Plot: You knew, better then anyone else in the palace, that Jafar was a treacherous, two-faced, power hungry scoundrel. You saw it. But being the daughter of the Sultans runaway mistress, the one who used him for riches then left you both- you knew you wouldn't be believed.
But your mother left you, inadvertently maybe, with at least one piece of advice for surviving court; Your beauty can be a powerful tool.
Warnings: Age difference (Reader is in her early-mid 20's), an illicit affair or two, sexual themes, smut, etc.
It didn't matter how good you were growing up, how honest or how helpful or how good in your studies- there always would be a shame following you. A dark cloud not too far behind. The memory the city had of your mother; the woman who charmed the sultan, took everything the sweet, generous, albeit naive older man would give her, and then disappeared in the night. That scandal would always follow you. Your father loved you, your sister loved you, but the people would always be expecting you to do something terrible. They would be waiting to say 'I always knew the girl had a darkness in her. Just like her mother', until you died.
So when you clocked Jafar as the deceitful, ambitious man he is- you were afraid to tell your father. He always treated you well, just like he did his legitimate daughter Jasmine, so it would have killed you to see him doubt you. And you knew he would. You told your little sister, she always trusted you, but what good did that do? No one was going to listen to the child princess, either.
But you couldn't allow Jafar to hurt your father, or the city. You had to do something. Which is how you came to the plan you had. The worst part is it came directly out of your mother's play book. So you suppose, in the end, you did exactly what the people thought you would. In the end you are, like her. At least they'll never know.
At least it's for them. At least, thats what you tell yourself.
~
Amidst a comforting, orgasmic fog, you can admit there are a couple things about Jafar that you like. Genuinly. Even if he is a fowl, wicked, manipulative crook. Which he is, he so very much is, but...
Still. He has nice fingers. Very, very nice, indeed.
And, admittedly, you don't find him unnattractive. He's handsome, in a strict, dramatic kind of way. Very powerful eyes, and a sharp jaw he loved you to touch; graze your knuckles, or lips along gently in a way that coaxes him to relax.
And, conveniently, makes him putty in your hands.
... you wonder only a little bit, if your mother ever felt this way. Even a fleeting softness for your father, once. But quickly put away the thought. You're not like her- mostly.
In an attempt to push that thought even further away from you, you slip out from under the imported silks and climb into Jafar's lap. He was reading a scroll, using a quill to make sharp, inky corrections here and there, but you and your thighs on either side of his hips distract him immediately. Shame, he's handsome focused on actual work.
Oh well. These things must be done- that's why you're here, at all. And the terrible, lascivious smirk that brightens up his face is good too, anyway.
"My dear... "
You slide your arms over his shoulders and around the back of his neck, leaning your naked chest against his. "Jafar," You drawl, leaning close, tilting your head to the side, feeling his breath on your lips. "... pay attention."
Because he's a cruel man, he doesn't put the scroll away immediately. Merely smirks; a heady dose of mischief in the look now. "What ever can I do for you, kitten?"
At this, you have to fight against a genuine grin. "My wish is your command, is it?" He certainly is attentive.
"Of course, princess~ I live to serve the... royal family."
"Oh I do believe we've established that fact." With warm, half lidded eyes, your lips just a breath away from his and your fingertips drawing soft hearts on his back you lower your voice to him. "... actually, there is one thing I was hoping you would do for me."
He loves it when you ask him for things, as if you're a helpless girl and you need him. Its cute he thinks that, honestly. For gods sake you're a bastard- you've been in and out of the palace since you were 16. Still, if feeding his ego is what works then you'll happily play the part. "Hmmm? Oh? What could I possibly do for you, my dear?"
Your lips give a pretty pout. And you know this part will make him think, so you tactfully glide your fingers down his chest... over his belly, even further. "... new garnet encrusted shoes, from that village near the pyramids?"
He narrows his eyes at you. His brain works so fast. "Thats almost 2 months travel."
The moment of clarity does not last long, not with your hand slowly stroking his heated cock; throbbing now against your fingers. With just a little attention to the soft underside, his brain turns into lustful mush. "Please, darling?.. Father has forbid me from leaving the palace now, and I know I can trust you... So intelligent and well-travelled... I couldn't trust anyone else."
A throaty groan escapes him and you almost lose concentration. He's so ravishing. "-fine, fine, whatever." For a second, you're forlorn about him being gone for so long- but thats the point, you have to remind yourself. Get him away from court and from your sweet naive father as often and for as long as you can until Jasmine becomes Sultana. Then she'll... banish him... and if that thought makes your heart sink, you ignore it. Suddenly he captures your wrist in his tight grip, you give a gasp, and direct your attention back to his sharp gaze and his filthy smirk. "But my dear, if I'm going to be away from you for so long, you'll have to make it worth my effort. Hm?.. Little princess?"
You both know you aren't a princess. Not unless your father legitimises you which is unlikely- but that doesnt stop Jafar from calling you that.
A little smirk slips across your mouth directed back at him. "... of course. I think it's time for me to show my appreciation. Hmmm?"
If it's even possible, Jafar's smirk seems to grows larger. More intrigued. His eyes which are an apt wine red, bigger and even more heated on you. "... how so?"
With a final, boiling hot glance into those dark claret eyes, you wordlessly get to work. While one hand oh so gently grazes his jaw, smelling of the expensive pomegranate lotions and oils you fill your dresser with for no other reason then to make him travel for weeks and weeks on end, your other traces down over his shoulder... his chest... further again. Your lips and your tongue connect with his throat, too, kissing and sucking marks into his skin that no one will ever bare witness to and if they did, would never know it was you who had your hot mouth on him. Your tongue. Your teeth.
When his breathing becomes heavy from your ministrations; your lips and your tongue on his skin, your hand slowly pumping his throbbing cock, you slip your hand away and replace it with your dripping heat. You sink down carefully on him, pressing your lips to his so you don't whine or whimper at the feeling. You accept his greedy tongue without hesitation.
