tags: slow burn, love triangle, enemies to lovers, female knight, found family, eventual smut
note: honestly not proud of this chapter as i could be but i just wanted to get this out but i hope you enjoy it anyways! next chapter is gonna be fun to write but perhaps not so fun to read…thanks for sticking with this story!!!
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You’d sooner face a ring of hardened sellswords, blades drawn and closing in, than go through these doors.
Conversation was treacherous, you could never be sure what would be struck back at you. Words had a way of twisting, of meaning more or less than they first appeared, of slipping between intention and interpretation until nothing felt solid anymore.
A single sentence could shift the ground beneath your feet, turn an ally into a stranger, or a harmless remark into a quiet wound. There were no clear rules, no boundaries you could see, only the constant risk of misstep.
A duel was different. A duel was honest.
You might not anticipate your opponent’s strike, might not read the subtle shift of weight or the tightening of their grip in time to avoid the blow, but that uncertainty was clean, almost comforting.
Steel did not pretend to be anything other than steel. It did not hide behind implication or disguise itself as kindness. When a blade came for you, it came openly, with purpose, and you answered in kind.
More importantly, you could trust yourself. You knew the balance of your weapon, the way it moved as an extension of your arm, the familiar pull of muscle and instinct working together.
Your blade did not lie to you. It did not hesitate or betray. In the chaos of motion, there was a strange kind of clarity. A narrowing of the world to the space between you and your opponent, to breath, to timing, to the simple truth of action and consequence.
And a fight had only two outcomes. Victory or defeat. Survival or the end. There was a finality to it that stripped away doubt, that left no room for second-guessing once it was done.
With people, there were countless outcomes. Conversations lingered, echoed, reshaped themselves long after they ended. You could win an argument and still lose something you hadn’t meant to risk. You could say the right thing and watch it land wrong, or hold your tongue and regret the silence just as deeply. There was no clean ending, no moment where everything settled into certainty.
Steel, at least, was honest. People rarely were.
This was especially true in King’s Landing, which in truth was just a battlefield without the armour and the mercy of knowing who your opponent was, or when even the fight had really begun.
Exceptions to this rule, however, did exist. There was one person whose feelings toward you were laid bare so plainly on their face every time you were near, that doubt had no foothold.
“May I have a word with His Grace?” you asked, pausing before the Kingsguard who stood unmoving at his post.
He raised an eyebrow at you, the kind that said on your head so be it, and then disappeared briefly behind the double doors, just to reappear moments later.
“Beware, he’s not in the best of moods.” He said with a hint of amusement, motioning for you to go in.
Is he ever?
You squared your shoulders, forcing your nerves into a semblance of composure, and reminded yourself that you weren’t doing this for you, which, oddly enough, gave you enough courage to follow through.
The doors opened, revealing the solar and the man within.
At the sight of you, Maekar Targaryen rose from behind his desk, though no courtesy required it. The movement was abrupt, unguarded and done as if thought had failed to catch and restrain it. For the briefest moment, something like irritation flickered across his face, not at you, but at himself.
His solar was sparse.
The desk before him held only a few neatly ordered papers and a single map lay pinned beneath a dagger to keep it flat, its corners worn from use. There was little else.
Then he met your gaze, and saw the same flicker of confusion reflected back at him, as if you were both caught in a moment neither of you knew quite how to navigate.
Silence stretched between the two of you.
He cleared his throat, the sound rougher than intended, and sank back into his chair with a stiffness that did not suit him. His attention dropped to the desk, large fingers shifting a stack of papers that did not require moving, as though occupation alone might steady him.
“Speak,” he said, the single word clipped and uneven.
You supposed there could have been a worse start, than whatever it was that just happened.
“Your grace, I wanted to talk to you about Eg—Aegon.” You began, twisting your hands behind your back. “About him leaving for Summerhall.”
Maekar’s gaze snapped up, sharp and sudden. “And?”
“And… I don’t believe he should go.” You met his eyes steadily, forcing calm into your voice. “I’d ask you to let him stay here, to serve as Ser Duncan’s squire.”
He didn’t answer for a few long moments, and you wondered if it was because of his shock at your boldness or if he really was considering your words, a spark of hope brewed in your chest.
“This matter doesn’t concern you.” He said finally.
“Aegon concerns me.” You replied easily. “He would be best served here, and there’s no better man he could squire for.”
“Or woman?” He returned dryly, almost bordering on mockery.
Something in you tightened, as your hands curled at your sides. “I’m not naive enough to assume anyone would want to squire for me, let alone a prince. But this isn’t about me, it's about Aegon and what’s best for him.”
“And you presume to know what’s best for him?”
“I presume whatever didn’t work for Daeron or Aerion, would not suit Aegon either.” You answered, your words holding a hardened edge that you didn’t intend. “I only mean that-”
You felt it at once, the shift in him, not loud, not sudden, but absolute. Like a door closing somewhere you hadn’t realized was open.
“That he would be best away from his family and father.” He said, rising from his chair now, his jaw so tightened you thought he might break teeth.
“I didn’t mean-”
“You speak of my sons,” he said quietly, “as though they are mismanaged hounds.”
“No,” you said, more carefully now, “only that they might have needed something different. And Aegon—”
“You are finished.”
The dismissal came without force, and without room for anything else.
For a moment, you stood there, the weight of it settling in, your misstep clearer now than it had been a breath ago.
Fuck.
You inclined your head, the motion controlled despite the tightness in your chest. “Your Grace.”
And turned before the conversation could worsen, stepping back into the hallway.
For a moment, you stood there unmoving.
“I told you he wasn’t in the best of moods.” The guard smirked from his place by the doors.
You ignored him and carried on walking.
Your steps were measured at first, controlled, the rhythm steady against the stone beneath your boots, but the further you went, the tighter something coiled in your chest.
The words replayed, unbidden, sharper now in memory than they had been in the moment.
Whatever didn’t work for Daeron or Aerion…
Gods.
Your jaw tightened.
It was a foolish thing to say, but sense seemed to so often fail you around Maekar Targaryen, replaced only by a boldness of tongue.
The corridor stretched long and dim before you, torchlight flickering against the stone, casting shifting shadows that seemed to follow at your heels. A pair of servants passed, heads bowed, stepping neatly aside to give you space. You barely noticed them.
Or woman.
Your hand flexed at your side. You may be tactless but he was anything but he was stubborn and prideful.
He had dismissed you like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. And yet, he hadn’t been wrong. That was the part that settled the worst.
You exhaled sharply through your nose, your pace quickening despite yourself.
What right did you have to speak on his sons? On him?
But somebody needed to, you reasoned with yourself and you cared for Aegon, you’d do anything rather than see him turn out cruel or mad, unrecognisable beyond the boy you knew now.
Something hot flared again, stubborn and unyielding.
Maekar hadn’t even tried to listen, not really.
He had heard the insult, yes, but not the rest of it. Not what you had been trying to say beneath it. About Aegon. About how different he was, how easily that difference could be worn down into something harder, colder if left in the wrong hands or the wrong place.
You turned a corner sharply, your shoulder brushing closer to the wall than intended, the roughness of the stone catching lightly against your sleeve.
He ruled his sons the same way he carried himself, tight, controlled, unyielding. Everything contained. Everything is shaped into what it should be, whether it fit or not.
You thought of Aerion, cruel, vain and coiled too tightly around his own pride. Of Daeron, tortured, drifting somewhere beyond duty entirely. And Aegon. You slowed again, the anger faltering just slightly at the thought of him.
Bright. Open. Still untouched by whatever had shaped the others into what they were.
You had spoken out of turn and you knew that. But you believed you hadn’t been wrong to speak and that was the part you couldn’t quite shake.
A frustrated breath left you, quieter now, the heat in your chest settling into something heavier, more complicated. Because beneath the anger, there had been something else, too.
