritated breaths as he sat silently, as he looked at you silently. It was maddening how you could not see the danger behind your actions, yet your words did not lack in sense. You were right, but your reasoning—even if sound—did not ease his anxieties.

"Were you not allowed in the stands? and at this evening's supper?" Baelor questioned, restlessly twisting the ring around his finger. He did not understand, Lord Ashford hardly looked ashamed of you, no, he was more than happy to introduce you. Had anyone advised him against it? He hadn't done nor said anything to make anyone think your presence bore any insult to him or his, quite the opposite, so why?

An exhale of a laugh left you, both sardonic and entertained. No, you were not forbidden to attend, the Lord and Lady of Ashford would not pass up an opportunity to have you paraded around with so many princes, lords and landed knights about. Because if the princes did not care for you, other options should be explored.

"It was a personal choice of mine to watch the tilt where I had," you said, coldly, or perhaps it felt that way to him, he could not tell, all he knew was your warm smile and sweet laugh, the lack of them felt jarring.

"as for supper," you continued, practiced smile finding it's home on your lips. "I was not hungry." That was in a way, a lie. You had your fill—but your absence wasn't due to a full stomach—you were largely preoccupied with what you might do or say to him, figuring out which dress appeared the prettiest in the low light (or which of them slipped off easiest), cleaning off the sweat of your outing beforehand, making sure the most fragrant of oils scented the waters of your bath and now your skin, the kind you knew to turn men's heads — but you could not tell him any of that.

Imagine if you had, though, he did let you get away with so many comments and jokes that should have had you in the cells before daybreak, as soon as you verbalized them, matter of fact. "I was actually busy planning how to seduce you, your grace." Yeah… Hilarious.

So hilarious, in fact, that you decided to say it as is.

Shock, confusion, then denial crossed his face in quick succession. He chuckled, the sound betraying his confused, nervous mind and emotions, his fingers grew even more restless as they twisted and twisted that ring around. "Is this your version of an ice-breaker, my lady? because it is not as humorous as you think"

"I may have said like it in jest," you replied, eyeing him for any further reactions, heart thudding all the while. "but I spoke no lie."

"My lady, this is…" Baelor could not find the right word, or rather; He could not say it without feeling like a hypocrite.

"Inappropriate?" You finished for him cheekily. "You cannot truly believe that, was it not you who decided to sit here with me for hours, laughing and sharing wine, all while unchaperoned?"

"A lapse in judgment, a mistake I will not repeat again." Baelor responded firmly, guilt, longing and regret warring in his mismatched eyes. He stood and you followed suit, blocking his escape.

With a finger playing with the tip of his blade's hilt, you smiled, the curl of your agonizingly soft lips almost innocent, as if you were not shredding what little remained of his self-control into pieces. The space between you was far too narrow, so narrow he could catch the scent of lavender and incense with his every breath.

To him no one acted as audacious, as brazen and fearless as you were, it left him amazed how you could just speak like that, to the crown prince no less, but he had to admit to himself if not to you that it was admirable — to speak so freely, never had he such a freedom. What he had no knowledge of was your shaking hand, hidden and clenched into a fist behind your back, you were terrified.

"It was not a lapse in judgment," you countered, watching his jaw clench as his once steady eyes flitted up and down your face. "you knew exactly what you were doing; what you wanted." You stepped closer to him, expecting him to step away, but he did not, urging you on.

"You have spent your whole life working to achieve the realm's needs and wants—but what about you?"

You pressed yourself close to him, taking his face in hand, the scratch of his scruffy beard pleasant on your palm as you ran it up slowly, reverently, the heavy scent of musk and agarwood fueling your desire for him even more. Your other hand rested on his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammer in rhythm with yours. Feeling bolder at his lack of rejection, you leaned your face closer to his, and whispered: "What about your needs and wants?"

Baelor felt helpless.

He had to leave, but his legs failed him. He had to push you away, but his hands cradled your face. He had to pull back, but his nose nuzzled at yours. Every voice in his head screamed at him to run — it took the slightest brush of your lips on his to silence them. Just one brush — and what little restraint he had crumbled into dust.

He pressed you hard against him, his other hand tangled in your hair as he kissed you, lips moving against yours fervently. His tongue lapped at yours, he recognized the sweet taste of arbor red on your tongue, despite that, it was the taste of you that intoxicated him, that urged him to keep losing himself in you.

This must be the relief and ecstasy singers and poets sung about so fervently, the feeling one felt after securing their heart's desire after so many years spent hungering for it, he was so lost in that feeling that he nearly forgot of his need to breathe. It was only when you pushed at his chest that he drew back to relieve the restrictive tightness in your chests.

Baelor's hand wandered up and down your naked back, relishing in the shivers his touch caused you. "You will regret wearing such light clothes, my lady," he warned, breath warming your ear. "the night will grow cold soon."

"I do not mind it," you confessed laxly. "that chill only promises that the warmth beneath the covers would feel even sweeter. Rain is always more cherished after a drought, is it not?"

Baelor looked at you and took in the swell of your lips, that hungry feeling gnawed again and he bent down for another kiss, only to pause midway when your wandering hand found the hard line of his cock and squeezed, the sensation caused him to back you onto the table and grip at the edges of the table to hold himself upright.

His groans and pants were music to your ears—to think you were once nervous to meet him—it was only when you had the gall to let out an exhale of a laugh that he took your hand off of him, holding it up by the wrist.

"You believe this funny?" He questioned as he stared at your self-satisfied expression, voice low and tinged with a hint of offense.

"No, my prince, I was only thinking that we could have been at this sooner if I had been bolder,"

"Bolder?" He repeated, more to himself than you, not believing his ears. "There's not a single drop of meekness in your body."

"There could be many drops of you in it, if you wished it so," you offered mischievously. Baelor sighed, exasperated but no less entertained by your tempting words. "Hush now," he said, silencing your giggles with his mouth as he slipped the loose strap of your dress down your shoulders, delighting in the noise that left you when he felt and squeezed at your soft breast.

"Hands on the table," Baelor said, breathless and gaze as hazy as your own, his pupils eclipsed the pretty rings of violet and brown. You obeyed with bated breath, mind in conflict with your body, was it wise to do this here? He had that Kingsguard with him, didn't he? You didn't trust yourself to be quiet when he finally fucked you. That chain of thought was quickly abandoned, it was hard to think when you had a handsome prince reverently caressing up and down your front as he whispered words to you in a language you could not understand when he was not kissing and mouthing at your shoulder.

Just when you were about to voice your impatience, his hands left your body and you heard a clattering sound. You turned your gaze downwards to see his rings laid on the table, discarded. The implications caused that ache at your groin to strengthen, only for it to alleviate when his fingers found home, moving slow — too slow.

"You are wet," Baelor observed, gathering the wetness with smooth strokes up and down your folds, circling at your clit and going low again—his voice was too smug in your opinion. "Too wet—and you've no underthings either. You've been waiting for this moment—haven't you?"

"I—ah!" You could not get a word in before he suddenly slid in a pair of his fingers, the motion smooth and swift. Maybe you were too sensitive. Maybe it was that your body wanted him as much as your heart or that you fantasized about his hands too much — but just those two long boney fingers were enough to make your legs shake and your knees buckle under you. Baelor held you up against him with his free arm, and he chuckled. You were sure he did it on purpose, entering you just when you were about to speak. In your daydreams, you expected him to be far more gentle, but maybe it was just the fruits of your labor, poking and prodding at him the way you did — you liked this side of him, maybe you could make him worse in the best way.

Baelor listened to your poor attempts at staying quiet, moans and cries of "my prince" prettying the silence of the night. He considered keeping the fact that no one could hear you to himself, only for a bit of time, but his better nature won out.

"There's no one but us, love," Baelor told you, he could tell you were about to come off the edge by the way your walls convulsed around his fingers. "you can be as loud as you want."

"My prince—I'm so close," you whined, gripping hard at the edges of the table under you. "I know—I know, you can let go now." A cry left you as your vision went white from the intense pleasure. He slowed his fingers and let you ride down your high. You sighed as he pulled them out, then took deep breaths to regain your composure. This wasn't enough, and when you turned and looked at him, you knew he shared your opinion.

Shivers ran up your skin — the promised cold finally filling the night air.

"Come with me," you said, pulling the straps of your dress back on your shoulder, a plea in your eyes. "my bedchambers aren't too far," you pulled at his belt. "I've yet to return the favor."

Baelor looked down at you, breathing heavily, he could not ignore the throbbing ache of his groin. He took your hand in his and squeezed. "Lead the way."

You tried to contain your eagerness but fell short when it came to steadying your pace — practically dragging the man through the halls like you were late for an important matter—in a way (to the both of you)—this was something long overdue.

Fondness stirred in him at your impatience, he could not recall the last time he wanted—needed someone so badly, and it was only made all the better by knowing that those feelings were not one-sided.

Baelor let you guide him into the darkness of your bedchambers. Immediately, that same maddening scent surrounded his senses, sharpened by the dimmed candlelight and his fierce craving for you.

The same craving that compelled him to pull you so strongly by the waist and into him it tore a gasp out of you that he silenced with a deep kiss. A thud sounded as his belt met the floor along with it's sheathed blade, a clink followed and resounded in the far corner as the brass hand pin met the stone floors, his movements practiced and unneeding of sight. You separated to help him undress, rearing back with a playful smile when he tried to chase after your lips.

"I cannot help you if my hands have no eyes to guide them, my prince," you teased, helping him out of his surcoat and tunic, you ran your hands through his dark chest hairs that somehow felt both rough and soft beneath your palms, raising them up to cradle his face and pull him into a kiss when he bent down to drop his breeches.

Baelor groaned into your mouth when he felt a pressure press onto the tip of his cock and circle, teasing him the way you teased the hilt of his forgotten blade, the way you petted at the head of that ivory dragon piece. Backpedaling until he fell onto the bed, Baelor pulled at the back of your thighs, coaxing you into his lap with your knees on either side of him.

You thumbed at his cheek as you looked down on him. "I want to try something, my prince." Pulling you close with his arms wrapped tight around your hips, he groaned at the friction this position caused.

He called your name for the first time, your lips parted, arousal sparking the hot feeling into a blaze, every intonation and syllable flowing off his tongue liquid sex to your ears. "I think we are past such pleasantries—call me Baelor."

"Baelor," you repeated, grin wide and eyes half-lidded. "may I try something with you?"

"You may," he gave consent, curious to see what you had in store, frowning when you pulled his arms off and breath slowing when you knelt down, he spread his knees apart instinctively. Baelor's mouth fell open with an exhale when your tongue lapped at the tip of his cock, glistened with all the precum accumulated after all that messing about.

It tasted better than your fantasies, the salty, earthy taste made you drool for more. His sounds and tight grip on the gathered hair of your roots urged you to take more of him in, to do more—but you did not. You kept circling at his leaky tip, teasing, kissing it gently, wanting to test his patience, see if you can break under that courteous demeanor again.

"If you begin a task, you should give your all to finish it," Baelor huffed, jaw clenched in frustration, you could tell he was holding back. He resisted the involuntary jerks of his hip up into your mouth, gripping tight at the sheets on his side. You drew back and licked your hips, gaze holding his, insolent, he thought.

"I'd like to take my time with you, it is not every night I have a man so handsome on my bed,"

Baelor pinched your chin between his fingers, gazing down at your all-too-pleased expression. "You want me to beg and plead—is that it?" He surmised, it all aligned in his mind. All you did was torment him from the moment you locked eyes, it was as if you were sent to him as a test to his patience, he was failing at it miserably. It was laughable, decades of self-governance and restraint sharpened by endless trials and adversities hounded onto him by his own blood, his own people, undone by one devilish smile from you.

"No, it is not," you replied, innocent in the face but not in your intentions. "I want you to make me beg and plead."

His breath hitched and he cursed, the words unfamiliar to his tongue. "Unruly thing," Baelor grunted, frustrated, grasping the side of your head. "you will be the death of me." He pushed your head down to his cock—finally, you thought, taking him in your mouth with a moan, rubbing your thighs together for some friction to soothe the torturous sensation you felt.

"Does it please you this much?" Baelor asked, impressed, watching you take more of him in with lidded eyes, hand stroking and twisting where your mouth could not. "Drooling and gagging all over my cock?" You did not answer, lost in the taste of him and the pleasured sounds you drew from his lips. Maybe it was the fact he has been anticipating this for a while. Maybe it was the pent-up years catching up to him, or that you were so good at pleasing him, but he was reaching his limit embarrassingly fast. He had to push you off.

After catching your breath, you looked up at him, wanting to search his face, finding his head thrown back and chest heaving as he tried to keep himself from spilling over you. "Have I done something wrong?"

Baelor did not answer, preferring to stand instead. "Rise," he commanded, firmly, and you obeyed, not being able to get a word in before he hoisted you up by your thighs, making you lock your legs around his waist and arms around his neck instinctively while he climbed onto the bed.

"You're so–" strong, you wanted to say, but your breath was stolen from you, your noses clashing when he could not decide which angle you tasted better. He removed the arms you had interlocked around his neck and sat back on his heels, pinning you down by the base of your neck when you tried to sit up. "Stay there," he ordered, and you obeyed with an impatient huff, aroused at the way he acted, the way he moved you like it was nothing.

"No wonder they all sing your praises, all those tales and songs," you drawled, eyes shamelessly looking over his arms, hand gripping at his wrist while the other clutched tightly at the sheets. "Oh?" Baelor responded, letting you drag his palm down your body, making him cup your soft breast. "And what do they say, exactly?"

"They spoke of your strength, your composure," you recounted, moaning distractedly as he pinched your nipple. "your good honor and your enormous…. hard… effort in winning the war." You laughter turned into a mewl when you felt him stretch you out in one smooth thrust. "I'm beginning to—fuck— question the bits about your composure and good honor," you managed, eyes hazy as you watched him lower to hover his face over yours. "Beginning to question?"