... you are more like your mother then you ever wanted to be.
summary: at the red keep, you are faced with more harsh realities than simply learning duties and how to better weild your blade.
part one | part two
content: slow burn, found family, love triangleish, enemies to lovers, female knight, fix it fic
note: i’m so sorry this took longer than expected! honestly haven’t had the best week, but i hope the next one comes quicker. also ty again for all the love and support it motivates me so much <3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The Red Keep stood high above the sprawling city of King’s Landing, its red brick walls and towers dominating everything and everyone beneath them. It was strange, you thought, how quickly everything could change. For months your life had been nothing but meadows, hedgerows, and the long, empty stretch of sky above you. Now you could call a castle your home.
Though home was perhaps too generous a word for the four walls you would inhabit. A place of stone and watchful eyes could hardly claim that. Still, it was something else, an opportunity. A chance to learn and perhaps, for the first time in a long while, to live without the constant need to watch for danger, as you had on the road, where every stranger, every dark stretch of forest, and every quiet mile carried the possibility of trouble.
Though the recent weeks of the journey to the capital, had been some of the happiest you could remember in a long while. The days passed in the steady rhythm of the road, with Egg and Duncan often riding on either side of you, filling the miles with stories, questions, and jests. You had spent quite a few nights in crowded inns, or beneath the roofs of accommodating lords who gladly welcomed Prince Baelor’s company.
Yet your favorite evenings had been the quieter ones in the pavilions. After the camp had settled and the fires burned low, the three of you would sometimes slip away from the others and sit beneath the open sky, talking about nothing and everything until the night had grown deep and the stars were the only witnesses left awake.
It made you wish, fleetingly, that the road might never end, that it could remain just the three of you riding on alone, unburdened by duty, untouched by courtly expectations, and blissfully ignorant of the politics waiting ahead. Yet the Red Keep only grew larger with every canter of your horse, its towers climbing higher against the sky, refusing to fade no matter how much you might have wished it would.
The first thing you noticed was the smell. A choking stench of excrement that reached you well before the city walls, carried on the sharp edge of the sea breeze. You wondered if it breached even the keep’s walls, and whether the most powerful people in the realm spent their days subjected to it as well, or if they had long since grown accustomed to it, their fresh rushes and lofty towers masking what lingered below.
You knew, for a certainty however, that the people who lived in the mazes of narrow streets would be far easier to put out of mind once in the keep’s confines.
Poverty was not something you were a stranger to, it had been your constant companion for most of your life. But you had not expected it on this scale.
When you had imagined the heart of the realm, your thoughts had always lingered on kings and nobles, on fine halls and easy comforts. You were almost ashamed, now, to realize how little you had considered the countless lives that fought to survive in their shadow.
But now you forced yourself to confront it, to make your gaze linger where it might otherwise have slipped away; on the children begging at street corners, on the women who stood hollow-eyed in doorways, and on the men who watched it all with a quiet, worn resignation.
Something in you tightened, low and uneasy.
How long would it take, you wondered, before you grew used to it too, to the suffering that would stretch out everyday beneath you?
The speed with which the press of the city vanished gave you a hint. The moment the gates of the keep groaned shut behind you, it was as though King’s Landing had been swallowed whole. The shouting voices, the rattle of carts, even the stench, though not entirely gone, faded a little from your awareness.
The princes’ party was ushered through without question, guards snapping to attention more from recognition than inquiry.
Even so, you could feel it, the shift of relief. It moved through the group like a quiet exhale, subtle but unmistakable after the long road. Shoulders eased, reins loosened and the tight edge that came with travel, of watchfulness, of uncertainty, began, at last, to soften. Even the horses seemed to sense it, their restlessness easing as they were led away.
But now here, there were walls and order, and a familiar routine.
Inside, the stone beneath your feet was clean, worn smooth by years of passage rather than neglect. Servants and guards gathered in quiet efficiency, ready to answer the needs of the arriving party. The movement around you felt almost choreographed, and suddenly, beneath the height of the vaulted ceilings, you felt very small.
Your gaze settled on Baelor, anchoring yourself to one of the familiar figures in the swirl of activity. But it felt different seeing him here, within these walls, beneath the vaulted ceilings and watchful eyes of court, where every step and every word carried meaning.
Here, he did not simply belong, he fit.
The space seemed to shape itself around him as much as he moved within it, as though this was where he had always been meant to stand. The ease you had seen on the road had not vanished, but it had changed—tempered into something more deliberate, more measured.
More… distant, perhaps. Or perhaps not distant, just fuller.
More defined by the role that awaited him.
It struck you then, more clearly than it had before, that this was the place he would one day rule from. That every corridor, every chamber, every pair of watching eyes already bent, in some quiet way, toward that future.
An aide slipped to his side, speaking in a voice too low to carry, though the urgency in it was clear enough. His expression altered only faintly before he turned, signaling to Maekar with a small, deliberate motion.
His brother’s jaw tightened, but he followed without question and together they moved off, their steps purposeful, and vanished down one of the many corridors.
A small, unwelcome fear stirred low in your chest, something almost childish in its shape, as you watched one of your few allies disappear so quickly after you’d first stepped into the dragon’s den.
The feeling was foolish, and you knew it. He was the heir to the Iron Throne, not someone you could trail after or hide behind like a child clutching at their father’s cloak. You were brought here to protect him, and yet the feeling lingered all the same.
Baelor had been kind to you on the road, in a way you had not expected. He had made time for conversation, speaking with you as though you belonged among his company, explaining what you might expect of the city, and of your place within it.
He had even introduced you to his son, Valarr, who reminded you of him in the best ways, though there was something more polished in him, something softer and more princely in a way that made him seem more unknowable.
Aerion, by contrast, had offered nothing. He rode in silence, his pride wounded as plainly as the bruises that still marked him, his expression set in a cold, unyielding line all the way.