The way he had gone still. The way his voice had changed; not louder, not sharper, but contained.
A frown faintly reached your face.
You had struck something. Not pride alone, something deeper.
And you knew, despite everything, that Maekar was not a cruel man. Not heartless. If anything, it was the opposite. The weight of his sons, of what they were and what they might become, sat heavier on him than he would ever allow to be seen.
It was, perhaps, the first thing you had learned of him that made him… human. Likeable even, though you resisted the word the moment it formed.
And for a fleeting moment, you found yourself wondering, whether anyone ever spoke to him like that. Whether anyone ever said anything that wasn’t careful, or measured, or shaped to please.
Your thoughts shifted, unbidden to Baelor.
You had seen the way they were together, brothers, yes, but not equals in the same way. Baelor listened. He considered. He allowed space for things to be said, even when they were not easy.
Maekar… did not.
It could not have been easy, living in Baelor’s shadow. To be measured against him at every turn, against his steadiness, his restraint, the quiet way he seemed to command respect without ever demanding it.
To always be the other son. The harder one, the forgotten one.
And now he had sons of his own. Sons who would be measured just as closely and compared just as readily, To Baelor, to each other and to him.
You reached your chambers before you quite remembered the walk, your hand coming to rest against the door as though you had arrived there by instinct alone.
“Are you alright?”
Duncan’s voice cut gently through your thoughts.
You glanced over your shoulder to find him watching you, concern plain in the set of his brow, in the way he lingered a step too close as if unsure whether to leave you to your quiet or not.
“Yeah,” you said, a little too quickly. Then softer, offering a faint, tired smile, “Just tired, you know.”
About Maekar. About the conversation that had gone wrong before it had truly begun. About the way you had meant to help and instead made something worse.
But what use was there in telling Duncan this now? What good would it do to give voice to something that had already slipped beyond your reach? If anything, it would only raise hope where there was none left to hold onto.
So you said nothing.
“If it’s about what’s being said…” he began carefully, shifting his weight, “then perhaps you should tell Baelor. He’d put an end to it.”
For a moment, you just looked at him.
If anything, the whispers were the least of your concerns now. They stung, but they were easy, in a way. Predictable and manageable.
And the truth of it was known where it mattered, that had to be enough.
“It is,” you insisted, though your voice had lost some of its firmness. You looked away, your gaze settling somewhere along the corridor instead of meeting him. “I’m not going running to Baelor over every bit of talk.”
He didn’t interrupt, but you could feel his attention still fixed on you, steady and patient in a way that made something in you ease. You had been alone on the road for so long that it felt unfamiliar, but not unwelcome, to have someone notice the quieter shifts in you.
“And besides,” you added, quieter now, “it only feeds it. Gives it more weight than it deserves.”
Duncan gave you a look that said he didn’t entirely agree but, to his credit, he let it go.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “you’re needed on Baelor’s post.”
You blinked, a flicker of surprise cutting cleanly through the weight of your thoughts. “Now?”
He nodded. “Aye. But if you’re too tired, I can take your place.”
“No,” you said quickly, already pushing off from the door. “It’s fine, I’ll go.”
The truth was, you welcomed it.
Anything was better than standing there, torturing yourself by turning over the same words you had exchanged with Maekar again and again.
Duty, at least, gave you something to occupy your hands, if not your mind. It filled the hours, set your steps, and gave shape to the day. Even if much of it was spent standing guard; still, watchful, alone with your thoughts as they crept back in all the same.
Duncan watched you for a moment, as if weighing whether to stop you anyway.
You were already moving before he could change his mind, your steps turning toward the winding path up the Tower of the Hand, your pace just a fraction quicker than it needed to be. And you didn’t slow as you reached the base of the tower, your hand brushing lightly along the cool stone as you began the climb.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” you called back over your shoulder.
The stairs spiraled upward, narrow and worn smooth with age, each step carrying you further from the noise below and closer to something quieter, more contained.
When you reached the top, the door to the solar was closed, but voices within were just loud enough for you to catch through the wood of the door.
“...it is not just the shortages, your grace,”
You stilled, your steps halting just short of your post.
“There are reports of sickness in the lower districts,” the voice continued, measured and almost too calm, as though discussing something distant, something contained. “Flea Bottom, for the most part. Though we are… hoping that is where it remains.”
Inside, something shifted like a faint scrape and the quiet movement of someone turning.
“What kind of sickness?” Baelor’s voice came through, sharp but calm. The kind of voice you had come to associate with quiet control, even when everything around him threatened to slip into disorder.
“No one can say for certain,” came the reply. “Fever, weakness. Some recover quickly enough. Others…” A slight hesitation. “Do not.”
The words lingered, unfinished, but clear enough.
“And how many are afflicted?”
“Many more than there were a few days ago.”
You found yourself holding still without thinking, your hand resting lightly against the cold stone beside the door.
“It spreads easily in places like that,” the man went on, quieter now. “Close quarters. Poor air. Little in the way of clean water.” A breath. “If it remains there, it can be managed.”
If. The word sat heavy in the silence that followed.
“And if it does not?” Baelor asked.
There was no edge to the question, but no softness either.
“…then it will not remain a problem of the lower districts.”
You shifted your stance just slightly, the faint scrape of your boot against the stone sounding louder than it should have in the stillness.
Inside, someone exhaled slowly.
“Send every healer we can spare,” Baelor said, his voice firm now, leaving little room for hesitation. “And whatever supplies can be gathered; cloth, vinegar, clean water, see that they reach the worst of it first.”
You frowned faintly at that, your gaze dropping to the worn edge of the stone floor. It sounded… serious. More serious than the scattered rumours you’d heard in passing, from the rest of the guard. Those had been easy to dismiss, seasonal illness, nothing more.
A brief pause, then, more decisively—
“Quarantine the districts. All of them. No one moves between them without express permission.”
A brief pause followed, long enough to feel the weight of what he’d said.
“Your Grace…” the other man began carefully, a note of hesitation threading through his otherwise measured tone. “That may be… premature.”
Silence, then a quiet shift of papers.
“With respect, reports are still uncertain. Illness is not uncommon this time of year, especially in the lower districts. To cordon off entire sections of the city now,” he exhaled lightly, as though choosing his words with care, “it may cause more disruption than the sickness itself,” Another beat. “Panic spreads faster than fever, and is far harder to contain.”
“And how often,” he said at last, his voice low but unyielding, “has caution been mistaken for overreaction, until it is too late to call it either?”
He continued before the other man could answer.
“If it is nothing, then we have been careful.” A slight pause. “If it is not… then we will have already done what should have been done,” a breath, “I will not have us wait for certainty while the city fills with bodies.” Baelor continued,
“Yes, your grace.”
His words settled heavily, leaving no room for argument, and something in you shifted with them.
Because there was no performance in it. No careful shaping of words but only a quiet refusal to look away from what might come.
You felt respect, certainly, but not only that. Something warmer and quieter that curled in your chest
Footsteps followed, measured and deliberate, drawing closer to the door. You straightened at once, shoulders squaring, your hand settling loosely at your side as the latch turned.
The door opened, and the councilman stepped out. His gaze flicked to you briefly, sharp and assessing, before he dipped his head in the barest acknowledgment and moved past, his pace hurried.
You listened to the sound of his steps fade down the spiral stairs.
“Would you come in for a moment, please?”
You blinked, the words catching you slightly off guard. For a brief second, you didn’t move, your mind slow to catch up, as though you had been standing somewhere just outside yourself.
Then you realised, he meant you.
The solar felt warmer than the corridor, but the air carried a different kind of weight, ink, parchment, and something sharper beneath it. Urgency.
Baelor sat behind his desk now, bent slightly over it, writing with quick, decisive strokes. His dark brows were drawn faintly together, the lines at their corners more pronounced than usual, his focus fixed entirely on the page before him.