"You dare say that when you were the one who ruined me?" Baelor grunted, drawing back and pushing in hard, savoring the expressions and delicious moans you gave him, pinning your hands with one of his by the wrists when you tried hushing them. "Do not get shy on me now, sly girl, let me hear you."

No words could describe how good he felt inside you—and surprisingly but not so much—how grateful you felt for the ego that led your father into extending an invitation to the dragon house, you shuddered to think of a world where you never met this otherworldly man, a world where you never get to hear his voice or have a taste of his loving was a nightmarish thing to even think about.

You tried to kiss him but he evaded your lips, leaning back and smirking at your upset huff after he did it again. "Baelor…" You whined. "Hm?" He responded.

"You're acting cruelly."

"Am I?"

"Yes," moaning, you felt that same vein you ran your tongue over brush your insides incessantly. "Is this not what you wanted? You're quivering. What more could you possibly want?"

"Kiss me," you demanded when you should have pleaded.

"That's not how you ask for things," he reminded with heavy breaths, thumb trailing over your lips, taunting. "Baelor—please, kiss me—please," you begged, vision blurring from pleasure and tears. Baelor obliged, lips crashing with yours, his grip releasing your wrists to raise your legs higher, allowing his cockhead to reach even deeper, hammering into your cervix. In moments you could not even find the energy to kiss him, laying your head back from the intense sensations, you knew he was close too, his thrusts losing their constant rhythm.

As soon as you reached that sweet bit of ecstasy, he pulled out, chest heaving as he panted beside your head. "Baelor, why have you—" Your words turn to a gasp when he rolled you onto your stomach and pinned you under his weight, chest stuck to your back. "Not yet—I will love you thoroughly," Baelor promised, panting at your ear while he slid into you nice and slow.

"I will—mmh—still be here tomorrow," You reminded him, toes curling at the way his cock massaged your insides that still had not recovered from your release, at the way the head of it gently kissed your cervix. It was interesting, how he's made you come twice but he never allowed himself to feel it, not once. In the beginning you had not thought twice of it, plenty liked to chase that high over and over and not allow themselves to catch it too soon — but hearing what he said, you could not help but think that there was something deeper than mere fancy. Did he think you wanted this to be a one-time thing? Does he want it to be? "and the day after it too, I have nowhere else to be,"

"But you do," Baelor groaned. "only if you'd like." Your breathing hitched, for a multitude of reasons. His unexpected hold of your jaw pulling your head back into the crook of his neck, the scratch of his beard at the side of your face and the insinuation of his words. He wanted to take you with him; you will agree, you know you will, regardless of whether he wanted you as mistress or not, you did not care, as long as he was yours and you were his, it was the best you could ever hope for.

"Be my wife — come with me to King's Landing and I'll make you my princess,"

"But I am a—"

"Fuck that," Baelor said, not wanting to hear any of it. "there are no laws against it—and if there were I will marry you anyway." Pressing a kiss to your cheek, he spoke up again. "Would you like that?"

"I…" Your voice died in your throat, unbelieving of your ears, considering for a moment that perhaps you were in a fever dream, but no mind could think up a dream so lovely. "Very," was all you could muster. "Perfect—so perfect." Baelor groaned, breaths growing louder, deeper, you had an inkling it was not only about your agreeance. He slipped from you again, kneeling as he let your head drop to the soft sheets.

A wound-up noise left you while you stared back at the starry sky through your windows. "The sun will rise soon."

"I am sure." At the low, shaky words, you rolled onto your back to take in the exhausted state of him. "Do you not have somewhere to be early in the morn?"

He grinned weakly. "I heard there was a tourney at Ashford meadow."

"You will rue attending if you do not rest enough," You said, caressing the side of his face. "let me take care of you." His eyes flitted over your face, steady where his breathing was not. "Very well."

Smiling you had him lean up on the pillows and straddled him. His hands immediately found your hips as you lowered yourself on his cock, easily, your walls slick with your arousals beyond adjusted to take him in with no difficulty, a sigh escaped you both at the relief. It took no time before you were moving up and down in quick rhythm.

Baelor took one of your breasts in his mouth, licking and pulling with his lips, pushing you down to the hilt with his hands, your own anchored on his shoulders as you called for his name, blissfully, repeatedly. The only sounds echoing through the dark room were your cries, his quiet, pacifying words of a language you never got to learn, the lewd repetitive claps of skin on skin.

"Baelor!" You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, face hovering over his, movements stuttering and legs growing weaker. Broken curses poured from your lips when he bucked his hips up into you. "I can't–'m sorry." Buried deep and holding you tight, Baelor had you on your back, and with renewed strength immediately set a vigorous, merciless pace, pushing and pulling inside you, over and over and over—the nails digging into his back, the pretty moans and whine in his ear—all of it goaded him to keep going, determined to have you come again.

"How it ails me that I cannot stuff you full of my seed." Baelor inhaled deeply at your temple, relishing your scent, groaning like the mere act brought him pleasure. Your back arched into him at the thought. "You can—please, Baelor." He pressed a chaste kiss to the side of your face. "You know nothing of what you ask, love,"

"I can take it just—" a whimper "—let me."

"I know you would—and you will," Baelor believed you wholeheartedly, he can already imagine it, you, brimming with his love inside you, the thought filled him with so much warmth, so much pleasure. "you need only patience until we are wed." You shook your head desperately, the coil inside you uncomfortably wound. "I need you."

He hummed in lieu of a response, circling his fingertips on your clit, the rapid motions along with his rutting into your sweet spot materializing the light of day into your ever blurred, darkening sight. "You have me." The earnest, gentle but resolute words, coupled with everything else he was undoing you with, send you over the edge, ripples of pleasure surge through you and his motions falter ever so slightly, distracted by the way you shuddered, the way your slick walls gripped onto him. "That's it—fuck."

Baelor pulled away from you, hot ropes of cum gushing out and dirtying your abdomen. Guilt ridden apologies fell from his lips as he rutted into his fist until the last drop ran down his soaked tip. After your breaths slowed into a speakable rhythm, he got off the bed and asked you to stay lied back and wait, receiving a weak nod in response.

When he returned, a bucket and towel in hand—your favorite towel which you would grieve later, but you couldn't be bothered to care about now, not when Baelor cradled your face and brushed away at the wetness from your cheeks with both his thumbs, eyelids fluttering in shame. "I am sorry," he told you, voice hushed.

"Why?" You asked smilingly, shivering at the damp coldness the wet towel left in its wake. "I've been unkind, I should not have been so rough," Baelor explained, wringing the towel of it's water and continuing in his task, hands tender like you would shatter at the slightest bit of force — it was maddening how easily he made you want to kiss him. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you smiled, endeared, and took the towel from his hands and begun cleaning them. "But you know I wanted you to be."

"I do, but—" a chaste kiss interrupted his rant before it went out of hand, warmth spread through his face to his ears, as if he was not drilling into you minutes before, it gladdened you, this reminder that he wasn't merely lust that sent him after you—but adoration too.

"Hush now," you said, pushing him down onto the pillows, resting your head onto his chest.

A huff left him. "You know I must leave for my own quarters now," Baelor told you, as he encased you in his arms and let you enlace your fingers with his and play with them. "I was hoping you'd forget about that," you said distractedly, memorizing the shape and feel of his palm and fingers by touch.

"I have a tourney I would rather not be late for."

"Sleep here." His brow arched at the suggestion, lips curled in a smirk. "You know precisely why I cannot do that,"

"Why not? None would scold you for not being in bed, you are a guest and a prince at that, besides you will have to get used to–" a thumb gently swiping over your lips, hushed you. "As you wish—but only for a while, understand?"

Minutes of hushed conversation passed by, negotiations that ended in a two-way victory; you would spectate within the safety of the stands if he entered the lists, recommending the castle's smith to armor him cheekily when he tried to use his lack of armor as an excuse.

That hushed conversation turned into hours of soft snores, your warmth gently guiding him to slumber — sending the royal servants into a frenzied search when the only things they found of him were his abandoned rings scattered on the surface of that table.

saw this on pinterest and it wholly encapsulated baelor in this...

sorry for not being active a while was busy getting rolled by my crippling anxiety,,, i am good now so i can get going on the wips <33

feedback is appreciated, i'm an esl english major so it'll help my career a lot, okay maybe not so much on the smut part lol but ig for recreational purposes i can learn — hope you enjoyed!!

“What if war comes?”

It was a cunning question, asked with something vicious in the lord’s eyes. It was a spark that could start a ruinous fire, and it all seemed like the man would enjoy its heat.

You could feel your cheeks burning too, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction so easily. Anyway, you always thought about yourself as a composed woman; you never expected your nerves to be brought so close to their end, especially after all the horrors that you’ve been through.

“What then?” You answered like you would to an unruly child, but trying to sound respectful at the same time. It was a hilarious matter to speak of, too hypothetical to approach seriously. “We have remarkable generals and strategists, my lord. If, as you imply, the council will suggest against his grace leading the army, I’m sure he will choose someone equally suitable as himself. Perhaps his brother, Prince Maekar.” You nodded at the youngest of King Daeron’s sons, who grunted under his breath.

Your brother-in-law refused to look up, apparently biting his tongue and fighting to remain silent. You preferred it that way too. The king asked you directly to watch over the peace of the dinner that you were sharing with a significant guest. It would be much more challenging if you had Maekar running his mouth, unable to control his building fury.

As much as you liked him silent right now, you wouldn’t blame him if he snapped. Truth be told, you wouldn’t even mind if he stood up to drag the lord out of the room… The man stabbed the cake on his plate with unnecessary force. You could see Maekar’s grip on his goblet tighten. The faces of his children were warmed with small grins that they tried to hide. The little menaces awaited some action: perhaps someone being yelled at, punched if they were lucky.

You would mutely cheer on that too if you weren’t the main person responsible for the conversation with the guest. A man who was speaking against your husband ever since the meal was served. He balanced on the line of fake concern for the realm and open objection to Baelor being his father’s heir.

After the events of Ashford, he was intrusive enough with his letters that the king finally agreed to hear him out. He expressed his worry that the prince, who recently recovered from his life-threatening injury, wasn’t the right choice. It boiled your blood, truly. Not out of hunger for power, the crown… You couldn’t care less for that. It was the audacity and rudeness of the man that made you furious.

The accident clearly and visibly affected your husband’s health and life; there was no question about that. He spent long weeks in bed under the watchful eyes of maesters, with you and his sons by his side. Even longer until he was finally able to sit or walk on his own. He sometimes complained about his eyesight failing him, and his hearing in one ear almost disappeared. He spoke of it like it was his own fault, with embarrassment and distress that you assured him were unnecessary. A grimace appeared on his face whenever he became too aware of his limping walk. Something that was connected to the damage of his spine that the injury caused. Yet, he recovered.

The long path of coming back to health earned him many silver strands in his hair and beard, and he felt overwhelmingly lightheaded when tired, but except for that, you couldn’t tell that the man almost faced death. You sometimes still teared up, watching him during normal daily duties. There was no sight more beautiful than Baelor sitting at his desk, back straightened like you would expect from a prince, doing his work while humming under his breath from time to time. You always pointed out he worked too hard and too much, but now you couldn’t even forbid him that. On some days you spent hours sitting with him, watching the view that you missed so greatly despite hating it before.

And now this—this fucking cunt dared to ramble against Baelor while looking you deep in the eyes. Audacious bastard, you thought probably for the sixth time during this damn dinner.

“Fine…” he muttered as an answer to your words, making you want to stand up and slap him. Then he smiled again in that planned way, fakely respectful and expressing the worry he held. “And what if our friends, an ally country, send their proxy here one day? Let us say that the prince – then king – has one of his worse days. Because you admitted, your grace, that he has ‘worse days,’ am I correct? How will that make us look if he passes out or feels too weak to attend the council?

You clenched your jaw and cursed your father-in-law, the old king, for being too tired today to join you. None of this would happen if he were here, listening to the lord. On the other hand, you weren’t surprised that he needed more time to prepare himself before he would call for the audience that the guest could express his thoughts on. Baelor was currently attending to his urgent duties. His absence was better for the situation, actually. Better for the world. You were sure you would stab him with your fork if he dared to speak like that in the prince’s presence.

“It’s not me you should speak about this to,” you said sharply, and yet still more calmly than you would like to. “I am not in a position to make those choices, and to put it simply, your words cannot make me think differently of his grace.”

You always referred to Baelor as ‘your husband’ or ‘the prince,’ but now you felt the need to mark his superiority over rascals like the man. It made the air around the room heavier. Even Maekar’s kids stopped in their hushed bickering, sensing the built-up tension to finally break.

“They will simply think we are ruled by a cripple,” he said, like you didn’t hear your words at all.

That was when the first person at the feasting table broke. Maekar’s hand  hit the table, making the plates clatter. “You will be a cripple by the end of your visit here if you don’t start watching your tongue,” he said from between his clenched teeth.

“My prince, I just…” he tried, silenced by you but only for a moment.

“Not another word from you, my lord.”

But you had enough. The expectation, Baelor’s tendency to work himself to death, Maekar’s moods, the king’s demands, and the memory of the maester’s words that your husband’s condition is fatal… All of it. The bastard was just one more pull to the thin string that held your composed nature in check.

“My lady…” he tried, making you stand up from your seat abruptly.

He was lucky he sat away from your place at the top of the table. He was also lucky that you had some mercy left in you, because the thrown goblet of wine crashing nearby him and not on him certainly wasn’t your bad aim.

A deep breath sounded between everyone, making you more aware of what you have done. There was not even one bone in your body that would regret it, though. Daeron moved from his seat with painfully little grace to reach the pitcher of wine that stood in the middle of the table and keep it close to him as if you would come for it next.

“You have been insulting and speaking against our house ever since you showed up in the Keep,” you said in a hoarse grunt that surprised even you.

“Princess,” he spoke up again, reconsidering how he should address you. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement with calmness, my princess,” he muttered, but you could hear his voice growing more and more unsure.