With Maekar, it was slightly different. For most of the journey, he had scarcely acknowledged your existence, save for the rare, cutting look cast in your direction, sharp enough to remind you that he had not forgotten your charged words, even if he chose not to speak of it.
Perhaps, you hoped now as you were sure he did, that you would see even less of him within these new walls.
A guard had taken it upon himself to lead you and Duncan through the keep, his pace brisk and his directions sparse. The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, turning in on themselves, each passage much like the last, stone, torchlight, shadow. It would be far too easy, you realized, to lose your way here, to wander these halls and not find another soul for hours.
The room that was now yours was modest in size, but comfortable enough. It was simply furnished, a bed, a chest, a single chair, nothing excessive, but far more than you had been used to on the road. It sat in the base of the tower of the hand, beside Duncan’s own chambers, so you may be close to Baelor if he has need of you.
What a simple but precious luxury it was to have a space of your own. And yet, you found yourself already missing the open sky, the easy stretch of it above you, and the quiet chorus of birdsong that had followed you down country lanes.
It didn’t take you long to unpack your few belongings, after all you had never carried enough that could slow you down. Still, you took a moment, setting things where they belonged, as though the act itself might make the space feel more like your own.
But it didn’t and the room remained what it was, comfortable, perhaps, but impersonal. Temporary, in a way that unsettled you more than the open road ever had. Perhaps time would be the only solution.
A heavy knock sounded at the door, before you’d even really settled yourself. You turned, already expecting Duncan, and when you opened it he was there, but he wasn’t alone.
Ser Roland Crakehall stood beside him, broad and immovable as a wall, his white cloak falling in heavy lines from his shoulders. Where Duncan looked faintly uneasy, his smile a touch too quick, his posture just a little too stiff, Crakehall’s expression gave nothing away.
“The King requests your presence.”
“What for?” you asked, doing your best to keep the unease from creeping into your voice. You suspected it wasn’t customary to question a king’s summons, but the habit of obedience had never quite taken root in you.
Ser Roland neglected to answer, and simply turned on his heels, leaving you little choice but to follow along.
You weren’t sure you would ever grow used to princes summoning you at their convenience, but this was no prince.
This was a king. The very one that sat the Iron Throne.
The realization weighed heavily as you followed, your thoughts circling the summons again and again. Why would he call for you and Duncan so soon after your arriva to the keepl? Unless, of course, it was to send you away from it.
The possibility clung to you, unwelcome and unshakable, trailing every step. When you stole a glance at Duncan, his expression mirrored your own, tight and distant, as if he’d arrived at the same conclusion.
Both of you were led deeper into Margor’s Holdfast, which was truly like a castle within a castle, where all the royal apartments were situated wrapped in luxury and guarded by a deep dry moat outside.
The first thing you noticed upon entering King Daeron’s solar was his son. Baelor stood near the window, light falling across him in a way that softened the sharpness of the room.
At the sight of you, a small, gentle smile found his lips, and something in his eyes that was warm, steady and quietly reassuring reached you at once, loosening the tight knot that had been sitting in your chest.
The second was the room itself. It was not grand in the way you had expected. Instead, it was crowded with books and scattered papers, stacked in uneven piles across tables and shelves, spilling into corners as though they had outgrown their space. Ink-stained parchment lay open beside sealed letters, maps half-rolled, quills abandoned mid-thought.
It felt lived in and thoughtful. Not a king’s chamber, but a scholar’s.
Then your gaze found the king. His expression mirrored his son’s in a way, calm, composed, and almost gentle, though there was something sharper beneath it, something more deliberate. His frame was smaller than his sons’, his shoulders slightly rounded, a softness at his middle that spoke more of study than steel.
Lastly, and with the faint return of that unease, your eyes settled on Maekar. He sat off to the side, slouched in his chair, holding the Targaryen looks of his father and yet none of its expression.
“Ah, so I meet you at last. I finally have the chance to satisfy my curiosity of the hedge knight, and the lady in mail.” The King spoke, a note of quiet interest in his voice as he turned to face you.
Movement at the edge of your vision drew your attention, and you turned just enough to see Duncan dropping to his knees, his head bowed in earnest reverence, that made you slightly grimace.
A flicker of panic crossed your face as you hesitated, suddenly unsure what was expected of you or whether you could bring yourself to follow suit.
A soft laugh broke the tension, drawing your attention upward from where it had settled on your boots.
“You need not kneel alongside your friend, my lady,” the king said lightly. “And you, Ser please, rise.”
You lifted your gaze as Duncan pushed himself back to his feet beside you.
“I admit,” King Daeron continued, “I have become quite familiar with the tales from Ashford. I have had the fortunate benefit of hearing them from my sons themselves.” There was the faintest trace of amusement in his voice, as his gaze flicked briefly toward Baelor and then, more briefly still, toward Maekar. “It seems that between the two of you, you have caused no small stir.”
You wondered briefly, if he had meant that small stir you and Maekar had conjured in the corridor of Ashford castle.
“If I may, Your Grace,” Duncan said quickly, “we didn’t mean to do no such thing. We only wanted to do what we thought was right, and I pulled her into it.”
The king regarded him thoughtfully. “So,” he said, “you acted out of honour, and you, out of loyalty?” His gaze shifted to you. “Tell me, are you of the same blood? Or something closer still?”
“Neither, Your Grace,” you shook your head. “I met Ser Duncan only two days before the tourney, on the road. He spared me from what might have been a… less than pleasant encounter.” You hesitated only briefly before continuing. “I entered the trial for him out of loyalty, and debt, but also because…” You steadied slightly. “I believed it was the right thing to do.”
There was a brief pause.
“She stood when others would not.” Baelor’s voice, quiet but certain.
It cut gently through the space, not interrupting, but anchoring. You felt it more than heard it.
The king’s expression shifted, just faintly. “Indeed,” he said. “An honourable and courageous thing to do. I’m the first to admit that I am no warrior and have kept books more as company than knights, though I can recognise the strength and skill you must have shown on that field, especially for my son to have given you two a place amongst his guard.”