The solar had thick high walls, narrow windows that let in strips of light rather than full warmth, with views that looked out high and removed over the city. Maps, letters and writings fill the desk and shelves, stacked and arranged with quiet precision. There was no excess, no ornament for ornament’s sake.
He did not look up immediately when you entered. The scratch of the quill filled the room, steady and purposeful, as though even time itself had narrowed to the motion of his hand.
You paused just inside the door, unsure whether to speak or wait. For a moment, you simply watched him.
There was none of the ease you had seen on the road now, none of the quiet space he had always seemed to carry with him then. Here, everything about him was sharpened, drawn tighter, more deliberate, shaped by the weight of his title.
And yet. there was something steady in it, too. Something certain, as if, despite everything, he knew exactly what he was doing.
You wondered despite yourself, what it would be like to follow behind him into battle. It was almost too easy to picture it, the same steadiness carried into chaos, the same refusal to yield to fear or noise or confusion. The kind of command that did not need to be shouted to be obeyed.
It was a dangerous thought, not because of what it imagined but because of how easily it settled in you, and how little you wanted to dismiss it.
At last, he finished the line he was writing, folded the parchment, and set the quill aside.
Only then did he look up.
His gaze found you at once, and for a brief moment, something in his expression softened, just slightly, like a breath taken after holding too long.
“I won’t pretend to think that you didn’t hear any of what has just been said.” Baelor said.
You lowered your head slightly. “I heard a little, your grace.”
For a heartbeat, you considered saying more and explaining, perhaps, that you had not meant to listen but that the walls carried sound too easily, that you had only caught fragments.
But none of that felt necessary, not with the way he was looking at you.
“Do you have any family?”
The question, simple as it was, caught you off guard.
For a moment, you just looked at him, as though you hadn’t quite heard it properly. It wasn’t what you had expected, not after the weight of the conversation before, not here, not now.
Your first instinct was to deflect it, to give something brief and unremarkable and move on. Questions like that rarely came without reason, and you had spent too long learning how to step around them.
But something in the way he asked it gave you pause, there was no edge to it, no judgment but just honest curiosity.
You wondered, briefly, if he asked this of all those who stood guard at his door, if he took the time to know them in the same quiet, deliberate way.
And yet, you suspected he did. He seemed the sort of man who would remember such things; the names, the places, the small details others overlooked. Not out of obligation, but because he chose to.
The kind of man who understood that those in his service were more than the roles they filled.
“I did.”
The words came more quietly than you intended, and for a moment, you let them sit between you before continuing.
“My father died when I was small,” you said, your gaze drifting briefly past him, as though remembering a memory that sat somewhere just out of reach.
You paused, the faintest crease forming between your brows, as if trying to decide whether to leave it there or whether to border more treacherously into why your memories of him now was were few and tainted.
It wasn’t a line you were willing to cross.
“And my mother,” your voice softened, not breaking, but losing some of its steadiness, “She passed just over a year ago.”
The admission settled heavier than you expected.
You had said it before, in simpler terms, to people who required the knowing. But here, in the quiet of the room, it felt different somehow, less like a fact, and more like something still unfinished.
Your fingers shifted slightly at your side, grounding.
“She was…” You hesitated, then let out a small breath, the edge of something almost like a smile flickering and fading just as quickly. “She was a very strong woman.”
Baelor did not rush to reply. “I imagine you are very much like her, then.”
His voice was quiet, but certain; not offered lightly, nor as something meant only to comfort.
A faint pause followed, his gaze steady on yours. “And I think,” he continued, a touch softer, “she would be proud of that.”
The words settled gently, but they did not feel empty.
There was no easy reassurance in them, no attempt to smooth over what you had said, only a simple recognition, as though he had taken what you’d given him and weighed it with care before returning something just as considered.
“Thank you, your grace.”
And you meant it.
Not out of courtesy, nor obligation but because, for a brief moment, the memory of your mother felt shared. Not carried by you alone, quiet and unseen, but acknowledged and given shape in someone else’s understanding, even if they had never known her.
It was a strange kind of comfort.
“Were you close to your own mother?”
The question slipped out before you could weigh it, before you could decide whether it was yours to ask at all. For a brief moment, you considered taking it back, but it was already there, posed between you.
Baelor didn’t seem taken aback.
“Yes,” he said simply, though the word carried more weight than it first seemed. “She was… a great influence on me.”
The quiet that followed was not uncomfortable, but it lingered just long enough to feel like it might become something heavier if left alone.
Baelor seemed to sense it too.
He straightened slightly, the more reflective edge of the conversation easing as he reached for a folded parchment on the desk beside him.
“There is something I need delivered,” he said, his tone shifting back toward something more practical, though not as distant as it had been before. “If you would.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
You stepped forward as he extended it toward you, but the movement was poorly timed on both sides.
Your fingers brushed his. It was brief, barely more than a moment, but it was enough.
Warmth, unexpected and striking in its contrast to the cool air of the room, lingered longer than it should have, spreading in a slow and unwelcome tide that rose all the way to your cheeks. The roughness of his fingers was at odds with the careful way he had passed the parchment.
And though you did not look at him fully, you were aware acutely, of his stillness mirroring your own.
And you had to make a conscious effort not to trace the features of his face with your eyes, though for some reason, in that moment, they felt important in a way you couldn’t explain. Too close now, you became aware of details you had never allowed yourself to linger on before, the tan of his skin, the rough edge of his beard, the slight crookedness of his nose, as though it had been broken long ago and never quite set right.
The space between you was falling into something that felt different now, something newly aware of itself, that terrified you without you really knowing why. And neither of you quite knew how to put it back.
“I’ll see to it,” you said, the words coming a touch too quickly, offering more to fill the silence than anything else.
Baelor inclined his head in acknowledgment, his eyes flickering from your face to your hands and then finally back to his desk.
You turned before the moment could stretch any further, before it could settle into something harder to ignore, and made your way toward the door.
The corridor beyond felt cooler when you stepped into it, the air sharper against your skin, but it did little to steady you.
Because the feeling lingered, stubbornly persistent.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the parchment as you descended the narrow stairs, grounding yourself in the purpose of it. A task. Something clear. Something that required no thought beyond carrying it from one place to another.
And yet your mind would not stay with it.
It kept slipping, back to the room, to the stillness, to the brief, the feel of his hand against yours.
You flexed your fingers once, subtly, as if that might shake it loose. It didn’t. Instead, there was a strange unfamiliarity to them now, as though they no longer quite belonged to you.
As if that brief, fleeting contact had lodged something firmly in you, sitting just beneath your thoughts and on the surface of your skin.
It meant nothing. It had been nothing.
And yet, it lingered.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dawn had broken reliably early and you with it.
For days now, Maekar had been in a temper that seemed to seep into the very stone walls of the keep, sharp enough that even those far removed from him moved a little more carefully, spoke a little more quietly. It was not unusual, but this time, it lingered.
So at Baelor’s suggestion or perhaps insistence, though gently given, a small hunting party had been arranged at first light. Better, perhaps, to have Maekar lose his temper on a stag than let it continue to coil within the halls of the keep.
The realisation that you would be one of the guards to accompany him though, had put a damper on this effort. But it was useless, since so many other guards were too busy with matters of the crown, to spend their day soothing the temper of their prince.
Upon the sight of you, he didn’t send you back to the keep, as you had half worried and half hoped, since being told you were to join the party. Instead his surprise on first noticing you had just been replaced with a hard set of his mouth, before ignoring you completely for the entire ride there. Which, you told yourself, was preferable.
It seemed most of his efforts were not reserved for you alone. A Lannister had made the effort to invite himself along on the hunt, and Maekar seemed to have found no reason to discourage him.