“You will achieve no agreement with me,” you announced firmly. “Perhaps the king will be more understanding of your vituperations.”

He nodded and looked at his lap for a moment, apparently gathering his thoughts. “I have no doubt that he will hear me out with fairness and will be able to acknowledge the truth. It would mean a lot to me, though, princess, if I could call you my friend in this matter.”

“You fucking can not.” The yell was the final thing that made him drop the sure face he tried to keep. You pushed your chair away and leaned more over the table, pointing him out with a finger. “I almost lost my husband to The Stranger, and look at him now. He’s fine. Not unaffected, yes, but healthy and in good spirits. He’s a victorious survivor, not a victim as you put him.”

“Not unaffected, that’s my point…”

You had to stop yourself from stealing Maekar’s cup and also throwing him at the man. This time  pointing it straight at him. Luckily for your dignity, you were able to hold back from the fantasy of his bloodied face.

“Shut up, bastard,” you ordered harshly.

It was his turn to stand up with anger. He could handle even the worst scolding from a royal, but a woman? Oh, that’s something he was very unused to and never planned to change. “Gods, woman! You are blinded by your desire for a higher position!”

Prince Maekar’s deep voice broke the silence that rang in your ears after the lord’s scream.

“Insult the princess once more, I dare you,” he warned. “Then you won’t walk away as a cripple. You will be carried out.”

He was never very fond of you, you imagined, but when it came to protecting the good name of his family, he knew no measures.

This calmed the lord, scared him enough that he sat again.

“I am merely a simple man concerned for the future of his land and country,” he muttered under his breath.

You scoffed in irritation.

“A blithering idiot is what you are.”

It was a loud remark that made him sit back in his chair. Daeron snorted in his drunken state, quickly being hit with his father’s murderous gaze.

But you acted upon your frustration and turned to him at once. “Shut the fuck up, Daeron.”

The loud thud of the doors sounded in the room long after you left.

All that you felt bad for was screaming at your husband’s nephew and doing it not only in front of a guest but also his siblings. If you were honest, you wished to banish the memory from your mind, even if worse words escaped your throat that day. You didn’t regret anything said to the lord.

With your husband busied by his duties, you were left to linger around your room, unable to focus on anything. After seeing the hours pass with no mercy and being left with no choice, you walked out of your chambers to find Daeron. He was probably too drunk to be bothered by your scream. All that caused him was a headache, but even for that you felt wrong.

You found him with his young siblings outside the castle, lying in the grass. He threw a hand behind his head to make the hard ground more comfortable and let out quiet snores while the others played around. Daella and Aegon stayed on their backs too, pointing out certain clouds and giggling about their shapes, while Rhae tangled the grass into numerous braids before connecting it together. Pretty convenient for Daeron, you thought. If only they could always be so well-behaved when he was ordered by his father to watch over them.

Rhae smacked her eldest brother straight in the face when she saw you approaching. “Wake up!” She demanded in a pitched voice.

“Wha–” Daeron almost sat up before his back hit the ground again. He had hair all over his forehead, and he looked up at you, upside down, before letting out a relieved sigh. “Oh, it’s you.”

“I’ve come to apologize,” you said after clearing your throat but weren't given a chance to speak more.

Daeron waved his hand dismissively and closed his eyes again. “That’s nothing, aunt. No offense taken. It was… rather entertaining, anyway.”

“It was,” Egg agreed loudly. “Especially when you threw that gobble his way!”

The siblings agreed in a mutual, excited hum. You felt the need to massage the aching space between your eyebrows.

“Come, watch the sky with us,” invited Daella.

“Yes, auntie!” Rhae was quick to grab your hand and drag you down to the grass, putting all of her little body’s strength into it. “Sit with us!”

Well, how could you say no to them? Sometimes it felt like the children were the only genuine creatures in this castle, even if they could also be the most cruel ones.

You laughed out loud, forgetting about the awful feeling left in you after the dinner. Just before you approached the kids, it struck you that the news would eventually reach Baelor’s ears, and you would have to face him. The mere thought made you dizzy. Now you could abandon the worry for a while, almost choking on your giggle when you noticed that Daeron was making up the shapes he ‘saw’ in clouds at the demands of his sisters, while his eyes were still closed.

“That one looks like Uncle Baelor,” claimed Rhae, nudging her brother’s shoulder.

Her sister deeply disagreed, snorting under her breath. “Perhaps when his head was all swollen,” he mocked.

You knew she was a child who probably only meant to hurt her sibling a bit, but you couldn’t feel your breath stop for a while. You stayed still, not very trustful of your own reactions today. Thankfully little Egg, the kindest boy you knew, sat up immediately and threw his sister a look of utter disappointment.

“Daella!” He screamed at her, making her blush and look your way as if she just realized you were there.

“I didn’t mean… I’m sorry,” she said to you, looking at her feet.

“It is alright,” you said quickly, certainly not wanting to cry in front of them. “I must go back to my occupations now. Have fun and… try not to walk away far from your brother.”

You looked at Daeron, snoring and asleep again, for the final time before getting up.

It wasn’t alright, not at all. The memory of Baelor’s suffering was a horror you would never forget. All the moments when his sons woke up at night were engraved in your mind. When you didn’t keep watch over your husband, you often sat by their side, holding them in your arms when they needed it. They were almost men, and yet they called for their father like children because of the worry for his life.

Ashford was about to stay with the four of you forever, and you knew it was better to accept it. Just sometimes, in moments like this, when your husband was locked in his room, you felt the overwhelming burden of it. It was like a force that could break your shoulders, your spine, and bend you in half just so you could hide your aching head between your knees.

When you reached your bedroom again, you gripped the goblet of wine like it was your only salvation in life. Gods, you really couldn’t handle it sober today. It made you feel even more pathetic when Baelor came in the evening, forcing you to turn around to hide your face reddened from crying and drinking. You banished the memory as much as you could when he left, forced by your desperate please.

If only you knew how much it broke his heart to leave you with all of it alone.

The pain was unbearable when you stood in front of his study the next day. It was midday, and you could still feel like sleep didn’t free you from its paws.

You entered slowly, recalling all the words you had prepared. The door didn’t squeak; your steps didn’t betray you.

“I pray…” you spoke without proper greeting, but your voice broke. It was so pitiful you wanted to scream. “All I can hope for is that you see my behavior as humiliating only for myself and not for you too.”

Baelor's head snapped up, and his expression turned from surprise to something gentle.

“My wife…” he whispered like he didn't hear your words at all, just taken aback by your presence itself. You knew he had problems with hearing, but you also knew he did that deliberately now. “How do you feel, heart?” He asked, rising from his chair, not daring to step closer to you.

That was the worst; you screamed at him too last night, and now he resented you. He must have. You were almost scared of yourself too, especially after how you behaved towards him when drunk.

Moments after your fury and your vulgar, uncontrolled speech, you were partially proud of it. With time came the questioning. You decided you couldn't bear the embarrassment.

You refused to open the door when Baelor sought you, but he entered anyway.

“Please, please…” you sobbed in your drunken state. “Leave me alone. I am deeply sorry, husband, but I cannot– Scold me all you like… all I deserve, but tomorrow. Let me have tonight…”

“Are you certain you are good to stay on your own?”

“Fuck, just leave!”

He had awful remorse for leaving you alone, but you also never looked at him with such fright. He didn't know how to react and fled, feeling more like a coward than ever.

“Baelor…” you whispered, making him return his thoughts to now.

You didn't answer his question, but he saw you were swaying on your feet. It wasn't something he would ever blame you for. He remembered his youth well; he had drunken nights with his brothers and tried to drown his sorrows in wine as well in the past.

He wished to take you in his arms and rock you calmly but didn't wish to overstep. There was deep doubt in him that your wish from last night would ever leave his memory. To him it wasn’t about your behaviour, though. It was about how much he failed as a husband, which made you feel like you had to hide.

Left with no choice, straightened his back and took a deep breath. “I could never think of your acts as humiliating. To neither of us, never.”

It made your breath hitch.

“But I…”

“It was… unexpected, I admit.” He nodded his head and stood up slowly, allowing you to step away if you wished to.

He prayed you wouldn’t. It would be unbearable if you backed away to the wall, fleeing from him like that. His fists tightened and loosened as a way to distract himself from the need to have you close.

You teared up again, trying to fight it, but your head ached, blood buzzed in your ears, and you felt like collapsing in front of your husband.

Baelor broke his promise to not do anything against your wish. He ignored it and closed the distance between you, pulling you to his chest.

“Do not cry, my love,” he said softly, brushing the top of your head with his lips. “Shhh… I'm so sorry it happened to you.”

You allowed your hands to move up and grip the material of his clothing over his chest.

“I let him provoke me,” you explained, trying not to sound hysterical. “It's my fault…”

You could hear it in Baelor’s voice that he smirked. “Even if you're not the first and not the last.”

“I'm so sorry.”

He moved away just to have a proper look at you. With his thumb, he brushed your tears away. Then it collided with your shivering lower lip and pressed a little. When he leaned in and you felt his warm breath all over your neck, you couldn’t help but think that some part of him enjoyed all of it. You decided to ignore it, not wanting to leave things unsettled.

“Why are you apologizing to me, sweet?”

“I never meant to rush you outside our bedroom,” you explained, ignoring his question. “I didn’t want you to see me looking so pitiful. Certainly not when I expected you to be ashamed of me.”

“I could never be ashamed of you,” he assured you without the need to think about it. “And besides, from what Maekar told me, there is nothing I or you should feel bad about.”

You smothered the material over his chest from the crumples your grip left. You looked up at him again with worry. “Did he tell you what caused it?”

“He refused to, but don’t take me for a fool, my wife. I know this lordling’s belief better than I would like to,” he muttered with a grimace.

Not wishing to see him like that, you moved onto your tiptoes and tugged at the collar of his shirt. Your lips merely brushed over his, but you felt him smile and chase you chastely when you meant to pull away. His touch was warm, and a big hand placed over your back made you shiver.

“What he did mention, though,” he spoke up, parting from your lips swollen from your own biting, “was that you fought like a true dragon. It’s a grand compliment from my brother.”

“I am no dragon…”

“Well, I guess you take from people you surround yourself with.” He played with your hair before brushing it behind your shoulder. The path of his finger that traced your face made you realize he missed you as much as you missed him. “Now answer my question, wife. How are you feeling?”

The tension suddenly left you, making you sigh deeply. You were happy to lean into Baelor’s strong arms more, supported by him.

“Awful,” you admitted. “Disgusting…”

That's what he figured. A night like that couldn’t leave you with anything good, especially when the remorse that caused it was unnecessary.

“Will you allow me to take care of you?”

“I don't want to be a bother,” you murmured quietly, hiding your face in his chest, but he gently made you look at him again.

“Nonsense. And when you feel better, perhaps tomorrow, I would like to take you for a ride. Would that be appealing to you?”

You hesitated for a while, knowing how much worse Baelor’s anger could make the situation. Still, you placed his good name above everything, and it felt like your chore to remind him of that.

“Baelor, I think it would be better if I stayed out of sight for some time. I certainly shouldn't show up next to you anywhere. At least for a few days. I…”

Baelor's eyes darkened dangerously. You felt him cupping your face tighter. Still gentle enough to call it sweet, but it was slowly turning into a touch of urgency. Made from the need to keep you close even against the wishes of others.

“Are those your thoughts, or did someone suggest that to you?” His voice turned lower and quieter. He always spoke his warnings like that. But it wasn’t meant to intimidate you, certainly not.

“They are mine,” you promised. “I only meant what's good for you…”

Baelor stared at you, his face barely over yours, and you would swear he didn’t even breathe. You could no longer recognize if his expression was a grimace or a smile, but there was something wicked in it. Something that you could only see on Baelor when he was furious or led by desire. It made you feel warm.

With thrill settling in the base of your spine, you wrapped your arms around Baelor, settling yourself more comfortably against him.

“Husband?”

“Say it again,” he dared. “Say that your wish is to stay away from me.”

“Oh, you know that it's not like that.”

“Say it,” he repeated, placing his big hand at the nape of your neck like he needed to support your head. He forced you to look up and throw your head back a little.

You watched him eye your bare neck like a man starved for what was his to take.

“I don't want to say it.”

He brushed another strand of hair out of the way. Your noses almost touched before he leaned in closer. A lazy kiss was placed on the side of your neck, dragged on for too long to consider it proper. Baelor’s warm lips traveled up to your ear, settling there for a while and playing with your earlobe before he spoke up again.

“If anyone says something about it again,” he spoke up in a serious, quiet voice that sent shivers down your body, “tries to pursue you into staying in the shadows…”

“Baelor,” you didn’t want him to end that sentence, even if your less rational part was thrilled with it. Enough harm was done already.

But would Baelor think the same if he were there with you, hearing the lord speak all of those sick words? For now he looked shaken only by the idea that you could be pushed away from your place by his side.

“Whoever tries to keep you away from me will have to face something much worse than your screams. Not that they weren’t scary enough, from what I’ve heard.”

a/n: this was such a pleasure to write. just me, wine and my dear friend baelor break-my-back… oh i mean–

The first proposal arrived on a Tuesday.

Baelor knew this because he had been in his mother's solar when the messenger came — had been in the middle of a sentence about grain yields in the Reach, which was not a subject that had ever previously caused him difficulty — when Myriah had accepted the sealed letter, read it with the pleasantly neutral expression she deployed when delivering information she intended to observe him receiving, and said: "Lord Ambrose Celtigar has written to your father regarding a match."

Baelor had finished his sentence about grain yields. He had said I see with the composure that had served him in war councils and throne rooms and every demanding context his life had presented him with. He had excused himself at a reasonable hour and walked back to his solar and sat down and looked at the wall.

Lord Ambrose Celtigar was thirty four years old. Not unpleasant looking, by general report. He held a respectable seat, had no significant character defects that Baelor was aware of, and was by every measurable standard a perfectly suitable match for a young woman of good family and accomplishment.