“It is a great honour, your grace.”
You straightened slightly, aware suddenly of everything, your stance, your voice, the way you carried yourself in a room that was not built for people like you.
“Then I hope the both of you continue to prove yourselves worthy of it.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your first week in King’s Landing passed in a blur of stone corridors, unfamiliar faces, and the constant sense of being watched.
Each day seemed to begin earlier than the last. You were roused at dawn and expected in the yard before the sun had properly risen, where the master-at-arms wasted little time in putting both you and Duncan through your paces.
Sparring sent fresh aches through your ribs, your movements slower than they should have been while your wound still stubbornly healed, but you gave no sign of it. You would not allow yourself to show even a hint of weakness.
The master-at-arms himself was a hard, impassive man. He did not mock you as some of the others did, but that almost made it worse. There was something in the way he watched you, cool and distant, that spoke of quiet disapproval. As though Prince Baelor granting you the right to stand there was, in itself, an insult he was forced to endure.
The keep itself was another battle entirely. Its halls twisted in ways that still made little sense to you, and more than once you found yourself turned around, retracing your steps with growing irritation.
Servants passed like shadows, guards watched with quiet scrutiny, and courtiers when you strayed too near the more public spaces, looked at you with open curiosity, as though you were some strange token brought in from beyond the walls.
Word seemed to have spread. The Lady in Mail. Some spoke it with amusement, others with disdain.
Still, there were moments of ease.
Egg found you whenever he could, which often meant in the times he could steal away from his septa, his chatter a welcome distraction from the weight of everything else.
He had a way of appearing as though by accident, rounding corners at just the right moment, slipping into the yard when the others had begun to drift away, knocking at your door with an energy that felt entirely untouched by the weight of the place.
His chatter came easily, unburdened and bright, filling the spaces that might otherwise have been claimed by quieter, heavier thoughts.
Duncan, too, remained a steady presence, and you spent many of your evenings drifting between each other’s rooms, talking as you had on the road. But even then, you began to notice the difference, how often he was called away, how his duties seemed to stretch longer than yours, as though the keep had already found more use for him than it quite knew what to do with you.
And Baelor… Baelor was as measured as ever. He did not hover, nor did he leave you entirely to fend for yourself. There were brief conversations, passing remarks as you stood at his guard that carried more meaning than they first seemed, and a reassuring smile that carried more weight for you than you think he appreciated.
Still, when Duncan had retreated to his own room, and there were no drills or duties left to occupy your thoughts, a quiet hollowness would settle in. It came unbidden, a restless ache for something you could not quite name, a sense of home you had not known in years, yet felt the absence of all the same.
It made the training yard something of a refuge.
Especially in the quieter hours, when the others had long since drifted away and the noise of the day had settled into evening stillness. More often than not, it was just you and Duncan left behind, the yard empty save for the soft scuff of boots against gravel and the dull ring of practice steel.
There, at least, things made sense.
You could lose yourself in the rhythm of it; the swing, the parry, the familiar weight of a blade in your hand. No watching eyes, no quiet judgments, no need to prove anything beyond the next strike. Just movement, breath, and the steady comfort of something you understood.
And for a little while, as dust rose around you and the light began to fade, the rest of it, the keep, the court, the feeling of being out of place, fell away.
“Just ten more minutes,” you pressed, a breath short of a plea.
You had been at it for hours, and it showed. Sweat clung to your skin, your muscles beginning to protest in quiet, insistent ways but you did not slow.
Duncan might have been allowed the occasional lapse, a missed step, a moment’s carelessness written off with little more than a laugh. You could not.
“You’re going to kill me,” Duncan muttered, shifting his grip as he circled.
“Only if you let me,” you replied, a hint of a grin tugging at your lips.
He huffed something that might have been a laugh, and then you were at it again.
Again the rhythm of steel on steel chorused once again, parry, strike, turn, recover. Duncan fought with strength and instinct and you answered with precision, turning his strikes aside, slipping just out of reach, forcing him to adjust, to think.
“Ser Duncan.”
The voice cut cleanly through the clash of steel and you broke apart at once.
At the edge of the yard stood Crakehall, broad-shouldered and composed, as though he had been there some time already, watching. His gaze flicked once between you and Duncan, taking in the scene; the dust, the sweat, the state of you both.
“You are needed in Prince Baelor’s quarters,” he said evenly. Then, after the briefest pause, “...Perhaps I can take over from here.”
Duncan stiffened as his grip shifted slightly on the hilt, and a flicker of hesitation crossed his face that he couldn’t quite hide. For a heartbeat, he didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at you as if in apology and then retreated into the keep. You watched him go reluctantly.
Silence settled in his wake.
For a moment, the two of you simply regarded one another across the torn yard, the last of the dust drifting between you, and then he stepped forward, taking his place before you.
Up close, there was something almost amused in his expression now, less judging than curiosity.
While he and Ser Donnel had remained polite while in the presence of their princes, you could see the laughter in their eyes whenever they regarded you. While Duncan may just be a hedgeknight, he was still a man and you were just a woman playing at one.
“Well,” he said, rolling one shoulder as though loosening it, “let us see what sort of trouble Ser Duncan has found to occupy his time.”
He lifted his sword in an easy salute, casual, almost lazy. “Do try not to take it too poorly if this ends quickly.”
There it was, worn openly in the looseness of his stance, in the easy set of his shoulders, in the way his blade came up just a fraction too slow to be taken seriously. Crakehall did not think you a threat at all.
His underestimation was as natural to him as breathing.
And that was fine. It was familiar. You had lived in people’s expectations all your life, as just a vulnerable girl. Something lesser, something safe to them that they could play with.
It had kept you overlooked, and more importantly it had kept you alive.
So you let him believe the rhythm of the fight belonged to him. Let him think you were reacting, yielding, matching him instead of guiding him. Every step back measured, every deflection calculated, not to stop him but to shape him. To lead him.