The lord rode beside him, speaking with a persistence that bordered on relentless commentary, observations, questions that required no answer yet lingered all the same. It was the kind of conversation that filled space rather than served it and Maekar bore it poorly.
What restraint he showed was thin at best, his silence sharper than any reply might have been, his attention fixed firmly ahead as though the man’s voice were something to be endured rather than engaged with.
If he answered at all, it was brief. Clipped. Just enough to prevent outright insult, but not enough to invite continuation. It was futile in discouraging the lord.
And so the ride carried on that way, his patience worn thinner with every passing moment, his temper not eased by the hunt but quietly fed by it.
You tried to keep your focus on the path ahead, on the trees, the ground, anything steady, hells even to the drivelling of the Lannister. But your thoughts slipped, persistently, back to the day before, back to Baelor.
You flexed your hand slightly around the reins now, as if the memory alone had weight to it. It was ridiculous, nothing had come of it, nothing had been said but the feeling trapped you all the same.
“And so I told him, your grace, if a man needs a hundred hounds to catch a hare, then he’s no huntsman at all.”
The Lannister lord gave a satisfied chortle at his own wit, lifting his waterskin for a long, indulgent swig, one that lingered just enough to suggest the contents were something stronger than water.
The sharp scent that carried on the air did little to argue otherwise.
Maekar didn’t even bother to grunt in response, and you didn’t trouble yourself to hide the roll of your eyes either.
The party had been deep in the Kingswood for a couple of hours now, the morning mist long since burned away, leaving only the quiet press of trees and the restless shifting of horses beneath their riders.
And the hunt had been as fruitless as the conversation.
But it was then that you noticed it, the faint grooves carved into the bark of a passing tree, too deliberate to be chance, too clean to be weathered away by time.
You slowed instinctively, your eyes catching on the mark as your horse drew level with it. The bark had been scraped raw in places, pale wood exposed beneath the darker surface, and the pattern was unmistakable once you saw it properly.
The shape of antlers.
Low and wide, as though something large had turned its head and pressed close enough to leave a trace of itself behind.
Your gaze lifted at once, following the line of trees ahead, where the undergrowth grew thicker and the light narrowed into long broken shafts between branches. If it had moved this way, it would not have gone far without leaving more signs.
Without fully thinking, you spoke.
“There.”
The word cut through the quiet of the party, small but certain.
You gestured toward the tree, your fingers hovering just short of the bark where the grooves sat carved into living wood.
“Antlers,” you added, quieter now, as though the stag itself might hear you. “It’s been through here recently.”
You felt, rather than saw, Maekar dismount somewhere just behind you, the quiet thud of boots on earth, the shift in the air as he stepped closer to inspect the tree for himself.
For a moment, there was only the sound of him studying it.
“Has the woman found the bloody beast?” the Lannister lord called, his words thick with drink, his eyes narrowed uselessly as he tried to focus from atop his horse.
Maekar did not look back at him.
“We follow through here,” he said instead, his voice level, already turning slightly to track the line of trees. “If it passed recently, there’ll be more signs. Droppings, disturbed ground.”
“Oh, wonderful,” the Lannister replied, the sarcasm heavy and poorly concealed as he let out a laugh meant more for himself than anyone else. “Let me just—”
The words cut off sharply.
There was a sudden clumsy shift, then a heavy smack as he pitched forward from the saddle, hitting the forest floor face-first with a dull unforgiving thud, one foot still tangled in the stirrup.
“Fuck!” The curse came muffled, half-choked, as his horse startled beneath him.
You were already moving.
By the time you reached him, his squire was scrambling to free his boot, hands fumbling in urgency as the lord struggled and swore beneath him.
“Hold still,” you said, dropping to a knee beside him, your tone firm despite the chaos of it.
The squire managed to wrench his foot loose, and the lord rolled partially onto his side, clutching at his face with a groan.
You caught his wrist and pulled his hand away despite his weak resistance. “Here, let me see.”`
Blood ran freely from his nose, bright against his skin, already beginning to swell beneath your touch. You leaned closer, assessing, your grip steady even as he twisted under it.
“I think it’s broken,” you said plainly.
“Of course it’s broken, you stupid bitch,” he snapped, his voice rising into something close to a wail as pain and drink tangled together. “Gods—”
You let his hand go and leant back slightly.
For all his earlier noise, all his self-satisfied wit, there was something almost pitiful in the sight of him now; sprawled in the dirt, bloodied by his own clumsiness, his dignity gone as quickly as his footing.
And you found, to your own surprise, that you felt very little sympathy at all.
“Take him back to the keep. We’ll go on.”
Maekar’s voice was steady, untroubled by the disruption, as though the fall, and the man sprawled in the dirt, were nothing more than an inconvenience already set aside.
He was moving as he spoke, turning from the scene without hesitation and mounting his horse in one smooth motion.
You looked up at him, caught off guard.
For a moment, you assumed that the order extended to you as well. That you would be left to see the injured lord safely returned, removed from the hunt as neatly as he had been.
After the silence he had kept all morning, the deliberate disregard… you had not expected to remain at his side.
Behind you, the Lannister lord groaned, his squire struggling to steady him, but the decision had already been made for all of you.
You rose without comment, brushing your hands clean before turning back to your horse.
There was no question to be asked.
You mounted in silence, falling into place once more as the two of you began to move off alone, your gaze drifting, just briefly, toward Maekar.
Still ahead. Still intent.
The forest closed in once more.
For a time, no one spoke.
The earlier noise, the exaggerated laughter and the interruptions had fallen away with the Lannister, leaving only the quiet rhythm of hooves against damp earth and the occasional shift of leather and steel.
You had expected the ride to grow more uncomfortable once the others fell away, once it was only you and the prince left in the quiet of the woods.
But it didn’t.
Instead, the two of you settled into something easier. Not conversation, not quite understanding but a silence that held purpose rather than tension.
Without the constant interruption, the forest seemed to open around you again. Your attention returned to the ground, to the subtle shifts in the trail, and without needing to look, you could feel him doing the same. Adjusting when you did. Slowing when the path demanded it.
You let your gaze drift low again, searching.
The tracks were easier to follow here.
Fresh prints pressed into softer ground, deeper than before, cutting slightly to the left. A broken branch caught your eye next, its pale interior still raw where it had been snapped. Further on, the undergrowth had been disturbed, leaves crushed beneath something that had passed not long before.
You slowed slightly, following the signs as they revealed themselves one after another.
The quiet stretched alongside the trail, taut but steady, filled instead with the shared awareness of the hunt, of something just out of sight drawing you deeper into the trees with every step.
You found yourself glancing toward Maekar before you meant to, the motion subtle, easily disguised beneath the act of tracking, but deliberate all the same.
He seemed not happy, not quite, but content at least, in a way he had not been within the walls of the keep. There, he had carried a restlessness that never quite settled, a sharp, contained energy with nowhere to go, turning inward until it showed in clipped words and a temper too easily stirred.
Out here, it was different. The edge of it had eased, redirected rather than suppressed.
His pale hair had come loose from its usual careful order, strands shifting with the movement of the ride, and there was a faint flush to his face now from the exertion. It softened him, if only slightly made him seem less like something contained and more like something in motion.
But it was in his focus that the change showed most clearly.
His violet eyes were sharp on the trail ahead, fixed and intent, following signs and movement with a steadiness that had been absent before. Here, there was something to occupy him, something that demanded attention rather than patience.
Something that met him in kind.
And for the first time since you had seen him that morning, he seemed… settled.
You could say something. The thought came unbidden.
Not an apology, not quite, but something to soften it. To return to it, perhaps, and undo what had been said in the heat of it. You could explain and clarify, tell him what you had meant, rather than what had been heard.
But you found, to your own quiet surprise, that you were enjoying the hunt more than you had expected. And you resisted the risk of disturbing it, besides you doubted he would hear anything but what he had already decided.