Baelor sat with this information for some time. He thought about it with the same thorough attention he brought to tactical assessments and pieces of legislation that required careful consideration. He thought about Lord Celtigar's seat and Lord Celtigar's reported appearance and Lord Celtigar's presumably functional absence of character defects. Then, against his better judgement and with the inevitability of a man who has been trying not to think about something for several moons and has finally encountered a reason he cannot maintain the effort, he thought about you. He thought about the particular way you laughed when something actually struck you as funny rather than merely requiring a polite response. He thought about all the moons of carrying something carefully that he had been meaning to do something about and had not yet done something about, and he sat with the full uncomfortable weight of that gap until the candles had burned considerably lower than when he sat down. Then he went to bed and did not sleep particularly well.

The second proposal arrived on a Thursday. Ser Willam Waxley — twenty eight, well regarded, good family, reportedly personable in the specific way that made Baelor briefly and irrationally consider what reportedly personable actually meant in practice and whether it was a quality you would find appealing, which was not a line of thinking he pursued to its conclusion because he had more self-respect than that. He received the information from his mother over correspondence review, said I see, finished his tea, and continued with the correspondence. It took longer than usual. He kept losing his place.

The third proposal arrived the following Monday, and Baelor heard it from one of his mother's ladies who mentioned it to another in passing while crossing the training yard without any awareness that he was within earshot. Lord Patrek Mallister — young, wealthy, the kind of man described by other men as having prospects, which was a phrase Baelor had always found vague and now found specifically aggravating. He held his sword incorrectly for the remainder of the session. His master at arms observed this with the expression of a man who had seen many things in training yards and had made a professional decision to comment on none of them today.

By the second week Myriah had stopped pretending she was telling him incidentally.

She told him directly now, with the pleasant composure of a woman delivering information she had every right to deliver, and watched his face with the specific attentiveness she had been applying to him since he was approximately four years old and had not, in the intervening decades, become any less accurate. "Lord Rowan," she said one Wednesday morning, in the same tone she might use to note the weather. "He sent a very thoughtful letter. Apparently he is an articulate man — the letter suggested genuine consideration of the match. He mentioned his gardens specifically. Considerable, by his account."

"How nice for him," said Baelor, examining his correspondence with the focused attention of a man who was absolutely reading every word and not at all conducting a parallel and involuntary assessment of whether considerable gardens were a meaningful advantage in the context of a marriage proposal.

"They are in the Reach," Myriah offered. "Lovely climate."

"I am aware where the Reach is, Mother."

"I am simply noting that Lord Rowan appears to be a man of—"

"I am aware," he said, with the measured evenness that cost him slightly more than it usually did, "of Lord Rowan's considerable attributes."

Myriah looked at him over the rim of her tea with the serenity of a woman who had already drawn her conclusions and was simply allowing the conversation to confirm them at its own pace. Across the room you turned a page of correspondence with your habitual focused attention, entirely unaware that a man three feet from your queen was conducting his seventeenth silent assessment of the morning of whether the Reach's climate was in any way a disqualifying characteristic in a prospective husband and arriving, frustratingly, at no useful conclusion.

The problem — and he had examined this problem with the thoroughness it deserved, sitting with it in his solar across several evenings while the candles burned and the city went about its business outside his window — was not that the proposals were coming. Of course they were coming. You were accomplished and intelligent and the kind of person who made rooms better by being in them, and proposals were the entirely predictable result of other people having eyes and using them. The problem was that he had been meaning to do something about a feeling he had been carrying for far too many moons and had not done something about it, and now other men were doing something about it, and the window in which doing something felt like a considered and deliberate choice was rapidly becoming a window in which doing something felt like a response to a crisis. He did not want to do something as a response to a crisis. He wanted to do something because it was right and honest and because he meant it entirely, not because Lord Rowan had considerable gardens and the Reach had a lovely climate. The distinction mattered to him. The distinction was, currently, making his life significantly more difficult than it needed to be.

The fifth proposal was from a lord whose name he forgot immediately upon hearing it, which concerned him more than anything else that had happened so far. He had a good memory. He did not forget names. He went back to his solar and sat with the wall for an hour before acknowledging that the wall had never once been helpful and he should probably stop consulting it.

Maekar found him on the battlements on a Thursday evening, which was not unusual — Maekar found him in various places occasionally and delivered his opinions without invitation, which was simply a feature of having a brother that Baelor had long since accepted. "You look terrible," Maekar said, by way of greeting, leaning against the stone beside him with the air of a man who had come here with a specific purpose and was not going to be deflected from it by pleasantries. Baelor thanked him with the composure of someone receiving a compliment and returned his attention to the city. The city, like the wall, was not particularly helpful.

"The proposals," Maekar said.

"I am not discussing this."

"You have been discussing it with yourself for two weeks. Loudly, in the sense that everyone can see you doing it even though you have not said a word." Maekar paused, with the brief patience of a man making a concession to tact before abandoning it. "She does not know. She has no idea — she sorts the correspondence and answers the proposals politely and has absolutely no indication that you are standing on battlements losing your ability to remember lords' names because of it."

"I did not forget his name."

"You called Lord Fossoway Lord Forrest twice in council," Maekar said flatly, "and his name is Fossoway and you never forget names. Do something about it."

"It is not that simple."

"It is exactly that simple. You consider things until other men act and then you consider the consequences of other men acting. Do something about it." He let that sit for a moment, then pushed off the wall and left with the decisive efficiency of a man who had said what he came to say and had no interest in discussing it further.

Baelor stood on the battlements for a while longer. He thought about Lord Fossoway, whose name he had apparently been calling wrong. He thought about Lord Rowan's gardens and Lord Lyonel Tyrell, who had not yet written but whose existence as a potential candidate Myriah had mentioned with the casual precision of someone planting a seed and fully expecting it to grow. He thought about you sorting correspondence with your focused attention entirely unaware that he was up here mangling names. Then he went inside, because the battlements were cold and the wall had already established it was not going to be helpful and Maekar was right, which was an irritating thing to have to acknowledge even internally.

The sixth proposal arrived on a Friday morning and was, by his mother's assessment delivered with a serenity that he found specifically challenging, the most serious one yet. Lord Lyonel Tyrell. Young. Wealthy. The heir to Highgarden.

He sat in his habitual chair and looked at the correspondence he was not reading and thought about Highgarden with the sustained focus of a man attempting to locate a flaw and being unable to find one. Highgarden had gardens that made Lord Rowan's look modest. It had resources and position and climate that were objectively difficult to argue with. Lord Lyonel Tyrell was, by every measurable standard, an excellent prospect, and Baelor was a fair enough man to acknowledge this even when the acknowledgment was deeply inconvenient.

You were at the correspondence table. You were wearing the blue dress — you always concentrated better in the blue dress, he had noticed this some time ago, something in the colour seemed to settle something in you. You had a small ink stain on your left forefinger from where the pen had slipped earlier and you had not noticed and he had noticed and had said nothing, because saying you have ink on your finger would have been a reasonable and unremarkable thing to say and for some reason this morning reasonable and unremarkable things felt slightly beyond him. He was going to lose you to Highgarden. Lord Lyonel Tyrell was going to take you to his considerable gardens and his considerable resources and you were going to sort his correspondence and make his rooms better by being in them and—

"Your grace."

He looked up. You were looking at him from the correspondence table with an expression of mild concern, which meant the expression on his face had apparently communicated something he had not intended to communicate. "Are you well?" you asked, and he said yes, and you looked at him with that observational patience that had always seen more than he planned for, and said he had been quiet, a different kind of quiet, and he told you he was perfectly well with the composure he had left and you returned to the correspondence and he looked at the window and thought, very clearly and very finally, that he was done thinking about Highgarden.

He stood up.

He crossed the room.

He stopped beside the correspondence table and you looked up and he looked at you — at the ink on your left forefinger and the blue dress and the expression that was currently hovering between curious and concerned — and he thought about Maekar saying do something about it with the bluntness of someone who had run entirely out of patience for watching things not happen. He thought about Lord Fossoway, whose name he had been mangling. He thought about Lord Lyonel Tyrell's gardens, which he was done thinking about.

"There is something," he said, "that I should have said some time ago."

You put down your pen.

"Alright," you said quietly, a light frown appearing on your face.

He looked at you — at your face, which was giving him its full attentive consideration the way it always did — and he thought about how he had wanted to do this properly. Considered rather than reactive. Chosen rather than pressured. He had wanted the moment to be right and he had been waiting for the moment to be right and the moment had apparently decided not to wait for him and had gone ahead and arrived anyway in the middle of a Friday morning over a correspondence table with an ink stain on your finger, and he found, standing here, that he did not mind this even slightly.

"I love you," he said. Quietly. Plainly. With the full weight of the words and several proposals in his mind and one brother's bluntness behind it. "I have loved you for some time. I had wanted to tell you when the moment felt properly considered rather than — I had wanted it to be right rather than reactive, and in attempting to ensure that I have apparently been calling lords by the wrong names and holding my sword incorrectly and consulting walls, none of which has been productive. It has been brought to my attention, with some force, that I consider things at the expense of doing them. I am attempting to correct this."

The solar was very quiet.

You looked at him for a long moment, something moving across your face through several registers — the attentive reading quality, and then something warmer and more wondering beneath it, and then something that was almost but not quite a laugh — and you said: "Lord Tyrell."

"Has excellent gardens," he said. "Yes."

"And Lord Rowan."

"Lovely climate."

"And Ser Willam Waxley and Lord Celtigar and—"

"Yes," he said. "All of them. I am aware of all of them in considerable detail, I have been aware of all of them in considerable detail for two weeks, and I would like, if it is at all possible, to stop being aware of them."

The almost-laugh became something more definite, and he stood beside the correspondence table and watched you laugh softly and found that the moons of careful management had nowhere left to go except simply — out. Released. Like something that had been held very tightly finally being allowed to exist without the holding.

"I was not going to accept any of them," you said, when the laugh had settled into something quieter and warmer. "I had no intention of accepting any of them. For reasons that I think are probably apparent."

He went still. "How long," he said.

"Longer than two weeks," you said softly.

The solar was warm and golden and entirely, completely quiet. He reached across the correspondence table and covered your hand with his — the one with the ink on the finger, the one he had noticed and said nothing about, the one he was done saying nothing about — and felt you turn your palm and close your fingers around his with the ease of something that had always been going to happen and had simply required a Tuesday and too many proposals for his liking and one correctly remembered name to arrive.

"I would like," he said, "to have a conversation that is considerably overdue."

You looked up at him with that real smile — the one underneath all the others — and said: "Are you going to consider it first, or simply have it?"

He looked at you for a moment. "Simply have it," he said.

Outside the solar a Friday morning in spring continued with cheerful indifference to the fact that Prince Baelor Targaryen had just resolved moons of careful management in approximately four minutes. Somewhere in the castle Myriah Martell set down her tea with the expression of a woman who had been waiting for this particular Friday since approximately the third moon and found it entirely satisfactory. In the adjoining corridor Maekar, who had absolutely not been listening at the door, walked away with the expression of a man who had said do something about it and had been correct and intended to bring this up at the earliest opportunity and every opportunity thereafter.

You were still holding his hand across the correspondence table. Baelor looked at that for a moment — at your fingers closed around his and the ink stain and the blue dress and the smile that was still present in the corners of your mouth — and thought that he intended to do something about that too. Properly this time. Without the walls and the battlements and the involuntary memorisation of other men's garden statistics. Simply and directly and without further delay, in the manner Maekar had recommended and that he was now prepared to fully endorse.

He was, after all, done considering.

A.N.: I have been sitting with this request for some time. Sorry for being this late, I have not been as inspired as I would have wanted to. Some people have noted that the AKOTSK is kinda dying (or dozing off) and I think I have the same feeling, idk. Guess I need to take it easy for a minute or two. Thank you all for your constant support, you are all champs <3

Taglist: @qardasngan @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @princessphilly @shyravenns @loveslide @dulcebloodhnd @caitlynluna @mongrelcryptid @sacha1slytherin @faithfullyvigilantsliver @alternarabuda @jjubilee-fluff

The air at Summerhall was thick enough to drown in.

It carried the overripe, rotting sweetness of bruised plums and night-blooming jasmine, a cloying perfume that hung in the humidity and clung to the skin. Aerion despised it. He preferred the sharp, dry heat of King’s Landing, or the sulfurous bite of Dragonstone. Summerhall was a palace built for indulgence, soft and yielding, much like the lords and ladies currently spilling out from the feast hall onto the upper terraces.

He could feel their eyes. A hundred parasites leaning over the carved marble balustrades, their wine-flushed faces half-hidden by shadows and climbing ivy, watching the newly betrothed couple take their first ceremonial stroll through the lower gardens.

Aerion’s hand rested over yours where you held his arm. His grip was precisely calibrated. To the sycophants on the terrace, it looked like the possessive, attentive touch of a prince deeply enamored with his future bride. In reality, his thumb was pressed hard into the delicate grouping of tendons on the back of your hand, the heavy gold edge of his signet ring digging into your flesh, grinding down with every step you both took down the sweeping limestone stairs.

He wanted to see you flinch. He had been applying this specific, grinding pressure since you left the great hall, waiting for the inevitable stutter in your step, the sharp intake of breath, the widening of your eyes.

You gave him nothing.

Your hand beneath his remained perfectly relaxed, resting lightly against the crimson silk of his doublet. You walked with the infuriating, measured rhythm you had maintained since arriving in the South.

"They are waiting for you to stumble, my lady," Aerion murmured, his voice a low, melodic hum pitched only for your ears. He did not look at you. He kept his gaze forward, his profile angled perfectly to catch the silver moonlight. "The Tyrells, the Peakes, the flock of useless second sons. They are watching your hem. They want the Northern savage to trip over her heavy velvet and break her nose on the marble."

"And what does Your Grace want?" you asked. Your voice was flat, carrying the cold acoustic deadness of a snowdrift.