You had learned early that strength alone was loud and obvious, easy to meet head-on.
Assumptions, though, were quiet and dangerous. And they cut deeper than any blade, if you knew how to utilise them.
Crakehall smiled handsomely as he came at you again, confidence unbroken, certain of the ground beneath his feet.
He did not rush. His first strike was clean and measured, the sort of probing blow a seasoned knight used to test a new opponent. You met it without strain, turning it aside with a precise movement of your wrist.
He followed with another, a touch faster. Then a third.
You yielded ground by inches, letting him set the pace, letting him believe he held it.
“Not bad,” he remarked, as your blades met again with a sharp ring. “You’ve got a neat hand. Ser Duncan must enjoy the exercise.”
Your answer was steel. Then you shifted, stepping inside his guard just enough to force him to adjust. He did, smoothly, but a flicker of surprise crossed his face at the speed of it.
He pressed a little harder then.
The next exchange carried more weight, more intent. His blade came down in a heavier arc, meant to test your strength outright. You caught it, but did not hold it, turning his force aside so it carried him a fraction off balance.
A fraction was just enough.
You stepped in.
He recovered quickly as expected, he was too experienced not to, but now you were closer than he expected, your strikes coming faster, tighter, forcing him to bring his blade up in earnest defense.
The easy amusement faded from his face.
Steel rang sharper now, quicker. He gave ground once, then held, meeting your flurry with solid blocks, his strength reasserting itself.
You did not let up.
A faint high drew his guard up, just enough.
You turned your wrist, blade flashing low instead, not to strike but to catch.
His sword jolted in his grip as you twisted, stepping past him in the same motion. For a heartbeat, you were at his side, your leverage perfect, his balance just a shade too far forward-
-and then his weapon tore free.
It spun once in the air before striking the dirt with a dull thud a few feet away. Silence followed it.
You had already stepped back, blade raised, point steady, aimed cleanly at his chest.
Crakehall stood still, hand empty, eyes fixed on you.
The dust settled slowly around his fallen sword as you tried not to let your satisfaction show too much on your face.
For a long moment, neither of you moved and then he let out a low breath; half laugh, half something else. The look on his face told the story of a man who had wagered all his money on a certain bet and came out short changed.
“Well perhaps his grace did see something in you.” He moved to pick up his sword. “But tell me are there other talents of yours he’s…enjoyed?”
The accusation landed, crude and unvarnished, lodging itself like a final and desperate blow in your chest. Crakehall’s eyes dragged the length of you as he spoke, slow and deliberate, as if weighing something that had nothing to do with steel or skill. It made the words worse, gave them shape, made them linger all over you.
It shouldn’t have surprised you. And yet it did.
You had heard whispers before, half-cut laughter in corridors, the murmur of servants and sworn swords who thought themselves unheard, the sideways looks that followed a beat too long. But never so plainly. Never thrown at you like that, as though it were fact instead of filth.
The heir to the throne had returned from Ashford and brought you with him. That alone was enough to start tongues wagging.
A prince does not pluck someone from the dust without reason, spare them from punishment and then keep them close. A prince does not place a young woman within his guard, no less, without men deciding they already know why.
In their minds, there was always only one explanation. Your jaw tightened, though you kept your face still.
The keep had not seen Ashford. They had not seen the chaos, the blood, the split-second choices that decided who walked away and who did not. They had not seen what you had done to earn that place and what it had cost.
But Crakehall had been there.
He had stood on that same tourney field. He had seen all of it. If any one of the kingsguard had the chance to understand, to see past rumors, past assumptions, it was him.
Still, he let the same easy conclusion settle in his mind, as if what he had witnessed counted for less than what was convenient to believe.
A flicker of something cold settled in your chest at the thought.
If a man who had seen it with his own eyes would reduce it to that, then what hope was there with the rest of them?
What chance did you have of proving anything at all, when the truth itself could be so easily ignored?
He watched you as the silence stretched, as if expecting something like anger, perhaps, or embarrassment. Some crack in the armor.
You gave him none. If anything, you felt the steadiness settle back into your limbs, the same cold focus that had guided your blade moments before.
Fine. Let him think it. Let them all think it.
You could endure the looks. The murmurs. The quiet, cutting judgments dressed up as courtly politeness. You had endured far worse.
But this was different, because it did not end with you.
Your thoughts turned, unbidden, to Prince Baelor. To the man who had given you more than you could have ever imagined for yourself.
But he had also put you in a difficult place. A place others were already eager to question, to undermine, to tear apart with nothing more than suggestion and suspicion.
Whispers had a way of spreading. Of growing teeth and even princes were not immune to them.
You could fight a man. You could meet steel with steel, prove yourself in the only language that never lied. But this? This was something else entirely.
You could not cross blades with rumor. You could not disarm it, could not force it to yield. All you could do was withstand it and hope it did not take root.
Hope that Baelor saw you as you were and not as they painted you. That he remembered Ashford as you did. That he weighed what you had done, what you had risked, against the idle poison of court talk.
That he would not decide it was easier to let you go than to defend you.
You had not asked for his favor. Had not sought his notice. But now that you had it… the thought of losing it to something so small, so baseless, sat ill with you; both in the fact that you were afraid to lose it and that you wanted it at all.
Your grip shifted slightly on the hilt, easy, controlled.
“Is that what you tell yourself,” you said at last, voice level, “when someone bests you?”
It was a small thing, the words, but sharp enough.
Crakehall’s expression flickered and this time, when he looked at you, it was not with amusement.
From the balcony above, the yard lay spread out beneath Prince Maekar in pale stone and drifting dust, the sounds of steel carrying cleanly upward, sharp, measured, unmistakable.
Voices did not.
Whatever passed between you and Crakehall after the bout was lost to distance, swallowed by the open air. Maekar caught only fragments, tone without words, the rise and fall of something too quiet to grasp.
But he saw enough.
He had watched the fight from the moment it began to when it ended, thought he couldn’t quite admit to himself why.