The trail sharpened the deeper you rode.
What had begun as scattered signs became clearer, with tracks pressed deep into softer ground, the undergrowth bent and parted where something large had passed through, the occasional mark of antlers against bark guiding the way like quiet confirmation.
You found yourself adjusting your path without thinking.
And, just as quietly, Maekar adjusted with you and you tried to ignore the faint validation and satisfaction that came with it.
No words were exchanged, but there was a rhythm to it now, an unspoken understanding. When you slowed, he did. When the trail veered, he followed without question. Once, you caught him glance toward a broken branch just as you had noticed it yourself.
Neither of you acknowledged it, but it was there.
The trees began to thin. Light shifted ahead, softening, widening, and then the forest opened. A clearing.
It spread out before you, untouched and still, grass swaying faintly beneath the heavy air, bordered by tall trees that seemed to hold it in quiet reverence. And there—
The herd.
They stood scattered across the clearing, delicate and alert, their coats catching the muted light. Does and younger stags, heads lifting in slow, cautious unison.
And at the centre—
Him.
The stag.
Larger than the rest, his antlers wide and branching, unmistakable against the pale sky beyond. He stood still, head raised, watching.
You did not move.
Neither did Maekar.
For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to that single point, the distance between you and the animal, the quiet tension of it, the fragile balance that might break with the slightest wrong motion.
It was beautiful. And fleeting.
A shift of wind, barely there.
The stag moved first.
A sharp turn of his head, a sudden alertness, and then he bolted, the herd scattering with him in a rush of movement, vanishing back into the trees as quickly as they had appeared.
The clearing fell empty but for the silence that followed.
You exhaled slowly, watching the place where he had been only moments before.
Then, before you could quite stop yourself—
“We could go back after Lord Lannister instead,” you said lightly, glancing sideways. “He’d be easier to catch.”
For a second, you weren’t sure if he’d respond at all.
Then—
High, brief and unmistakably a laugh.
You looked at him startled, the sound of it catching you off guard more than anything else. It was a laugh, real and unrestrained, rising sharper and lighter than you would have expected from him.
It felt entirely at odds with the man you had come to know, the one of tightened jaws and narrowed eyes, of clipped words and barely contained irritation whenever you were near.
For a moment, you simply stared.
As though you had caught sight of something not meant to be seen.
“Perhaps,” he said, a trace of amusement still in his voice, “but he’d make for a far poorer prize.”
It was your turn to laugh then, the sound coming more easily than you expected.
It had barely faded when the first drop of rain struck the ground between you.
You both glanced upward as the sky, already heavy, finally gave way. The canopy above caught some of it, but not enough. The sound of rain began to build, soft at first, then steadier.
Maekar exhaled lightly, glancing once more toward the treeline where the stag had vanished.
“We should head back.”
There was no argument to be made.
The rain thickened quickly as you turned your horses, the path already darkening beneath it. Within moments, it began to soak through your cloak, hair, the steady drip of water trailing down your sleeves.
“How did you know?” Maekar asked.
You glanced at him, faintly caught off guard. “Your Grace?”
“The signs,” he said, his gaze still fixed ahead. “Tracks. Markings.”
There was no edge to it and no challenge, just observation.
You hesitated briefly before answering. “I learned on the road. You notice things, or you go without.”
A small pause followed.
At that, he glanced at you, brief and measuring before returning his attention to the trees.
“Hm.”
It wasn’t much, but it wasn't a dismissal. And strangely, you found yourself holding onto it. If nothing else, it meant you might pass the rest of the day without drawing his temper, or worse, his attention.
Maekar not looking at you constantly as though you were something to be endured made your life that little bit easier.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It had been an hour since you returned to the keep, and you now sat curled into a chair in Duncan’s room, still faintly damp from the rain and quietly grateful for the shelter of four walls, and the cup of hot wine your friend had stolen from the kitchens warming your hands.
“So you didn’t even catch anything?” Duncan asked from where he sat on the edge of his narrow bed, the frame looking comically too small beneath him.
You let out a soft breath, the corner of your mouth lifting as you turned the cup slightly between your fingers, feeling the heat of it seep into your skin.
“No,” you said, a faint amusement in your voice. “Not for lack of trying.”
Your gaze flicked up briefly, meeting his.
“We tracked him well enough,” you added, more thoughtfully now. “Found where he’d passed, where he’d marked the trees. We even came upon the herd.”
Duncan raised a brow at that. “And still nothing?”
You shook your head, the smile lingering, though softer now.
“He saw us first,” you said. “Gone before we could so much as draw breath.”
There was a pause then, easy and unforced, filled only by the quiet crackle of the fire and the faint sound of rain still tapping somewhere beyond the walls.
You leaned back slightly into the chair, letting yourself settle at last.
“It wasn’t a wasted ride,” you added after a moment, more to yourself than to him.
Though you weren’t entirely sure why.
Duncan watched you for a second, as if he might ask more—
The door burst open without warning.
You started in your chair, the movement sharp and instinctive, while Duncan half-rose from the edge of his bed, already turning.
“I’m staying!”
Aegon stood in the doorway, breathless, his face flushed bright with something that, at first glance, looked like triumph.
“He said yes,” he went on, stepping inside, words rushing over each other. “I'm here to squire for you! My father decided just now.”
Duncan blinked, caught off guard. “He did?”
“Yes-” He faltered. It was small and easy to miss, but you saw it.
The way his weight shifted wrong. The way the colour in his face wasn’t right, not from excitement, but something deeper. Too bright, too hot.
“Egg,” you said, already rising.
“I just, ” he started, blinking hard, his hand lifting slightly as if to steady himself. “I ran…”
His knees gave.
Duncan caught him before he hit the ground, the motion sudden and clumsy as Aegon’s little weight collapsed against him.
“Egg—!”
For a moment, you didn’t move.
The room seemed to narrow, sound dulling, your thoughts stalling somewhere just out of reach as the sight of him; limp, too still and all wrong fixed you in place.
Duncan was saying something and lowering him onto the bed, but it came through distant, muffled, like you were hearing it from underwater.
This couldn’t be?
The flush. The sudden drop. The heat.
Your chest tightened.
“He’s burning.” Duncan’s voice cut through sharply now, closer.
Something snapped back into place.
“Maekar.”
The name left you before you quite realised you’d spoken. You stepped back, already turning, your pulse loud in your ears.
“I’ll get him.”
You didn’t wait for an answer.
The door was open in a breath, and you were already moving, your steps quick at first, then faster, boots striking hard against stone.
The keep blurred around you as you sprinted, past servants and guards, past familiar turns you barely registered, your breath coming sharp as urgency took hold of you fully now.
Only one thought cutting cleanly through the panic—
When Ser Duncan asks if you have feelings for Baelor, you expose the truth. You beg the knight not to tell the prince, and you make a painful choice.
Content: canon divergence, Baelor lives, mutual pining, crossdressing, master & servant, fear of discovery, identity reveal, injury recovery, devotion, violence, protectiveness, eventual smut, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader apart from hair length
Notes: I truly appreciate the comments that were left on the last chapter. I love reading my readers' thoughts on things happening in the story. I apologise that I didn't reply to most comments, but the truth is I felt a little overwhelmed by it (in a good way)! So thank you, it means so much to me!!! <3
I have been anxious to post this chapter, worrying that it won't meet expectations. But here goes... I hope you enjoy it.
You step into Baelor’s chambers the next morning, breakfast tray in hand. You set the meal at the usual place at the table and wait.
About a minute or two pass before Arnol emerges from the bedchamber, laundry draped over his arm. He gives you a quick nod in greeting before slipping out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Baelor steps out a moment later, his movements a little sluggish as he crosses to the table and sinks into his chair. You fill his cup, carefully avoiding his eyes. You can’t stop remembering the ways you imagined him last night – the way your body responded as you whispered for him in the darkness of your bedchamber, where no one could ever know.