"I want to see how long it takes for the frost to melt off you." Aerion shifted his grip, sliding his hand up your wrist, his fingers clamping tight enough to restrict the blood flow. "You ate the roasted boar tonight with the enthusiasm of a starved hound. I watched you cut the meat. You hold a knife like a man who kills for a living, not a lady of a great house."

"The boar was dead, Your Grace. It didn't require much technique."

Aerion’s jaw tightened. He smiled, a brilliant, terrifying curve of his mouth that he aimed toward the dark canopy of the weeping willows ahead.

"You think your insolence is armor," he said pleasantly. You stepped off the final marble stair together and onto the crushed gravel of the garden path. The crunch of your footsteps masked the distant strains of the high harp drifting down from the feast. "It is entirely transparent. I have broken older, crueler, and much more interesting things than you, little wolf. I am going to peel that stoicism off you layer by layer until you are begging me for the privilege of serving my wine."

You did not miss a step. You did not attempt to pull your arm away. The heavy cobalt wool of your cloak brushed against his leg.

"If I pour your wine, you'll have to drink it," you said.

Aerion halted. The sudden stop sent a spray of white gravel across the manicured grass. He turned to face you fully, stepping into your space, crowding you. He was taller, broader, armored in layers of stiffened silk and gold thread that cost more than your father’s entire bleak fortress.

The light from the distant torches caught your face. You were not a classical beauty. Your jaw was too sharp, your coloring too muted, entirely lacking the Valyrian luminescence he was accustomed to. You looked exactly like what you were: a creature bred in the dark, frozen ass-end of the world.

But your eyes were steady.

Aerion reached out and caught your chin. He didn't use his fingertips; he used the hard ridge of his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger, pinching the bone of your jaw with enough force to leave a bruise by morning. He forced your head up.

"You have a very poor understanding of your position," Aerion said softly. The music from the terrace was barely a whisper here, swallowed by the dense foliage of the arbor. "You are a broodmare. A political concession. Your father sent you south because he is a coward who understands that fire consumes ice. When we are married, you will not speak unless I grant you permission. You will not look at me unless I command it. And if you ever attempt to threaten me again, I will have your tongue cut out and served to your father wrapped in a Stark banner."

He waited for the fear. He thrived on it. He needed to see the pupil dilate, the slight tremor in your lower lip, the sudden, shallow spike of breathing. It was his favorite vintage, and he was thirsty.

You looked up at him, your chin caught in his vice grip. Your breath brushed against his knuckles. It was slow. Even.

Your eyes dropped from his violet gaze, tracking slowly down the line of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the exposed skin of his throat above the stiff, jewel-encrusted collar of his doublet.

"Your pulse is elevated," you noted.

Aerion froze.

"It's beating erratically right here," you continued, your voice entirely conversational. You lifted your free hand. You did not try to break his grip on your jaw. Instead, you brought your hand up to his throat.

Aerion’s immediate instinct was to break your wrist. His muscles twitched, primed for violence, but the sheer, bizarre audacity of the movement paralyzed him for a fraction of a second.

Your fingers were not soft. The skin of your palm was rough, scraped with calluses that had no business being on a highborn lady. You pressed the pads of your index and middle fingers directly against the carotid artery on the side of his neck.

"There," you said quietly. "Fast. Shallow. Like a rabbit."

He shoved your hand away, violently slapping your arm down, his own composure fracturing for the first time since you had met. He dropped his grip on your jaw and stepped back, his chest rising.

"Do not touch me," he hissed, the courtly volume control snapping.

You let your hand fall to your side, entirely unbothered by the strike. You didn't rub the skin where he had hit you. You just watched him.

The dynamic in the heavy, perfumed air shifted. It was an ugly, grinding sensation, like the gears of a siege engine slipping a notch. Aerion was accustomed to people shrinking away from him. When he escalated, they retreated. It was the natural law of the world. The dragon opened its jaws, and the sheep scattered.

You had not retreated. You had stepped inside his guard.

"You speak a great deal about breaking things," you said, your head tilting slightly to the side. The shadows of the arbor leaves painted dark, fractured patterns across your face. "You talk about it constantly. It’s all you wanted to discuss during the feast. You broke a servant's fingers for spilling wine. You broke a horse for refusing a jump. You broke a puppet show in Ashford because you didn't like the ending."

"I did what was necessary to maintain respect."

"You did what was necessary to keep yourself entertained," you corrected smoothly. "But it's a very loud kind of entertainment, isn't it? It requires an audience. You brought me all the way down here, out of the light, but you made sure we were still just visible enough that the lords on the terrace could see the silhouette of you dominating your new Northern bride."

Aerion’s eyes narrowed. "You think you are clever. You are merely a provincial attempting to read a book in a language she doesn't speak."

"I speak violence perfectly well, Your Grace," you said as you took a step toward him.

Aerion did not step back. To step back would be a concession, a physical surrender, and a Targaryen did not yield ground. But his spine locked, and the crushed gravel crunched under your heavy leather boots. You didn't wear the delicate silk slippers the Southern women wore. You wore riding boots, practical and lethal.

"The problem with breaking things," you said, your voice dropping lower, slipping beneath the ambient noise of the garden, "is that you are only powerful as long as the thing you are breaking agrees to be fragile."

You took another step. You were close enough now that he could smell the cold, sharp scent of you. It cut through the sickening sweetness of the Summerhall blooms like a rusted iron blade. 

Pine needles, woodsmoke, and the metallic tang of snow.

"You are threatening the wrong woman," you whispered.

"I could snap your neck before you could draw breath to scream," he said, the words slipping out through his teeth. It wasn't a premeditated threat, it was a raw, reactive snarl.

"You could try." You looked up at him, and for the first time that evening, you smiled.

It was a hideous thing. It didn't reach your eyes, didn't soften the sharp angles of your face. It was the baring of teeth.

"But you won't," you continued softly. "Because you know that if you put your hands on my throat, I will not cry. I will not beg. I will take this heavy silver hairpin," you gestured vaguely to the intricate mass of dark hair coiled at the nape of your neck, "and I will drive it directly upward through the soft tissue under your jaw, pinning your tongue to the roof of your mouth. You will drown in your own blood right here in the gravel, and the last thing you will see is me, entirely unbothered."

Aerion stared at you.

The heat in his blood spiked, a violent, confusing rush of adrenaline that settled heavy and hot low in his stomach. It was fury, absolute and unadulterated, but threaded through it was an electric, sickening jolt of arousal. He had never been spoken to this way. He had never been looked at this way.

You weren't looking at him with awe. You weren't looking at him with fear.

You were looking at him the way a butcher evaluates a carcass. Figuring out where the joints connect. Deciding where to make the first cut.

"You are insane," he breathed.

"I am realistic." You closed the final inch between them. You were shorter than him, forcing him to look down, but the physical reality of you felt massive, immovable. "You want a victim. You want a soft, weeping thing to torment in the dark to make yourself feel like a god. You chose poorly."

Aerion reached for you again, moving purely on instinct, his hand flashing out to grip your throat. He wanted to feel the pulse you had mocked him for. He wanted to squeeze until your eyes rolled back.

He moved fast, the speed that had won him a hundred melees.

You were faster.

Your hand shot up, your fingers wrapping around his wrist just below his heavy rings. Your grip was startlingly strong, the calluses scraping against his fine skin. You didn't try to wrestle his arm down, you couldn't have, he was twice your weight, but you caught his momentum, using his own force to pull him off balance, stepping slightly to the side so his hand slammed hard against the stone trunk of the statue behind him.

Pain flared up his forearm, a sharp, blinding crack.

Aerion gasped, stumbling forward into your space.

Before he could recover, before he could leverage his weight, you moved in. You pressed your body against his, crowding him against the cold stone of the statue. Your hand remained clamped around his wrist, pinning his injured hand against the rock.

"Do you know how they kill wolves in the North?" you murmured, your lips practically brushing the fine silver hairs at his temple.

Aerion was breathing hard. The pain in his hand was sharp, metallic, but the pressure of your body against his, the rigid, unyielding lines of your posture, the heat radiating through the thick wool of your cloak, was suffocating. He tried to pull his wrist free. You twisted it slightly, digging your thumb directly into the nerve cluster he had assaulted earlier on your own hand.

He inhaled sharply through his teeth, his jaw locking.

"They don't hunt them," you whispered, your breath hot against his skin. "They bait them. They put a piece of bleeding meat in the snow, and they bury a blade in the center of it. The wolf licks the blood. It licks the blade. It cuts its own tongue, and it bleeds to death drinking its own blood, entirely convinced it is gorging itself on a kill."

You stepped back abruptly, releasing his wrist.

Aerion staggered slightly, his shoulder catching against the stone to keep himself upright. He cradled his hand against his chest, the knuckles throbbing. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, frantic rhythm that he could not control.

You stood two paces away, your hands folded neatly in front of you. The cobalt cloak fell perfectly straight. Your breathing was completely undisturbed.

Up on the terrace, the music swelled, a bright, trilling melody played on the high harp. Someone laughed, a sound that carried over the manicured hedges. To the lords watching from above, the silhouette was likely romantic. The prince leaning against the stone, you standing before him.

"I am not a rabbit, Aerion," you said, driving the blade in deeper. "I am the blade in the meat. Keep biting."

You turned, your heavy skirts swishing against the gravel, and began to walk back up the path toward the lights of the terrace. You did not look back to see if he was following. You did not hurry.

Aerion remained pinned against the stone.

The cloying scent of the Summerhall gardens suddenly made him want to vomit. He looked down at his hand. The skin across his knuckles was raw, bleeding slightly where it had scraped the stone. He rubbed his thumb over the blood, smearing it across his heavy gold signet ring.

His chest heaved. The fury in him was a living thing, thrashing violently against his ribs, but beneath it, the cold, terrifying realization settled into his bones like frost.

He was not holding the leash.

He watched the dark shape of you moving steadily through the weeping willows, your posture impossibly straight, cutting through the heavy Southern air like an executioner’s axe.

He tasted copper in his mouth. He had bitten his own cheek.

Aerion swallowed the blood, his eyes locked on your retreating back, the burning in his chest shifting from the heat of control to the agonizing, terrifying heat of the trap.

He pushed himself off the stone and followed you into the dark.

“I know cities,” Lyanna replies back simply, “and a city that has more people hungry than people fed is not a good city.”

You can’t help but smile a bit at your sister’s naïveté. She knew as well as you did that isn’t how diplomacy worked. No king could snap his fingers and rid Westeros of hunger and strife. It is a nice thought, though.

“And your betrothed? What do you think of him?” you ask, your inflection curious but restrained. 

“I suppose we will see, won’t we?” Lyanna tries to sound unaffected by the responsibility placed upon her slight shoulders, but you notice her hands threading the fur of her coat incessantly, the slight tremble to her fingers.

There’s a lapse in conversation as you look down at your lap as if it holds the answer to all your worries. Lyanna is not your full sister, but she is your sister nonetheless. You worry for her more than anyone else in the seven kingdoms.

“Perhaps he will surprise you,” you tell her this in earnest, but even you recognize that your words ring hollow. 

In the farthest reaches of the north, whispers of the Targaryens were as commonplace as snow. One cannot wonder what the Red Keep is like without considering the people that live there. They have ruled on the Iron Throne since the time that dragons walked among people. Some were quick to call them “gods among men” whilst others claimed they were a stain upon the seven kingdoms

You cannot blame either side. It seems to be a bit like flipping a coin whether or not a Targaryen ruler would be corrupted by the weight of all it entails. You would never gamble on those odds.

“The castle,” your sister’s voice is tremulous and weak and it quickly shakes you from your thoughts. You look over at her and notice the widening of her eyes as she peers out the small window.

Your curiosity wins over your fear as you lean forward to take in the view. The castle is simultaneously beautiful as it is haunting. Landed on the precipice of an imposing cliff, your eyes slide down the brick side to the edge and your eyes make the jump over the rocky shoreline to the water below. You briefly wonder how many people had fallen to their deaths there. You shake your head to clear yourself of such thoughts.

The rest of the journey to the Red Keep moves slowly. Each rattle of the carriage has you clutching your gown in the hope you could steel your nerves. You are not the one being sold off like a breeding mare today, so why are you so nervous?

When the horses finally draw to a stop, you bite your lip so hard that you begin to taste copper. You release your lip when you meet Lyanna’s eyes from across the carriage; her eyes looking between yours in some semblance of comfort, some kind of bravery. You reach across the carriage to grasp her hand. Her palm is slick and trembling.

“No matter what happens,” you tell her softly, “I will be here for you. Always.”

Lyanna’s quivering lips pull into a soft smile at the corners. She averts her eyes.

“I know I have not always been the best to you.” She pulls at an invisible thread of her beautiful deep grey gown as she speaks, too afraid or embarrassed to meet your eyes. “But you have always been my closest friend.”

You purse your lips at the thought of you and Lyanna’s tempestuous relationship and nod. You squeeze her hand once and pull away just as the doors to the carriage open and a burst of light blinds you.

You lean back so as to escape the light’s reach and to show deference to your sister. Lyanna is the picture of elegance and beauty as she stands from her spot across from you and takes poised steps down to the path below. You move only once she has cleared herself completely out of the way.

You stand and grab the outstretched hand of a nearby guard to help escort you down. You squint your eyes to better focus on the outside as the light assaults your senses. In Winterfell, the sun is never this bright. And if it is, it is filtered through thick tree branches or clouds. This sun is aggressive and its light immediately heats your skin through your thick fur coat.

You keep your eyes respectfully averted as you join your sister and your father, but you allow them to trail upwards after you have taken your place and successfully escaped the spotlight.

Your eyes latch onto a feeble older man near the front of the line. You recognize him immediately by his deep red robes, violet eyes, and gold crown as King Daeron. His hair is white and his skin is aged and pale as the full moon on a deep starless night. His gaze sweeps across the dire wolves assembled in front of him like the round, intelligent eyes of an owl. When they reach you, his near-white eyebrows furrow only slightly. It is an imperceptible difference that not many would catch. A bastard always would, though. 