Not the way his attention had fixed too sharply, not the way each strike had felt almost personal. As if every blow you took, and gave, had struck somewhere beneath his own ribs.
He told himself he had only entered the yard to find Aegon. That was reason enough. He was often there, lingering at the edges while you and Duncan trained, happy just to watch.
But Aegon had long since been forgotten.
He saw the shift, the moment Crakehall stopped treating it as sport. Saw the way you moved, not merely quick but deliberate, each step placed with intent, each motion economical where Crakehall’s was broad and forceful.
And then—
The turn.
It was clean. Too clean.
Crakehall’s blade wrenched free of his grasp and struck the ground below, a dull note against the sharper ring of steel that had preceded it. You stood already clear of him, your own sword raised, point steady at his chest.
Maekar did not move.
Below, the yard seemed to still around you both. A Kingsguard, disarmed.
Not by chance, not by trickery, but by skill.
His gaze sharpened, fixing on you now with something far more intent than passing interest.
Crakehall bent, retrieved his sword. There were words exchanged then, he could see that much. The angle of Crakehall’s head, the slight shift in your stance. Something passed between you.
And then he saw it. Subtle, perhaps, to anyone not looking for it, but Maekar was. The change in you.
It was there in the way your shoulders lost a measure of their tension, not relaxation, but something closer to withdrawal. The line of your posture, which had been all edge and readiness moments before, seemed to draw inward, as though bracing against something unseen.
Something had struck.
Crakehall straightened, saying something further. Maekar could not hear it, but he did not need to.
He saw where Crakehall’s gaze lingered. Saw the faint shift in your expression, however controlled.
Saw enough.
Maekar’s jaw tightened, just slightly.
Below, the distance between you and the Kingsguard remained, but the nature of it had changed. The fight was over, but something else had taken its place, quieter, less visible, and perhaps more telling.
He rested his hands against the cold stone of the balcony, violet eyes never leaving you.
That image of you, blade steady, breath measured, something in you dimming after victory instead of brightening, lodged itself firmly in Maekar’s mind.
It followed him from the yard and it sat stubbornly with him at the dining table that evening.
Torches burned low along the walls, their light catching on polished wood. Servants moved carefully, as if wary of disturbing something unseen.
Aerion lounged to Maekar’s right, a goblet turning idly between his fingers. Across from them, Egg sat straighter, smaller, his eyes moving between them both, as though trying to read a room that refused to speak.
No one said much.
Daeron’s seat sat empty, as it so often did, he was likely drunk in some corner of the castle or the city beyond it, and Maekar had long since stopped wasting breath trying to drag him back to the table.
He ate without noticing the taste, his thoughts still caught in the yard, in the turn of your wrist, the clean disarm, the moment after. The way you had stood, victorious and yet somehow diminished, as if the fight had cost you something no one else could see.
“I hear the castle is already alive with talk of the Lady in Mail,” Aerion said idly, turning his cup between his fingers. “Even if she has been… conveniently kept from court.” Aerion let out a quiet, humorless breath, leaning back in his chair. “I give it a fortnight,” he said, almost idly. “Before she’s gone, one way or another.”
Maekar did not look up, but across from him, Egg stilled, his attention snapping sharply to his brother, a frown already forming.
Aerion continued, as if musing to himself, “Of course, perhaps she’s better suited to whatever slum she was pulled from.”
“Shut up broth-.” Aegon started, though Aerion did not so much as glance at him.
“If you have something to say,” Maekar cut in sharply, his tone like a blade striking stone, “say it plainly or don’t say it at all.” His eyes fixed on Aerion now, hard and unyielding, whatever patience he possessed already worn to its edge.
A flicker of satisfaction crossed Aerion’s face.
“Very well,” he said, setting his goblet down. “She should never have set foot in the capital. The fact that she’s been taken into our service is a jest and worse, a stain on our honour.”
Maekar set his cup down with deliberate care.
“Yours,” Aerion went on, turning his gaze fully to Maekar now, “and mine, Father. She should have been left on that tourney field where she belonged. We are the blood of the dragon.” His lip curled faintly. “What does it say of us, that we must rely on some whore-”
“Enough.”
The word did not come softly.
Maekar’s hand struck the table with a crack that echoed through the room, hard enough to send his cup jolting, wine spilling dark across the wood. The sound cut through everything through Aerion’s voice, through Egg’s protest, through the quiet murmur of the room beyond.
Maekar rose slowly from his seat.
When he looked at Aerion, there was no restraint left in his expression now, only something cold, hard, and absolute.
“She showed more honor on that field,” he said, each word measured and cutting, “than you have in your entire sorry existence, boy.”
Egg couldn’t help the gleeful satisfaction that crossed his face after his shock had passed, that his father of all people was defending you. The thought settled warm and bright in his chest despite his effort to hide it.
The silence returned now, but it had changed.
And though your name was not spoken again, your presence lingered there all the same.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The road had always been quiet at night, but there was something in the stillness in the keep after dark that felt more pressing. Every distant footstep, every murmur through stone walls seemed to carry further, as though the castle itself listened.
You lay staring at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the stone above, still dressed for the day.
It would be easy to leave. The thought came without warning, settling into place with unsettling ease.
Easier than this. Easier for Baelor. He had given you this place in his guard and what had he received except slander?
Even as the thought came, you cursed it. Here you were, probably someone he never thought of beyond duty and you were losing sleep over his reputation, as if it were something else you needed to protect. As though it mattered to you at all.
Perhaps you were only making excuses for yourself.
It wouldn’t just be easier for him, but for you too. Being on your own meant, you had no one to prove yourself to, no one to follow except your own whims and the open road.
You had left places before and walked away with less than you have now. You knew how to disappear, how to slip from one place to the next until even memory lost its hold. It should have felt the same but it didn’t, because something about this time was different.
And you knew, even as the thought lingered, that this time, it would not be so easy to forget what you were leaving behind. And who.
A knock broke the stillness.
Sharp. Quick. Out of place at this hour.