But you know. And now you’re here, serving the man you touched yourself over only hours ago.
“Good morning.” He says, giving you a brief glance as he lifts the goblet to his lips.
“Good morning, your grace. Are you feeling well?” Your voice sounds more forced than you’d like.
“Yes, I’m quite well. Just last night was… long.” He smiles wryly, raking a hand through his hair.
Yes, my night was a little long too. You think. Agonising over your feelings, enduring the crowded hall, then finally giving in to the desire that burned painfully beneath your skin.
“When you go downstairs, could you send Arnol back? I believe I am in need of a haircut.” He tugs lightly at the dark curls brushing the nape of his neck – those same curls you imagined twisting your fingers into.
“You shouldn’t, your grace.” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them, your eyes widening when you realise you’ve spoken them aloud.
He pauses mid-motion, head tilting, brows lifting in gentle surprise. “I shouldn’t?”
Your stomach drops, and you wish the floor would open and swallow you up.
“I only mean… it suits you as it is, your grace.” Heat blooms across your cheeks, your body betraying you completely.
His gaze dips to the table, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You think – though you might be mistaken – you see a faint flush across his cheekbones
“I see.” His voice is quiet, almost thoughtful. “Do not fetch Arnol then. Perhaps I’ll keep it as is.”
-
He feels the heat rise to his face, and he cannot stop it. You hadn’t even said he looked handsome – nothing so direct – yet his body reacts as though you had leaned close and whispered it into his ear, as though he were some young lordling hearing his first compliment from a beautiful woman. How does a single remark from you undo him so completely?
He can see your embarrassment as clearly as he feels his own – the way you withdraw slightly from the table, clearing your throat, your cheeks flushed. This… this is not nothing. It sends a hopeful ache through his chest. But it is not confirmation either. He knows better than to assume anything.
He wishes he could rise from his chair right now, take your hand gently in his own, confess everything, ask if your heart echoes his. But he cannot. He is the heir to the throne, and you are a servant in his employ, dependent on his household for your livelihood. If he spoke first, you might feel unable to deny him.
When breakfast ends and you take the dishes away, Baelor has already decided. He must know if you return his feelings.
He steps out into the corridor, where Ser Duncan stands at attention.
“Ser Duncan,” Baelor says.
The knight straightens. “Your grace.”
“I’m afraid I must ask a favour of you.”
“Of course.”
Baelor exhales, steeling himself. “I need you to speak with my cupbearer. To ask her… if she cares for me.”
Duncan’s eyes widen. “You want me to– Can’t you ask her yourself, your grace?”
“No.” Baelor shakes his head, firm but weary. “She cannot feel pressured when giving her answer. She trusts you, Duncan. You are closer to her station than I. You are both lowborn, and she is… easier in your presence than mine.”
“I told you, your grace,” Duncan says softly, “there’s nothing between her and–”
“I know,” Baelor cuts in gently. “I simply mean she would be more likely to tell you the truth of her feelings.”
Duncan frowns, studying his prince. Then his expression softens. “You really care for her, don’t you?”
“I do.” Baelor sighs.
Duncan nods slowly. “Then… when I get a moment alone with her, I’ll ask.”
“You mustn’t tell her that I sent you.”
“I won’t. I’ll act as though I’m just… curious.”
“Yes.” Baelor breathes. “Yes, that would be best.”
“Thank you, Duncan.” He places a hand on the knight’s arm. “You are a true friend.”
~-~
After serving Baelor his midday meal, you carry the dishes downstairs and leave them in the kitchen. When you turn to step into the corridor, you walk straight into Ser Duncan.
“I beg your pardon, ser,” you say, stepping back after bouncing off his broad chest.
“No harm done,” he replies.
“What are you doing down here?” you ask.
“I was looking for something to eat,” he admits, sheepish.
“I’ll see if there’s anything left in the kitchens,” you say with a small smile.
You find a bit of stew clinging to the bottom of the pot on the hearth, enough for two bowls, and tear an end of crusty bread in half.
“Here you are, ser,” you say, handing him the fuller bowl.
“Thanks. Do you want to eat outside?”
You’re used to taking your meals in the servants’ hall, but there’s no reason you can’t step into the courtyard, as long as the dishes are returned afterward.
“All right,” you say.
You follow him into the servants’ courtyard. It’s mostly empty, save for a few women scrubbing laundry. Duncan leads you to a quiet corner, and you both sit on a low bench, his long legs drawn awkwardly close to his chest because of his height.
You eat in silence for a few minutes. Duncan seems unsettled.
He finishes his soup and bread before you and sets his bowl aside.
“I’ve been wondering…” he begins.
You place your spoon down and look at him.
“Do you care for his grace?” he asks.
Your stomach drops, your mouth turning dry.
“I… I care for his wellbeing, of course,” you manage. “Just as he cared for mine after Rask attacked me.”
“I mean…” Duncan shifts, uncomfortable. “Do you… have tender feelings for him?”
You suddenly feel short of breath.
“Why are you asking me this?” Your voice comes out higher than you intend. “If this is because of the rumours, they’re not true. I haven’t… done anything.”
“Damn the rumours,” he says firmly. “I know they’re lies. But I’ve seen the way you look at him.”
Your skin prickles, a sudden cold washing through you.
“I know I shouldn’t,” you whisper. “Believe me, I’ve tried not to think of him that way. I know it’s wrong. But… I can’t make the feelings go away.”
Duncan nods slowly, as though he expected the answer.
“Please don’t tell him.” You grab his arm without thinking, desperation tightening your grip. “Promise me, Ser Duncan. I couldn’t bear it if he found out.”
He looks at you, pain flickering across his face.
“All right,” he murmurs. “I won’t tell him.”
~
You set the supper tray on the table, arranging the dishes with practiced hands, though your chest has been tight all afternoon. Your confession to Duncan has repeatedly turned over in your mind, and the knowledge of what you must do sits heavy in your chest.
Baelor approaches and takes his seat. You force a polite smile, but you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. You trust that Duncan kept his promise… but he had still said he’d noticed the way you look at the prince. And what if Baelor has noticed too?
You pour his wine. You can feel his gaze on you while he adjusts his napkin, but you keep your head bowed.
“Are you quite well?” he asks.
“Yes, your grace.” You force your eyes up for the briefest moment. “I am well.”
His faint frown tells you he doesn’t believe you. But what could you say? Certainly not the truth, and you can think of no convincing lie to explain yourself.
You stand in silence as he eats, stepping forward only to refill his cup. Each minute stretches unbearably. When he looks down at his plate, you steal glances at him, noting his features, aching with the knowledge that tonight will be the last time you serve him.
“Will there be anything else, your grace?” you ask as you stack the dishes on the tray.
He hesitates, eyes searching your face. For once, you don’t look away. You want to see his mismatched eyes one last time, to commit them to memory.
“No,” he says finally, offering a small smile that does not reach his eyes. “Thank you.”
“Goodnight, your grace.” Goodbye.
You step into the corridor and approach Ser Duncan. Your hand trembles slightly as you reach into your pocket and draw out a folded letter you wrote shortly after speaking with him earlier.
“Please give this to his grace after Arnol has attended to him,” you say, holding it out.
“Why not now?” Duncan asks, taking the note in his large hand.
“He is occupied with other matters. He shouldn’t be disturbed.” You lie.
Duncan studies you. “Are you all right?”
“Yes… I just have a great deal on my mind.”
He nods with a sympathetic grimace.
“You’ve been a good friend to me,” you say quietly through the lump in your throat. “And Egg. He always makes me laugh. He’s a good boy.”
“Are you certain you’re all right?” Duncan asks again, frowning as he steps closer.
“I’m fine.” You force a brittle smile. “I should get downstairs. Goodnight, Ser Duncan.”