It is the same expression that other noble ladies would make after hearing of your parentage. The same face that suitors of your sister would pull when they noticed the stark differences between you and Lyanna. It was the same face Lord and Lady Stark made every time they looked upon your visage as a child.

You look back down at the ground, content to trace the lines in the cobble beneath your feet as they spoke.

“Lord Stark,” the King’s voice is light and youthful as he speaks, a difference to his weathered face, “it is a pleasure to welcome you to the Red Keep.”

You look over at your father as he nods. His beard moves as a smile splits his face. “No words can fully capture our deep gratitude for you having us.”

The king nods once before he looks back at your sister. Your eyes unconsciously drift across the gathered faces.

Each one you recognize from stories and vague descriptions from your studies. Maekar Targaryen, the youngest son–the anvil, strong and capable. His eldest children; Daeron, Aerion, and Daella. Two other young children. And then… Baelor Targaryen.

You startle when you realize his eyes are already centered on you. His eyes, the most recognizable of his features, one violet-blue and the other a deep brown, are extremely intimidating. Something lingers there, behind those mismatched eyes. Something that you cannot quite place. You look away just as his own flit toward his father.

“And those you have brought with you?” the king beckons.

Your father’s head turns in your direction. You do not look at him, but you can feel his gaze burning holes in the side of your face. You know what he is feeling. The embarrassment at having to present his beautiful, perfect daughter and then the walking depiction of his sins on the other. He looks back to the king and you let out a breath as his gaze is removed from your face.

“These are my daughters Lyanna and–” 

“You are Lady Snow,” a small voice interrupts your father. “You are the bastard.” Your heart pounds in your ears as your eyes seek to identify the speaker. 

Your gaze meets the violet ones of a young boy across from you. Prince Aegon, you guess. He can’t be older than eight or nine, a small, genuine smile pulling at the edges of his lips. He was smiling… at you?

His father immediately grabs his shoulder and the boy falls silent under his disapproving eyes. You do not fault the boy. If anything, he made the whole thing a bit easier. Now, everyone is on a level playing field. 

“My apologies,” the king says, and you are startled to find his gaze not on your father but on you. “The boy has yet to learn when to hold his tongue.”

You smile tensely. “It is quite all right, My Grace. Ae-the boy meant no harm.”

The king smiles at you, genuinely, and you think in that moment that perhaps you had judged his character too hastily. 

Your father steps forward. “She will not be of consequence to you or your family, My Grace. She knows well her place.” 

You swallow thickly and any happiness or feelings of acceptance you had been mulling in disappear. 

“Hm,” the king does not say more. Silence settles over the courtyard like snow blanketing a valley.

You hear the sound of boots clanking against cobble and your eyes drift up from the ground to the figure approaching. Baelor’s deep black and maroon coat swishes across the paving as he takes long strides toward Lyanna. You watch from the side of your sister as he looks deeply into her eyes and a small smile curls at the edges of his lips.

“My lady,” his voice is soft. It sounds like the crackle of fire warming a room. The sound of the crunch of snow underneath heavy boots through an old growth forest. The sound of a lone dire wolf howling from afar, searching for its missing half.

Lyanna smiles gently and curtsies. Her dark hair slips from the thick coat and tumbles into her vision like the waves of a waterfall slipping off the edge of a cliff. Everything she does is carefully measured and planned, from the slightest gesture of her hand to the expression on her face. Your sister carries an effortless grace you could only hopelessly dream of. She offers her dainty hand and Baelor reaches forward to grasp it within his own. A small smile slips across your mouth as he bends his head down to plant a curt kiss across her knuckles. You notice your sister’s lips tremble with delight.

Their hands slip away from each other and Baelor takes a step back. You think he is going to go back to his spot with his house, but then he surprises you by stepping forward toward you. 

He keeps a respectful distance as he nods his head in your direction. “Lady Snow.”

You hide your tremulous hands under your coat as you do your best attempt at a curtsy. His eyes wrinkle at the edges and a smile flirts at the edges of his lips. You do not return the gesture–it is already enough that he has singled you out in the way he has, no need to stoke the flame.

As he finally steps away, you realize what emotion it is he hid behind his mismatched eyes you saw before but could not place. Curiosity. 

If Winterfell is a sleeping den of wolves, then the Red Keep is charged like a viper’s nest. Everywhere you turn, there is someone lurking. You cannot ever fully escape the stares that follow you regardless of where you are or what you are doing. 

Suddenly, you find yourself seeking the most recluded spots in order to escape it. You find yourself backing out of arrangements and responsibilities more often than you ever have. Sometimes you sit in your chambers all day in the hopes that the quilts will simply swallow you whole.

Instead of your usual wallowing, that morrow you slip away with the first rays of light to the courtyard. You have traded your usual plethora of thick fur-lined gowns with airy dresses that you feel that you can actually move and breathe in. People pass you and give you cursory glances, but you realise that most do not recognise you as the Stark you are without your fur. You smile to yourself for a moment at the realization before your thoughts are shattered by the sight of your sister striding toward you.

“Lyanna,” you say, surprised by her appearance so early in the morning. She is one to not be so easily roused from her chambers, rather, she usually sleeps until the sun is high in the sky. 

She is dressed in a beautiful fur-lined coat and a deep emerald gown that draws eyes from every corner of the courtyard. That, along with her striking northern beauty compared to your plain commoner beauty, is the reason you shrink in on yourself when you see her headed your way.

She smiles and grasps your arm, threading it across her own in a secure hold. “Walk with me.” The statement is less of a question than it is an order. You are used to following your sister’s bidding and so you simply bite your tongue and follow her as she leads you across the courtyard.

“How have you been, sister?” she asks. You startle at the title she only scarcely afforded you. Being called Lyanna’s sister–the acknowledgement of it–was not something that you were used to.

“Just fine,” you tell her, though it could not be farther from the truth, “and you?”

The smile that whips across your sister’s face makes you realize that the question had been less a genuine one and rather a formality. What Lyanna really wanted was to tell you about her day, but she had to get all the boring questions of your own out of the way first so she didn’t come across as a complete bitch.

“I have had the best few days,” Lyanna says in hurried excitement, “the gods have really smiled down upon me as of late.”

You bite your lip to prevent yourself from questioning her. The Gods? Which, those of the Old or of the Sept? 

“I’m glad to hear that,” you say. You think you might actually mean it, but a part of you stews in jealousy. While your sister thrives like a flower underneath the oppressive sun of the Red Keep, you wilt and long for the wild outside the walls.

“Baelor is so sweet,” Lyanna continues unperturbed by your lackluster reply, “he took me on a walk around the gardens yesterday. He told me all about his duties as Lord Hand, which I mostly tuned out, but then he picked a flower and gave it to me and said that I was as pretty as a rose and I nearly cried.”

You almost laugh at the irony of the differences between you and Lyanna. You would have been thrilled to hear about the duties of a hand to the king–and probably extremely put-off by the cheesy flirting. 

“So your betrothed is kind?” you say, thinking back to your conversation only a few days prior and the fear you had felt on her behalf.

“Yes, oh, I couldn’t ask for anyone better.” Lyanna’s grin stretches from ear to ear as she continues. Then, it slips away as she seems to recall something. “But I will say he is awfully busy. I do not see of him nearly as much as one should their betrothed.”

Your lips twist. “Well, he is the hand of the king. I’m sure he is very busy.”

“That’s what father said,” Lyanna groans. “But my mother always said that nothing should be more important than one’s wife, or in this case, wife-to-be.”

You look over at Lyanna in amazement at her naïveté. You had distantly remembered her mother saying that, but you do not think she had meant it in respect to the situation at hand now. Surely she realized that the fate of the kingdoms held some weight against the fate of one young woman?

“Oh,” Lyanna suddenly gasps. You follow her gaze across the courtyard where an older lady in bright red robes stands under a pillar. “I have to go. I forgot I had lessons.”

“Lessons?” you say, confused.

She looks over at you as if she suddenly remembered something. Her face turns from surprised to guilty in a flash. “Yes, er, father has me in studies to become a better wife for Baelor.”

You nod even though a pit has formed in your stomach. Father had considered it all for his true daughter, but left naught for you. You try not to take it personally. You were not the one getting married, afterall. But a bitterness sweeps over you despite it.

Lyanna runs toward the septa and you watch her as she goes. Passing noblemen watch her with wide, lustful eyes, before they snap away at the realization of her status. You ball your hands into fists, but you are not sure what you are more angry about. The impropriety of the men’s reaction to your sister or the jealousy that you had never once been looked at like that before.

You turn your head away before your thoughts further circle toward destructive tendencies. You try to remember exactly what it is you had planned to do for the day when your eyes get caught on a beautiful black stallion crossing through the courtyard, led on a lead by a young boy. 

He’s all muscle and velvet. His long, wavy mane stretches past his forelocks down to the start of his legs, jumping and falling against his side in tandem with his heavy trot. You do not realize you are following him until you are led across the castle to the stables. The stableboy is busy removing his halter and he does not notice you as he does, hanging it up on the wall, and then crossing the stable and leaving through a small door.

You move as if in a trance toward the beautiful beast. His dark eyes are sharp and follow your every step as you inch closer. His velvet nostrils flair and a deep noise comes crawling out of them, a swell of hot, ashy air lifting your hair from your face.

He leans over his stall door curiously and you reach out a tentative hand toward his face. 

“You are beautiful,” you whisper. 

Suddenly, the stallion lets out a high pitched neigh and his ears pin themselves tightly against his skull. You step backward instinctually and draw your hand back to your side.

You are not sure what you have done to offend the animal. You watch him closely.

“...His name is Vaegon.”

You do not look to the unfamiliar voice, half-assuming it is the stableboy from earlier, as your eyes stay enraptured by the stallion. “Emā se brōzi hen iā rōvēgrie vala,” you whisper. (You have the name of a great man).

The horse seems to calm in the face of your fluency. His ears lift from their tense position into their upright form. He leans forward and you are able to lay your hand onto his snout. He does not only allow you, but encourages it by pushing his face wholeheartedly into your palm. You let out an amazed laugh at his eagerness to be stroked. 

You smile. “Iksan biare īlon shifang tolie sir.” (I’m glad we understand each other now).

“Skoriot gōntan ao gūrēñagon bisa?” The voice breaks in again. This time, though, the change of language makes your head spin to look at him. (Where did you learn this?)

Your hand falls from its position back to your side at the sight of the man before you. Prince Baelor. You fall to your knees automatically and drop your head. 

“Stand,” Baelor orders and you do not know why for a brief moment you believed him to be anyone else. His voice is completely unique and gentle in a way you had never known a man’s to be.

You follow his order but keep your eyes stubbornly on the silver broach in the shape of a dragon keeping his cloak together. 

“…Kessa ao udligon nyke?” (Will you answer me?)

Your mouth suddenly seems dry as you go to answer. “I… taught myself.” You draw your hands across your gown. “Issa daor qopsa skori emā jēda.” (It is not difficult when you have time).

The prince lets out a laugh. It is not like his speaking voice. Rather, it is loud and sharp and contradictory in every way. You assume he must be amused by the thought of a young bastard girl teaching herself High Valriyan as a choice of pleasure. Admittedly, stated so plainly, it does sound quite absurd.

He stops laughing and when you look up, his eyes are soft, held together by deep crow’s feet that reveal to you his seniority to your own years. 

You can feel your throat bob as you swallow harshly.

“Gaomas aōha mandia gīmigon ziry tolī?” his eyes continue to twinkle with amusement despite the laughter having fled far off his face. (Does your sister know it too?)

“Lyanna?” you say, even though you know who he speaks of. It is not often people refer to her as your sister. It is startling when put as plainly as the prince did. “Daor, gaoman daor pāsagon sīr.” (No, I do not believe so.)

“Hm,” Baelor seems to be considering something as his mismatched eyes draw down your face. “Pār iksā mēre hen iā sȳz.” (Then you are one of a kind.)

Your eyebrows furrow before you can prevent them from doing so. Your skin prickles with unease at the thought of the stableboy watching from slats in the wood. You nervously card your hands down your gown. 

“My apologies, my prince,” you say, “I have to excuse myself. I had forgotten but I made some arrangements…”

If he is offended by your response, Baelor does not show it. His lips curl only partially at the corners, a hint at the amusement he had felt before. 

He nods his permission and you hurry away, nearly tripping over your skirts in the process. You blame your pounding heart on the fear of getting caught in a compromising position with Lyanna’s betrothed, but even you are not sure how true that is.

You had thought that perhaps you may have a short reprieve from having to deal with the royal family, but that hope is shattered as quickly as it arrives when Lyanna bursts into your room later that evening.

“Why are you not dressed?” she says urgently, looking you up and down in your shift with thinly veiled contempt.

You frown from where you sit at your desk. You look down at yourself. “You mean why am I dressed to rest?”

“I told you,” she starts, “that King Daeron has requested we join them for dinner tonight...”

You startle and immediately you stand. “You did not.”

“I did,” Lyanna says angrily, “are you calling me a liar?”

You shake your head. No use in making her angrier than she already is. “Of course not,” you reply. “Just… I need to get dressed, can you step out?”

The fire that had been stoked in Lyanna’s eyes douses out like water being poured over her head. She smiles and nods and steps out of your room without any more ceremony.

And so this is how you find yourself in the midst of the dining hall and smiling, jovial faces and the celebrations of marriage and the bringing of families together. Unlike before, your sister is happy this time—joking with Egg and shooting coy glances across the table at her betrothed. 

You cannot find it within yourself to share in the celebration and you hate yourself for it. You are lucky to be included, to be treated more of an equal and less like the bastard you were always treated like at Winterfell and yet a part of you longs for the simplicity of fading into the background like you could so easily back home.

You are not sure why you have been included. You are not adding much to the conversation or atmosphere. Really, if anything, you’re detracting from it.