For a moment, you did not move, listening as the sound echoed faintly through the wood before settling back into silence. Then it came again, more insistent this time.
“It’s me,” came the hushed reply. “Open the door.”
Egg.
You frowned slightly, rising and crossing the room in a few quiet steps. When you pulled the door open, it was not quite the sight you expected.
He stood there half-swallowed in a roughspun cloak several sizes too large for him, the hood drawn low over his head. It did little to disguise him, not to anyone looking closely, but it was enough, perhaps, in poor light and passing glances. It brought you back to how he looked exactly as he had done in Ashford, just a boy who was unburdened by his name.
For a moment, you simply looked at him. “Why are you wearing…?” You asked.
“There’s no time, there’s been orders for you, come!”
You didn’t move at once, but he was already turning, already moving down the corridor as though certain you would follow.
“Egg—” you started, but he didn’t stop.
By the time you had dragged on your boots, snatched up your dagger, and thrown your cloak over your shoulders, he was halfway down the passage, glancing back only to make sure you were coming.
You caught up quickly, your frown deepening and brow furrowing. “At this hour?”
He nodded quickly. “Orders.”
“From who?”
There was the briefest pause.
“From Baelor,” he said, a touch too fast, fishing his gaze on the corridor in front and nowhere near you.
“Did he,” you said flatly.
“Yes,” Egg insisted, shifting slightly under your scrutiny. “He did.” He met your gaze with all the earnestness he could muster. It was not very convincing.
Then he pressed on, tugging the cloak tighter around himself, already moving again as though momentum alone might carry you both past the question. Silence stretched.
You could see it then, the barely contained anticipation, the way he leaned forward just a fraction, as though already halfway wherever he wanted to be in his mind. Whatever this was, it was not duty.
It was mischief. You should have refused. It would have been the sensible thing. The responsible thing. The sort of decision expected of someone placed in a prince’s guard.
Instead, your gaze flicked once more over his ridiculous cloak… and something in you loosened.
You exhaled softly.
“If this is a lie,” you said, turning slightly to face him as you walked, “it is a poor one.”
Egg kept his pace brisk. “Well you could go back to your room, and leave me to it…”
“Well,” you returned evenly, “I could also go straight to your father.”
That stopped him.
For a heartbeat, he froze, the weight of that threat settling visibly. His mouth opened, then closed again, as if he were trying to decide whether you might actually do it.
“You wouldn’t,” he said at last, though there was less certainty in it now.
You said nothing as he shifted under your gaze, tugging his cloak tighter around himself as though it might somehow protect him from the implication alone.
Then, softer this time-
“So you’ll come?” he asked, peering at you from beneath the shadow of the hood, his eyes wide, hopeful in a way that made it difficult to refuse outright.
There was something earnest in it, despite the lie. Something boyish.
You held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, letting the silence stretch just enough to make him wonder, then you sighed, the sound quiet but decisive. It was difficult to refuse him, though you knew more often than not, a prince was better served by hearing no.
“That depends,” you said, fastening your cloak, “on whether your plan involves more than running headlong into trouble.”
Egg straightened immediately, eagerness returning in full force. “It does,” he said quickly.
You gave him a look.
He hesitated, then amended, just slightly, “Mostly.”
That, somehow, was worse, but not enough to stop you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
By the time you and Egg pushed through the door of the tavern, you were already planning your exit.
Men crowded shoulder to shoulder around rough-hewn tables, their voices loud and unguarded, rising over one another in a constant, restless din. Tankards struck wood with dull force, laughter broke sharp and sudden, and somewhere near the hearth a pair of men argued openly, their words slurred but their anger clear enough.
A loose circle had already begun to form around them, not intervening and not stopping it, only watching with idle interest as though waiting for it to become something worth remembering.
The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and spilled ale.
You did not step far inside.
Instinct alone kept you near the door, your gaze already moving, already measuring the distance, exits, hands, tempers. Who was watching? Who wasn’t.
There were too many bodies and too little space.
A place like this could turn in a heartbeat, and when it did, there would be nowhere to go.
The both of you had escaped the keep through a smaller postern gate set into the outer wall, half-concealed and little used. A single guard lingered nearby, more occupied with the slow passage of the night than his duty.
Apparently Egg had used this way once before, when his brother had sneaked him out into the city, though from the way he had mentioned it, it didn’t sound like a night of fun.
The city had closed in quickly beyond the walls, narrow passages twisting into one another, shadows clinging thick between leaning buildings, our anxiousness pressed as close as the bodies that brushed you. The freedom you had imagined for a couple of hours had lasted all of a moment before something tighter had taken its place.
What had you been thinking?
“We shouldn’t be here,” you muttered under your breath, shifting just enough to place yourself between Egg and the rest of the room, your body angled to obscure him from wandering eyes.
Egg made a face at the brown liquid in his cup, turning it slightly as though it might improve on inspection. “Well,” he said, resigned more than anything, “we’re here now.” He took a half-hearted sip, grimaced, then glanced back at you watching you watching the room. “I know you’re thinking about leaving…you’ve been different all week”
You didn’t quite meet his eyes, your jaw tightening as you looked past him instead. The noise of the tavern still roared around you, but it felt distant now, dulled beneath the weight of your thoughts. You didn’t want to lie to him so you said nothing at all.
“We’re to return to Summerhall,” Egg continued. “Father’s ordered it. Me, Aerion… Daeron too, when they can find him sober enough to sit a horse.”
Your eyes met his face now just to discover it had lost any of the brightness of daringness as it had when you escaped the keep.
“Well then I have even less reason to stay.” You said after a beat, lifting your cup. The ale burned slightly as you swallowed, but you barely noticed.
“You have every reason to, for Baelor.”
“Baelor is half the reason I should be leaving, I don’t belong here and I’m not sure I want to.”
“But you belong with me, and Duncan.” He replied, softer this time. Not arguing, just stating it, as though it should be enough on its own.