-
He tucks the note into his tunic and watches you disappear down the corridor.
He understands you must be wrestling with your feelings after the conversation you shared. He had promised you he wouldn’t tell Baelor. But it was Baelor who asked him to speak with you in the first place… and to report back. Duncan is sworn to Baelor. The prince’s wishes must come first.
And this note you’ve given him… the way you insisted it be delivered later… the trembling in your voice when you thanked him for his friendship, when you spoke of Egg…
Something is wrong.
He takes a step, intending to follow you, then stops. He returns to his post, spine straight, forcing himself to wait. A minute passes. Then another, the note feeling as if it’s burning a hole through his tunic.
He hopes you will forgive him. But his gut twists with a certainty he can’t ignore. This cannot wait.
Duncan strides to the prince’s door and knocks, firm and urgent.
“Enter,” Baelor calls.
Duncan steps inside and crosses the chamber in long, decisive strides toward Baelor, who sits at his desk with a frown, hands clasped in his lap.
-
When Baelor looks up and sees Ser Duncan approaching, his first thought is that the knight has spoken to you and is here to relay your feelings. He straightens, heart hammering in anticipation, an uneasy hollowness churning in his stomach despite the meal he just finished.
But Duncan’s expression is heavy and anxious. Baelor’s breath stills. Was your response truly so terrible? Has some irreparable damage been done in asking you such a thing?
“What is it?” he says, body going rigid.
“She asked me to give you this.” Duncan reaches into his tunic and withdraws a folded piece of paper. “But… she told me to wait until Arnol had tended to you. She was acting strangely. It made me uneasy.”
Baelor quickly grasps the note in his long, ringed fingers, wasting no time unfolding it, his eyes racing over the smudged ink.
Your Grace,
Forgive me for leaving this note instead of speaking to you face-to-face. I am a coward, and found the prospect too difficult to face.
I must leave the Red Keep. There have been rumours circulating about you and I, ones that paint you in an unfavourable light. I cannot bear to be the reason your honour is tarnished, that your behaviour towards me is painted as anything but generous and kind.
I fear that by simply being in your service, I bring harm to your name. I will not do that to you, your grace. Not any longer.
I will find a position elsewhere, and I hope you may find someone capable and devoted to replace me. My only suggestion would be that you find a man to serve you, lest the rumours simply replace my role in them with another woman.
I thank you for the opportunity, and for your protection while I was under your employ. You have been uncommonly generous to me and my brother, and it will not be forgotten.
May the Seven keep you safe and grant you every happiness.
His eyes remain fixed and where you’ve signed your name, the letters warping in and out of focus as your words sink in like a blade.
“Your grace?” Duncan asks softly.
Baelor lifts his gaze, dazed. “Did you speak to her? About what I asked?”
Duncan opens his mouth, closes it again, his throat bobbing. “I did, your grace.”
Baelor’s jaw clenches. “And?”
“She made me promise not to tell you.” Duncan shifts uneasily.
“Duncan, please.” Baelor’s voice cracks on the edge of desperation. “She says she’s leaving the Red Keep – leaving my service.” He shakes the note, the paper crumpling in his fist. “I need to know what she told you.”
“She… she does have tender feelings for you, your grace,” Duncan says quietly.
Baelor’s breath catches.
“She said she’s tried to fight them. That she knows it’s wrong.” Duncan adds. “It deeply distressed her.”
Baelor closes his eyes. If your pain mirrors his own – if you has been suffering in silence as he has – his heart twists painfully.
He pushes to his feet so abruptly his chair scrapes back and tips, wobbling before slamming back down.
“She can’t have gotten far.”
He strides toward the door.
“Should I come with you, your grace?” Duncan asks, stepping forward.
Baelor pauses with his hand on the latch.
“No.” He draws a steadying breath. “This is something I need to do alone.”
Baelor takes the tower steps two at a time, and cuts through the corridors in strides as long as his legs will allow, his surcoat whipping around him with each movement. He barely registers the startled looks from guards and servants he rushes past.
He rounds a corner too sharply and slams into something solid. The impact jolts him backward. He blinks, dazed for a moment, and finds Maekar gripping his arm, steadying him.
“Baelor?” Maekar frowns. “What’s the matter? Where are you rushing off to at this hour?”
“I cannot talk now.” Baelor tries to pull free, but Maekar shifts to block him.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“I don’t have time, Maekar. Step aside.”
He shoves past, brushing Maekar’s shoulder as he takes off again at a near-run.
He reaches the servants’ corridor, breath heaving, and finds the door to your room. He knocks hard, then pushes it open when there's no reply. The room is empty. Your bed is neatly made, and there are no personal items to be seen. You have already left.
He inhales sharply and continues through the narrow halls, out the servants' entrance, and into the cool night air outside the Keep. He descends Aegon’s High Hill with frantic haste, scanning every face, every figure, every alcove. His heart pounds louder with each step.
Then he sees you. A lone figure a little way down the path. Hood up, satchel over your shoulder. Moving quickly, head down.
Baelor breaks into a full run. He catches up and reaches out, placing a hand on your shoulder. You whirl around with a startled gasp, spinning to face him, stopping dead in your tracks.
-
You spin around with a sharp gasp, your satchel slipping down your arm. Your heart lurches painfully at the sight of him.
“Your grace?” you say, voice small.
You wipe at your face quickly, knowing it does nothing to hide the tear streaks glinting in the sconce light. You hadn’t wanted him to see you like this. That was the entire point of slipping away unnoticed. You knew you wouldn’t be able to hold your emotions back if you had to tell him in person that you were leaving.
“I got your note,” he says, slightly breathless. He drops his hand from your shoulder. “Why are you leaving?”
“I explained in my note.” You keep your gaze down, hating how brittle your voice sounds.
“I’ve heard the rumours,” he admits. “If anything, I would understand if you left for your own sake. But for mine? I can bear it.”
“But you shouldn’t have to.” Your voice wavers. “It isn’t right for lies like that to spread about you. They make you seem… less than you are.”
“I don’t care what people say about me,” he says quietly. “And I don’t believe that’s why you’re leaving.”
You look up, startled, breath faltering. He’s seeing through you – through every layer you’ve tried to hide behind.
“Your grace… please… it’s best if I go.” You take a small step back, hoisting the satchel higher on your shoulder.
“What if I do not wish you to go?”
Your mouth falls opens slightly, taken aback by his words.
“Then… I apologise,” you manage, “but I must go against your wishes in this instance.”
“I cannot accept that.” He shakes his head once, resolute. “Tell me truthfully why you’re leaving. And do not mention rumours, or my reputation. Tell me the truth of it. Tell me why you couldn’t come to me and speak of your concerns.”
Your chin trembles despite your attempts to steady it. His sincerity strikes something deep and fragile within you. Fresh tears gather on your lashes, then spill over. You open your mouth, but no sound comes at first. He has you cornered. You can’t lie to him any longer.
“I have to leave,” you say at last, your voice shaking. “Because I… I feel things I shouldn’t feel… for you. And it’s too hard. Too hard to keep serving you, to stay near you, and be unable to do anything.”
The words fall out broken – humiliating and terrifyingly true.
-
The words strike him like a blow – not painful, but overwhelming, stealing his breath and leaving him momentarily unsteady. He didn’t mean to push you, to force you into confession. But he needed to hear the truth from your own lips. You feel something for him. Not imagined. Not hoped for. Not foolish wishful thinking. This is real.
A warmth blooms low in his chest, flooding outward until he feels almost feverish. His hands twitch at his sides, aching to reach for you, but afraid that any sudden movement might break the fragile wonder unfolding between you.
He had convinced himself he was imagining your lingering smiles, the softness in your eyes when you looked at him. He has told himself he was reading too much into every small kindness, every gentle word. He thought he was alone in his feelings. He had feared he was wanting too much.