You pick at the roasted duck in front of you in mild interest. You push around sprigs of parsley and thick marinate to see the strips of white meat underneath. You take a small bite and force it down.

The back of your neck suddenly prickles with unease. You lift your eyes and immediately they clash with the deep brown of your father’s across the way.

He’s looking at you like he might an animal. Or worse, an insect. You have to remind yourself that he does not hate you, he hates what you stand for, but even that seems like a lie now.

You look back down at your plate and you feel the weight of his gaze leave you as he gets involved in conversation with Prince Maekar, if you had to guess by voice alone.

“Lady Snow,” someone says from down the table.

You immediately meet their eyes and recognize the sharp violet as belonging to Daella. Even at her young age, she is already strikingly beautiful. 

Most of the eyes at the table draw to you at Daella’s beckoning as if they only just realized you were there.

Daella continues to smile at you unperturbed by the stares. “What was it like growing up in Winterfell?”

You wonder why such a question was not aimed at Lyanna. As your eyes dart to your sister, you think she’s wondering the same thing. Your experience is not the average, and most of your memories are downtrodden by the fact of your existence being a stain upon Winterfell. 

If you were to be honest with Daella, which you never would be, you would tell her that your childhood was strife with heartache. That from your earliest memories you remembered being ostracized, pushed to the side for the better sister. That you always felt bitter for how you were treated and took it out on Lyanna, causing her to hate you for much of your youth. That other noble girls would turn their noses up at the idea of even touching you, much less being friends with you and that noble boys would tease others by saying that they had a crush on you, as if the very idea of courting you was the worst their mind could conjure. That your own father and step-mother were your own worst enemies. 

Instead, you smile pleasantly and say, “it is much colder than King’s Landing, that is for sure.”

That gets a few laughs from around the table.

“I’ve heard it’s all snow and wolves,” Daella continues innocently, “what did you do for fun?”

What should be a simple question makes you sweat. Your mind goes blank. What had you done? Embroidery? Weaving? Reading? They’re all trivial things that make your throat clam up and your palms slick. 

Lyanna leans forward when she notices you struggling. “We enjoyed the things that all noblewomen did. We are no different than you.”

You meet her eyes and give a small nod of thanks for her quick response. 

Daella smiles cordially, the picture of royalty, and nods. She turns her attention fully onto Lyanna and she begins to continue her conversation with the more social of the two Stark sisters. 

A few minutes pass before King Daeron stands from his position at the end of the table, raising his goblet into the air. Your eyes get caught on Baelor’s face as he sits near his father. He watches him like he hung the very stars in the sky; his eyes wide and his lips pulled into a small smile. You feel a spark of envy at your chest at the evidence of the close relationship Baelor has with his father, a relationship you would never have with your own, but you force the feeling away as Daeron begins to speak.

“I am so happy to have the North and the South united as one again,” Daeron says, “and as much as I enjoy talking. It is time to dance!”

Your breath catches in your throat as from the corner of the room a few stewards begin to pluck at lutes. A beautiful song begins to play, the chords oddly familiar but still exotic and even harder to place. You watch as Lyanna jumps to her feet, excitedly gesturing to her betrothed to dance.

You notice Baelor’s eyes linger on his father’s for a moment too long before he grabs your sister’s hand and leads her to the middle of the room. You wonder if perhaps the prince was just as embarrassed by attention like everyone else was.

He wraps his arm around your sister’s waist and Lyanna’s hands climb up to hang around his neck. They begin to four-step around the room as the music climbs and climbs and becomes jovial and intense.

As they continue to dance, others begin to join them. Baelor’s son Valarr takes his cousin Daella to the floor. Daeron swings Aegon around the room with a burst of laughter escaping his lips. The youngest princess dances with her grandfather.

You watch with solemn eyes at the display because you cannot bear to look at your father sitting across from you in the fear that he might suddenly get sentimental.

“Perhaps you’d like to dance, Lady Snow?”

Your eyes shoot toward the sudden voice by your side and you nervously clutch your gown when you see who is standing there. Prince Aerion. He’s handsome, smiling, the picture of cordiality. But you have heard things about him that makes your stomach twist at the sight of him.

You do not have the power to deny the prince. You nod and stand and take his hand as he leads you to the floor.

Prince Aerion does not say anything for a moment. You try to focus on not stepping on his feet as he guides you around the room. You had taken lessons as an adolescent, but your skills were definitely rusty.

You keep your hands a few inches from actually touching his body, partly in the fear that he may react badly if you do.

“Lady Lyanna is beautiful,” he says suddenly. Your eyes dart from watching your feet to his staring eyes. His violet ones are not the comforting presence like his uncle’s, his are predatory. A smirk licks at the edges of his lips. “But she is no match to you.”

His eyes trail from your face to your bust and his wet tongue slips from his mouth to trail a line of spit across his teeth. You stumble at the words and nearly fall backward in your attempt at creating distance when Aerion’s arm tightens around your waist to prevent you from falling.

“Careful there.” His grin splits across his face like an open wound. His teeth are like maggots wiggling inside decaying flesh. “Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

You don’t say a word as his eyes continue to trail over your body. You look over his shoulder and see your father staring at you with narrowed eyes. You clench your hands from where they sit frozen on Aerion’s shoulders, a well of helplessness coming forth from your chest.

“It is unfortunate you were born from a fleabottom whore,” Aerion continues, unperturbed by your horror. If anything, he seems fueled by it. “You certainly are not marriage potential by any means… but that does not mean you are not a good lay. Tell me, did your mother teach you any tricks—“

“Prince Aerion,” a voice startles your dance partner and his eyes widen and dart to the side. You follow his gaze to where his uncle stands, his eyebrows furrowed and his hands crossed behind his back.

At the opportunity given before you, you jump away from Aerion as if his very touch scalded your skin.

“Uncle,” Aerion’s response is deferential, but in it a touch of bite rounds off the word. No doubt, he is frustrated that his toy has been ripped from his hands.

You gaze at your unlikely savior with wide eyes. You can’t help seeking your sister from behind him, but find she seems to have been enraptured in conversation with Valarr across the hall.

“Perhaps I may dance with Lady Snow for a round?” Baelor asks, though you gather it is not as much a question as he tries to make it seem.

Aerion rolls his eyes, but does not argue. He does not say anything more before he turns his back and slinks away.

You stand, frozen, staring at the spot where he once stood. 

“Are you okay?” Baelor steps closer to you as he asks this.

You swallow back the desperate emotion clawing up your throat.

“I am just well,” you reply after too long a moment of hesitation.

“He will not bother you again.” your eyes snap up to meet his, and you are surprised by the anger in his clenched jaw and set gaze. “I will make sure of it.”

You are intimidated by the seriousness inflected in his voice and center your eyes on his broach again. Why should he care? It is not like Aerion had said that to your sister. You are a bastard second daughter. Your only benefit to your father is to how much dowry he can gain from the highest bidder. Baelor should not care about you. And yet, inexplicably, he does.

His hand enters your periphery and for a moment you stare, stunned, at the raised veins in his corded muscle and the rings on each of his fingers. 

“You do not have to dance with me,” you tell him in lieu of a reply.

Baelor’s lips twist. “And if I want to?”

“I would say that is incredibly improper,” you tell him. You watch for a moment as his face drops. Your heart pounds against your ribcage. He goes to lower his hand, but you intercept it and guide it to wrap around your waist.

The instantaneous brightening of his face makes you feel dizzy.

Unlike with Aerion, you place your hands gently on Baelor’s shoulders and the dance comes naturally to you. You tell yourself it is because Baelor is a good lead, but a part of you actually thinks it is something else—something deeper.

You smile despite yourself and avert your eyes. Baelor’s arm is warm around your waist. You tingle from where his fingers brush your exposed skin. You suddenly feel incredibly hot, and you chide yourself for feeling such a way with such a man.

“Why do you do that?”

Your eyes meet his, alarmed. You have to wet your lips before you can speak and his mismatched eyes dart to follow the movement. “Do what, My Grace?”

“Baelor,” he corrects quickly, “call me Baelor.”

You shake your head. “You must understand I cannot. My father would have my head.”

“In private then,” he says softly, and somehow that idea makes you even more uncomfortable. The idea seems like a secret shared between lovers, something fugitive and risqué. 

You nod just to appease him.

“Why do you not meet my eyes?” he clarifies.

You frown, unsure of how to answer the question. Unconsciously, your eyes drift to meet his own. His lips curl into a smile when you meet them and your heart stutters.

“I… I'm not sure, My Gra-Baelor,” you say, “it is something I have just always done.”

“You are a lady,” Baelor says and your heart leaps up to your throat when his arm tightens. “You should not be afraid to be yourself.”

“I am not a lady.” A flash of anger rips across you, so sudden it is dizzying. “I am a bastard. They are not the same.”

Something like amusement clouds Baelor’s face. Frustration makes you dig your nails into his cloak, but he only looks more joyed at the feeling. Like he’s finally gotten some kind of real emotion from you.

“My mother,” Baelor says and your grip loosens, “do you know of her?”

You try to remember, but the memory slips from you like an apparition. Your jaw clenches as you shake your head.

“She was of Dorne,” Baelor tells you, “and I do not know what you know of Dorne, but I will tell you that they do not ostracize bastards there. Any child of a royal is simply that — a child.”

You try to hide your surprise but you know he notices, for a self-satisfied smile crosses his face. How had you never known that? Had you truly missed that in your studies? You look over Baelor’s shoulder and meet your father’s gaze. Or had it been kept from you?

“All that to say,” Baelor continues, “I do not think your being a bastard should define you. I think that you let it define you more than anyone else does. I think you use it as a shield to keep yourself from feeling. I think you feel safe with it because it means that you will never have to feel anything for anyone in the way you have never known.”

Your feet stop abruptly in their dancing and you remove your hands from him. Tears spring to your eyes before you can stop them. You notice through bleary vision Lyanna’s gaze from across the room. You drop your head.

“You know nothing about me,” you whisper, “you know nothing.”

You push past Baelor and weave through the room to the doors at the far end of the hall. You do not look back once because you knew if you did you would say something that you would regret. 

Later that night, sitting in your bed, sleep evades you no matter how hard you chase it. Those words echo in your mind, relentlessly pursuing you. You know it is not true. It can’t be true. And yet your hands fist in the bed below you and your breaths come out in stuttered gulps as you try to recover from the hardest blow you have ever had to take.

“You look awful,” Lyanna says in lieu of a greeting as you step into the covered seating area at the edge of the garden. 

You roll your eyes. “Thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself.”

You cannot fault her statement. Your entire body pangs with exhaustion as you lower yourself into the seat across from her. The sun filtering through the leaves of the rose tree behind her gives a ring of gold around her figure that only further exemplifies her angelic demeanor.

Lyanna reaches over to pour you a cup of tea. You watch the dark liquid gather in the teacup with weary eyes.

You take a sip, and are pleasantly surprised by the warmth that immediately flows into your sore throat.

“This is lovely,” you tell her, “what flavor is it?”

She does not appear to have heard you as she stares out at the garden. You follow her gaze and jolt with surprise when you notice Baelor strolling down the path. Even though it is in the midst of summer, he wears at least three layers. 

You shrink in your seat as you recall your interaction with him from the previous night. You take another generous gulp of your tea to hide the cringe that comes with immediacy across your face.

“May I confide something in you?” Lyanna says.

You put down the tea cup and watch her with wide eyes as she threads her hands nervously through her hair.

“Okay…” 

“I do not want to marry Baelor.”

Your eyes widen. “What? Did you not just say the previous morrow that you cared for him?”

“…Yes,” Lyanna says, “but I was acting too hastily. Baelor is… how can I put this… boring.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose in between your fingers and try to will yourself to stay civil with your sister. She had always been this way. Lyanna would ask for a new dress one day, then it would sit rejected in her closet for years until it was eventually passed to you. Lyanna once asked for a horse and she got it, of course, but decided she did not like the way he rode and sold it as her earliest convenience. Why should she be any different with men? 

“All he wants to talk about is politics,” she continues, “I mean, what man talks about politics with his betrothed?”

“I imagine the Hand of the King does a lot of those types of talks.”

“—And then he won’t even ask how my day is,” Lyanna says, “and he won’t kiss my hand or pick me flowers or compliment my dress. It is like he does not care for me.”

“Perhaps he is just not romantic,” you say to her.

“But I want romance,” her voice quivers with emotion as she conveys this to you, “I want to be swooned and to be cared for and to be looked for in a crowd. As it stands now, he looks more at you than he does at me.”

You frown at the last statement. “That is not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Lyanna scoffs, “if we do talk about me it is about you. I was too foolish to realize that before, but now I see it clearly.”

You sigh, too tired to argue with her. As you saw it, she was just making a load of assumptions about nothing.

“Well,” you say, “what are you going to do?”

“What am I going to do?” Lyanna rolls her eyes hard. “Nothing. I can’t do anything.”

“Maybe you could talk to father,” you offer, “he always listens to you.”

Lyanna looks amused by the suggestion. “Does he? What kind of fantasy world have you been living in?”

You bite your lip.

Lyanna lets out a soft laugh and shakes her head. “Father hasn’t listened to me since I was two and ten. Ever since I got my first bleed, it’s been about what I can offer him rather than what I can get from him.”

“I… didn’t know this,” you say to her, and you truly didn’t. You had always thought Lyanna to be her father’s biggest accomplishment in life, his biggest love. You did not know his misogyny extended even onto her. “I’m sorry, Lyanna.”

She nods, taking a deep breath. “It is fine,” she says, though you are not sure it is, “I should be grateful. Many women do not get as nice a man as I am afforded.”

You smile tightly. You do not argue with that, because it is very true. Many women would die to marry as honorable and intelligent and handsome a man as Baelor Targaryen.

A moment of silence passes as you take small sips of your tea and watch the microexpressions on Lyanna’s face warp and twist as she thinks deeply about her pressing issue. Suddenly, you notice her eyes dart to something behind your head. You go to turn when she stands abruptly.