But now… You stand before him, trembling and tear-streaked, admitting that you care for him so deeply that remaining near him – believing nothing could ever come of it – hurts you too much to bear.
He draws a long, steadying breath. His heart is pounding, his thoughts buzzing, all composure stripped away. Nothing of the calm, measured prince remains, and for once, he allows himself to feel it all.
He lifts his head and looks at you – truly looks – and decides he will not pretend anymore. He will not let you walk away believing you are alone in this. Not when he has never wanted anything, anyone, more.
His whole body loosens, air rushing from his lungs, his head tilting slightly as he gazes at you with aching softness.
-
“And I know it’s foolish,” you continue, voice trembling. “And hopeless. You’re a prince – the heir to the throne – and I’m no one at all.”
“Please do not say that.”
He lifts a hand slowly, as if afraid you’ll flinch, and cups your cheek, his thumb resting lightly against your tear-streaked skin. You go completely still. The warmth of his palm feels unreal, like stepping into one of the daydreams you scolded yourself for having. Your breath stutters, and you can hardly think straight.
“You are not no one. Least of all to me.”
Your wide, shining eyes search his face, disbelieving.
“I have struggled with my own feelings,” he says quietly. “I pressed them down for as long as I could. I refused to admit what was growing. But eventually, denial became impossible. And every time I wanted to say something… I remembered that I am a prince, and you are in my service.”
You swallow, lips parting slightly.
“I feared,” he continues, “that if I acted on what I felt, I would be abusing my position – that you might feel obliged to return affection you did not truly feel.”
“I thought…” you whisper, “that I must have been imagining everything. That you could never…”
A dizzy, aching warmth rises in your chest.
“Every time you smiled,” he says softly, “every time your kindness surprised me… I lost myself a little more. And sometimes I would catch you looking, or you would say some small thing that made me hope, but wanting it so badly made me doubt my own judgement.”
A shaky, tearful laugh escapes you. “That’s how it was for me too.”
He takes both your hands in his, his mismatched eyes intent yet unbearably gentle.
“I’m sorry it came to this – that you felt you had to run. But know this: what I feel for you is no fleeting fancy. I care for you deeply… sincerely. And I do not wish for you to go. But if leaving is truly what you want, I would not stop you.”
“I don’t want to leave,” you say quietly. “But… what happens now? Can I really come back?”
“Yes.” His answer is immediate. “Please come back. I don’t know what lies ahead, but we don’t have to hide from each other anymore. Return to the Keep, and we will find out together.”
-
You look up at him with a delicate smile. It’s small, softened by tears, but it’s real, and it’s for him. Warmth blooms in his chest so suddenly it almost aches.
He exhales shakily, brushing his thumbs over your knuckles as if grounding himself, confirming that you’re truly here, that this is truly happening.
“Your hands are cold,” he murmurs. He lifts them gently, enclosing both of yours between his own and stepping closer.
These hands – hands that have served him day after day, tended to him when he was ill. Hands that sent sparks racing through him when they brushed his by accident. Hands that stitched every thread of the shirt you made just for him. These beautiful hands.
He hooks his fingers under yours, lifting them to his lips, and presses a soft kiss to each.
The way you look at him – wide-eyed, breath caught, as though you scarcely dare believe any of this – is his undoing. Gently, he releases your hands only to place his palms on your shoulders, guiding you toward him.
You come willingly. He draws you against his chest. His arms wrap around your shoulders; within a moment, yours circle his waist, pulling yourself flush to him, your cheek nestling against his shoulder. He lowers his head, resting his cheek against your hair, soft strands tickling his skin. It does smell like flowers.
Weeks of tension unspool at once, leaving his body loose, almost weak. For a moment he fears his knees might give.
-
After Baelor collides with him, and rushes off without explanation, it takes Maekar only seconds to decide to follow.
He does not do it to pry into Baelor’s affairs, but because he has never seen his brother so rattled, so utterly unwilling to explain himself. And that alone worries Maekar.
He keeps his distance so as not to be noticed. When Baelor cuts through the servants’ quarters, Maekar’s brows draw together. Perhaps his brother has lied about the cupbearer… but then Baelor continues on, out of the Keep entirely, through the gates and down Aegon’s High Hill. Maekar sees him stop a lone figure on the road – hood pulled up, satchel slung over one shoulder – and that figure turns. It’s you.
He cannot hear the words that pass between you and Baelor, but he sees enough. Your distress, the way you cannot seem to hold Baelor’s gaze. And Baelor – desperate, almost frantic – something Maekar has not witnessed since they were boys, since the time Maekar fell ill with the pox and Baelor feared he might lose him.
He watches as you speak through trembling breaths, as Baelor raises a hand and cups your cheek. You freeze, startled… and then, slowly, soften beneath his touch, leaning into it as though some enormous weight has finally slipped from your shoulders.
Ah. So Baelor has not lied after all. There was nothing between you before, but now Maekar is witnessing the beginning of something. A confession laid bare. And judging by the look on your face, you return Baelor’s feelings wholeheartedly.
He ought to feel disapproval. Baelor is heir to the throne, after all, and you a servant, but what flickers through him instead is a reluctant, quiet relief. His brother’s feelings are not unrequited.
When Baelor pulls you into his arms, Maekar steps back, gaze flicking away. It feels as if he is intruding on something private, so he turns and makes his way back up toward the Keep.
He will speak with his brother tomorrow.
-
The walk back up to the Keep feels unreal, as though the cobblestones, the torches, and the night air are all part of a dream you have yet to wake from.
Baelor walks at your side, close enough that your arms brush now and then, your satchel slung over his shoulder at his insistence.
You find you do not mind the occasional looks from passing servants or guards at their posts. There were already rumours about you – though you realise you have not heard any whispers for some time. But if they start again because of this, you find you do not care. At least now there would be truth to them. And Baelor must not mind either.
He stops just outside the door to your room.
“You will return to work tomorrow, then?” he asks, his voice low.
“If you truly want me to stay…”
He exhales with unmistakable relief. “I want that very much.”
“And you do not mind that people will talk?”
“No,” he says. “I do not mind. I only wish they would not use… that word… when speaking of you.”
“If a woman does anything someone dislikes, she is called a whore,” you say with a faint, wry smile. “No matter what she is actually guilty of.”
He sighs. “Yes…”
The corridor is dim, lit only by a single sconce flickering behind him. It is strange having him here, down among the servants’ quarters, where the corridors are narrow and plain and the stone walls unadorned. It somehow makes him look even more regal. But he is here because of you, standing at your door as though he has come to attend to you.
“I should return this.” He slips the strap of your satchel from his shoulder.
You take it from his hand, your fingers brushing his. The touch still sends a flutter through you, but now you do not feel the need to pull away or hide it. Instead, you look up at him with a small, shy smile.
“I will wish you goodnight,” he says softly, his eyes warm.
You pull back from his hand, only to place yours gently against his chest as you step closer, your face tilting up to him. You press a soft kiss to his cheek.
“Goodnight,” you say as you pull back.
Even in the dim light of the corridor, you see the flush rise in his cheeks as he smiles, a quiet, disbelieving laugh escaping him as though he cannot quite process what has just happened.
“I will see you in the morning,” he says, inclining his head.
You turn to the door and lift the latch. He remains where he is, watching you step inside, and only once the door clicks shut do you hear his footsteps retreat down the corridor.
----
Notes: As always seems to happen when I plan a fic, when I come nearer to the end of a story, plans become a little more vague.
I know what I want to happen, but things aren't as thoroughly plotted and fleshed out scene-by-scene. So I ask you: is there any scene you would like to see in this story? I do not guarantee anything, but I would love to hear your ideas!
blakekathryn
germansingergirl
prguitarman
romaincrisis
janainaart
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
dailybridgerton