“You will excuse me, sister,” she says, “I do not want to speak to him at the moment. Maybe you could?”

Your mouth gapes helplessly like a fish as your sister quickly takes her leave. You turn your head only to see Prince Baelor Targaryen headed toward you. He looks over at your sister speed-walking away for only a brief moment before his eyes look onto yours. His hardened expression softens so quickly you may have missed it had you not keen eyes. You suddenly feel quite nauseous, but for what you are not sure.

Baelor strides forward and stops a few feet from you. He keeps his hands crossed behind his back as his eyes sweep over your form.

“You look nice in that color,” his eyes are locked onto the periwinkle of your dress, and you smile without fully meaning to. “I have never been one to enjoy the Stark colors.”

Your throat suddenly feels very dry. You do not have the heart to say that you did not like the Stark colors either. “Thank you,” you manage to reply.

Baelor, by contrast, is in the colors he always wore. Black and red. You suppose you could say something about how handsome he looks underneath the rising sun, but knowing you, it would probably come off creepy rather than genuine. 

“I… apologise my sister left in such a rush,” you force yourself to say, “she forgot her lessons.”

Baelor cocks a brow. “I do not mind.”

You notice as he draws closer a young kingsguard has accompanied him. He is far enough not to hear your conversation but close enough so he could quickly intervene should you get any funny thoughts. You nearly laugh at the idea of you attempting to overpower a man that went by the nickname“breakspear.”

“Gaomagon ao hae se rūklun?” he says, going to take a seat in the place your sister had just abdicated. (Do you like the gardens?)

“They are beautiful,” you reply with a tight smile, “as is most of the Red Keep.”

“Gaomagon ao daor ȳdragon eglie valriyan sir?” (Do you not know High Valyrian now?)

Despite his amusement at you pretending not to understand the language, you stay stoic.

“I do not find it appropriate to use it,” you tell him, “and I should have never learned it. It is not for common folk to know.”

“Qilōni vestras?” (who says?)

A flush of anger rushes over you at his continued questions. “Vestan. Sir keligon.” (I said. Now stop.)

A small smirk curls at his lips, but he listens and looks away. He seems to be watching a small butterfly flitting from flower to flower nearby. 

You smooth out a wrinkle on your gown. You feel an inexplicable rush of guilt.

“...I apologise,” you tell him after a moment of silence. “I did not sleep well the night prior.”

His eyes draw back to your expression. He tilts his head slightly as he considers your weary expression. You stare at his mismatched eyes and wonder how in the Seven such an anomaly of nature could occur.

“Is there a reason you did not sleep well?” he says and you realise with a jolt that his voice sounds like concern. “Are your chambers not to your liking?”

“They are just fine,” you are quick to remedy, “I just had some things on my mind.”

Things that were put into your mind by Baelor. Things that you would never admit had a greater impact on you than you could have ever imagined.

As you watch Baelor sitting across from you, you realise he is turning one of the rings on his hand incessantly. He notices your gaze and he stops.

“I did not mean to offend last night,” he tells you and you think his voice sounds earnest, “I just wished to comfort you.”

You frown and pull at a stray thread hanging off your dress. “I do not need comforting.”

“No, I’m sure you do not,” Baelor says with a toothy smile. “But perhaps you would like a friend.”

Your eyes dart up from where you had been pulling at your dress. You stare at him for a moment in shock. You have never… Perhaps this is some kind of sick joke? Does he think you a fool?

“For what purpose?” you finally settle on saying. “If you want a quick lay, I am sorry to disappoint.”

Baelor’s eyes widen. You bite your tongue until copper fills your mouth.

“Is that truly…” 

You feel sick at the pity that fills his expression in that moment so you avert your eyes.

“Do you truly believe every man that is kind to you wants to use you?”

The words hit like a slap against the face. Your blood runs cold. 

“Baelor,” you say finally, “every man wants to use women. And those who do not believe that are fools.”

You notice him lean forward in your periphery. He gently places his hand upon where yours continually pulls at the fringes of your dress. Your hand stills, but you do not pull away. His hand is warm, kind. It is as gentle as his voice when he speaks to you, as intelligent as his eyes when he realises your emotion. You look up at him to see his eyes narrowed in contemplation.

“Not all men,” he finally says.

He pulls away and you can only hopelessly watch as his hand rejoins his other on his lap.

You begin to think about Baelor in your every waking moment. When you walk the gardens, you watch butterflies and wonder if Baelor had seen them before. When you read your few books on High Valriyan, you think of him and the conversations you shared. When you speak with Lyanna, your mind always drifts to him.

It is a terrible thing, you think, to become friends with someone who can never fully understand you. Soon, you are talking with him during family gatherings. You are seeking him out to ask about the history of his family. You discuss the endings of popular fables. 

It becomes easy to like Baelor Targaryen. Contrastingly, it becomes harder and harder to acknowledge the fact that your relationship is only temporary until the wedding in a moon. You fear what will happen after it is all gone. Will you be able to recover?

You consider this as you weave through the hallways in the Red Keep, walking without a true purpose in mind. You keep your spine straight and your hands tucked behind your back as you walk. People watch you as you walk by with curious eyes. You do not flinch under the weight of the gazes anymore. They simply slid off you like water off a bird’s back.

As you continue to walk, you consider all that you have gained since coming to King’s Landing. You no longer shrink behind your sister and father and exist underneath the shadow of their impressively large fur coats. You do not try to hide your intelligence anymore, rather, you flaunt it to anyone who cares to listen. Most importantly, you do not think you are completely rotten anymore. You do not think you are doomed to a life of fear and ostracization anymore. Hope has sprung in your chest like blooming flowers at the start of spring.

“Lady Snow?” 

A voice says from behind you. You pause in your steps and cock your head in the direction of the tremulous noise. It is a little serving girl, no older than five and ten, her eyes wide and glassy like she was preparing for a hit. She could have been you. You could have been her. You swallow thickly and put on a gentle smile. You can see the girl’s shoulders drop with relief at your aparent kindness.

“Yes?” 

“Your father requests you in his chambers,” she tells you softly. 

Your face hardens without you even realising. You watch as the girl drops her eyes and scurries away. 

You begin your journey toward your father’s chambers with slow steps. You are not opposed to making him wait. Anyways, you could use the extra time to consider what he might say to you. 

Your father, Lord Stark, is not a particularly kind man. He is gruff and hardened by years of living in Winterfell’s unflinching cold. He had always been worse to you. He never hit you or was particularly cruel, but it was the little things. You were always cast aside. Your sister was doted on, you were a brief consideration. For many years, you thought your jealousy to be born of a place of wrong, for you were much better off than many bastards in the realm. You were not living on the streets, selling your body for scraps, proliferating with more bastards to carry on your name. But you were not equal, either. As you later realised, the rejection wore worse on you than one could ever imagine.

Lyanna’s mother died when she was five and ten. She’d had a persistent sickness that eventually stole her breath. You had not cried for her. Your father and sister thought you were a monster for not. But why should you? She had never loved you, she had borne you like a responsibility, not as the impressionable child you were.

You did not cry for those who caused you pain. But you held Lyanna still and allowed her tears to soak your gown.

You stop outside the door of your father’s chambers. You had not been inside before, but you remembered it from the tour when you first arrived. 

You place your knuckles across the mahogany door and rap them against it softly. A part of you hopes that it is quiet enough that he will not hear it. That you will have an excuse to escape before he notices.

The hopes are in vain, for he calls you in moments after you knock.

The chambers are quiet. Your father sits halfway leaned over a piece of parchment at his desk, a nearby candle casting great shadows across his face. You step closer. His eyes slowly draw up to your face and you are at once struck by the weariness in his expression.

He looks as if he hasn’t slept in weeks. Dark circles are under his eyes. His skin has an odd pallor to it. For a moment, you fear he might be sick like your step-mother.

Then his lips part.

“It took you long enough to get here.”

Your sympathy leaves you with the next breath that escapes your lips.

“I had not known you were searching for me.” 

He gestures toward the chair across from his desk and you lower yourself carefully onto it. Your father’s eyes watch you closely.

“How have you been?” 

Of all the questions you could have expected from your father, this was not one of them. You feel your eyebrows pinch together. 

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, how have you been?” he repeats.

“I have been… fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says. Then, his eyes go back down to his parchment and he begins to write something down.

You scoff at his audacity after a few seconds pass in silence. “I’m sorry, did you need something from me, father?”

His eyes slowly trail back up to your face. Suddenly, you feel incredibly uncomfortable. He looks… sympathetic? You frown, tingling fear spreading through your limbs.

“What is the matter?” you say urgently. “What has happened?”

Lord Stark’s throat bobs as he considers your question. “I have been speaking with Prince Maekar often these past few days,” he begins. “And he has made me a very… generous offer.”

You freeze. “You did not.”

His eyes soften. “It will be a good match for you.”

Your hands tremble as they go to cup your head. Your eyes slide closed at the realization. He allows you a few minutes to process this. You finally open your eyes and look up at him.

“Which one is it?” you say, “please… do not tell me it is the youngest.”

“Maekar believes that you and his second son will make a good match.”

“Second son,” your voice sounds not like your own. Everything feels like it is happening from outside of your body. You tremble all over, your heart pounding in your ears. “Aerion.”

Your eyes dart to his. Fear flees to your lips. “You cannot… Aerion will kill me.”

Your father cocks a brow. “You are being dramatic.”

“I am not,” you say quickly, desperately, “have you truly not heard of his exploits in the Street of Silk?”

“Your future husband’s hobbies will be of no consequence to you,” your father replies, “you cannot find one nobleman in the seven kingdoms that does not seek the company of women outside the marital bed.”

Anger, hot and rare and real, sweeps through you.

“Just because you sleep with any woman that gives you the time of day does not mean every man does,” you bite back. You stand. Your father does too.

“You will not speak to me in that way,” your father’s face is flush with anger, “no matter what you believe of me, I have done more for you than any man would in my position. I have gifted you with this.”

“Gifted me?!” your voice is shrill. You thrust your finger into his chest, pressing hard. “You have given me nothing. You have cursed me with this… this life.”

“Do not say that.”

“But it is true, is it not?” you continue, unperturbed, “if you had not slept with that whore we would not be in this mess. Your life would be better. My life would be.”

“Do not speak about your mother in that way.”

You shake your head. “What the fuck do you care? She was a fucking whore!”

His hand shoots out before you can react and he grabs your arm in a tight, unflinching hold. Your breath turns stuttery. You are frozen, forced to stare into his dark, encompassing eyes.

“Your mother was not a whore,” he says, his voice quiet. “She loved me.”

You lean forward until your noses are but a breath apart. “Is that what she told you when you spilled inside of her? When you gave her two silvers for her trouble at the end of the night?”

You think the anger is about to spill over. You think he might strangle you, slap you across the mouth for the audacity. Then, the fire leaves him all at once like water dousing a flame. He releases your arm and you take three hurried steps back.

He drops his head and turns his back from you. “You will marry Aerion. End of discussion.”

You feel the tears before you can prevent them. Time moves in a blur as your feet take you out of the room and through the winding halls. You keep your head down, shrink in on yourself when people stop to look at you. You are ruined. Your life is over.

You turn into an empty corridor and place yourself against the wall. The tears overflow and flood your vision, falling in rivulets down your cheeks and neck and the front of your dress. Your mind spins with the realization you will never live freely again. Becoming Aerion’s wife will be an execution of you mind, body, and soul. 

The tears do not stop even when you hear the sound of footsteps. You simply turn your back and continue to shake with sobs.

“Please leave,” you tell the approaching figure. 

They do not listen. A hand falls on your shoulder and you finally turn.

Your sobs become intertwined with a gasp. 

Baelor stands behind you. His eyes watch you with a mix of solemnity and understanding. His face is bathed in shadow from the ill-lit corridor, but even through it you can see his lips pulled into a soft frown. You watch him as his eyes trail slowly down your face.

“You knew,” your realization comes with another choked sob. “You knew and did not tell me.”

“I just found out this morning,” Baelor says. “My brother told me.”

You shake your head. “My life is over.”

“I will do everything I can to convince my brother and father it is a bad choice,” he says and your mouth gapes like a fish at the admission. “I will help you any way I can.”

“Why…” you feel like you could puke. “Why would you help me?”

His beautiful eyes dart between the two of yours. His jaw clenches and you trace the muscle as it disappears into his close-cropped shave. 

“Because you are my friend.”

You watch him as he offers this as an explanation in stunned silence. You trail from his gentle mismatched eyes to the mole that rests just beneath his eye to the dark salt-and-pepper beard to the faint wrinkles that pull at the sides of his lips as he offers you a smile. You can feel his breaths as they hit your skin, as they fan across your face and heat your blood. Your eyes become locked fixedly on his parted lips.

You lean forward before you can stop yourself and you fully place your lips upon his. He is frozen for a moment and your heart stutters. You suddenly feel like the biggest fool there is. Then, his hand lifts from your shoulder to cup the back of your neck and he is suddenly returning the kiss with full force.

He tastes sweet, like the blueberry tarts served in the morrow. You feel like you are drowning in him. His nose scrapes against the side of your own. His hand lifts and cradles your cheek, softly stroking the saltwater-slick skin.

You kiss him like you are drowning and he is your oxygen. It is raw, passionate, and self-preserving. You drag a hand up from his neck to scrape against his thin hair and he lets out a soft moan into your mouth.

You go to tilt your head to kiss him harder when you hear something from behind him.

You start to pull away when you suddenly hear a gasp. You rip yourself away and Baelor spins to see who has witnessed your indiscretions.

You recognise the face immediately. Her dark, curly hair. Her wide, angelic eyes. Her mouth, which has fallen into an oval.

You immediately launch forward away from Baelor, but the damage has already been done.

You go to reach for her but she moves away.

“Lyanna, please–”

She turns her head from you and brings a hand up to stifle her shock. She stumbles away.

“Lyanna!” you call.

But she does not turn around as she runs off. 

Your life is over. You are quite certain of that now.