You opened your mouth to answer and found you had nothing. No sharp remarks. No easy dismissal. No argument you could offer that didn’t sound thin the moment you tried to shape it.
Your gaze dropped instead, settling somewhere on the worn edge of the table, your fingers tightening slightly around your cup.
“How come you didn’t ask Duncan to go with you tonight?” You asked instead, grateful for the shift, for something lighter to hold onto.
“He never would’ve said yes.”
“No,” you agreed quietly, a faint hint of amusement touching your tone. “He wouldn’t.”
You didn’t stay long after that.
When you stepped back out into the street, the air felt sharper and neither of you spoke, heavy with the words you exchanged in the inn.
The streets beyond the gate were narrower than you remembered from your arrival, the dark swallowing what little space there was between leaning buildings. Lantern light flickered weakly from doorways and windows, casting more shadow than illumination. People moved through it all in a steady restless current, quieter now than in daylight, but no less present.
It was different on foot. There was no distance now. No height of a saddle to soften the view like when you had first arrived a week ago.
You felt it in the press of bodies as you passed, in the way shoulders brushed too close, in the low murmur of voices that never quite stopped. The smells were stronger too, rot and refuse, smoke and something sour beneath it all that clung to the back of your throat.
You had only turned a few corners when you heard it. A man’s voice, low and insistent.
“…don’t be like that—”
You turned before you fully registered why.
The alley was narrow, half-swallowed in shadow. A single lantern cast just enough light to make out the shapes within.
You faintly recognised one of the serving girls from the tavern, her back was pressed to the wall, shoulders drawn tight, as though she could make herself smaller by force of will alone.
The man in front of her had one hand braced beside her head, leaning in too close, his voice thick with drink and something uglier beneath it.
She tried to push past him but he caught her arm, and you were already moving.
“Let her go.”
The words were quiet, but they carried.
The man turned, irritation flashing across his face. “And who—”
You didn’t let him finish.
The dagger was in your hand before he could blink, drawn clean and held low, the edge catching what little light there was.
You stepped into the alley, closing the distance just enough.
“Let her go,” you repeated.
Something in your tone, flat, certain, utterly without hesitation, cut through his bravado faster than the blade itself.
He hesitated as you tilted the dagger slightly, not as a threat thrown wildly but as a promise.
Slowly, his grip loosened and the girl pulled free at once, stumbling back a step, her breath quick and uneven as she disappeared through the dark.
The man straightened, muttering something under his breath, but he was already stepping away. “Not worth it,” he said, louder now, as if to reclaim something of himself as he retreated.
You did the same, your hand settling firmly on Egg’s shoulder as you steered him back toward the keep, guiding him ahead of you without breaking stride, your other hand still resting on the hilt of your dagger.
For her, it had not been anything unusual, just another moment to be endured and forgotten, folded into the rest of them.
You knew those moments. Knew the quiet calculation, the way you learned to measure a man at a glance, to decide when to stand your ground and when to slip away. The road had taught you that much, if nothing else.
But even then, it had come in stretches. Days of open sky and empty paths, where the only danger was distance and the only sound of your own footsteps. You could go miles, days even, without seeing another soul.
Here, there was no such mercy. The danger did not come and go, instead it lingered.
It waited in doorways, in narrow alleys, in the spaces between one breath and the next. It pressed close, constant and inescapable, woven into the lives of women who had no choice but to endure it, again and again, without pause.
And unlike you, they could not simply walk away.
You could leave.
The thought returned, but it no longer sat as easily as it had before.
Because leaving would not simply mean escaping the whispers, or the watching eyes, or the quiet judgment that followed you through the keep.
It would mean turning your back on this, on people who did not have that choice.
On people who had no road to take and no quiet stretch of sky to disappear into. No choice at all.
People who could not step away when the night closed in too tight, or when a man decided they were his to corner, to claim, to wear down simply because he could.
Your jaw tightened slightly.
You had spent so long surviving by moving on, by never staying long enough for anything to take root. It had always been your strength, that you could leave when things grew too dangerous, too complicated, too heavy.
But now for the first time, it felt uncomfortably close to something else.
Not freedom but something more like abandonment.
Egg didn’t say much of the encounter aloud and neither did you. The city clung to you as you left it behind; the smells, the sounds, the faces. It followed you through the gates, through the winding corridors, all the way until the heavy stone walls closed in once more and the world narrowed back to torchlight and echoing steps.
You made sure Egg reached his chambers, and the both of you seemed relieved of the fact.
He lingered at the door a moment, as though he had something more to say.
“You’re not leaving,” he said finally.
It wasn’t quite a question, and you held his gaze for a beat.
“Get some sleep,” you said gently, reaching up to pull the hood of his cloak back from his head, the gesture soft with quiet affection.
He slipped inside, the door closing softly behind him with a muted click.
For a moment, you simply stood there in the corridor, listening as the faint sounds of movement within faded, until even that disappeared. The keep settled around you once more, stone and silence, distant footsteps echoing somewhere far off.
But it felt different now. Quieter, yes, but not empty. Not in the same way.
You turned at last, setting off down the corridor toward your own chambers, your steps quieter now, measured against the hush that had settled over the keep. Your thoughts lingered elsewhere, on Egg’s words, on the girl, and on the weight of it all, so much so that you did not hear the approaching footsteps until it was too late.
You rounded the corner and nearly walked straight into him.
You halted sharply, breath catching for the briefest moment as you stepped back.
“Your Grace—”
Prince Baelor steadied himself just as quickly, one hand lifting slightly as though to catch you, though he stopped short of touching you. The motion lingered a fraction before he let it fall.
“My lady,” he replied, his voice low, touched with mild surprise rather than reprimand.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Up close, he looked much as he always did, composed and measured, but there was more of a softness to him at this hour, something less guarded than in the light of day. He was not dressed for court, his attire simpler, though still of fine make, the weight of his station carried even in ease.
And there, beneath it all, was a quiet weariness. It showed in the slight heaviness about his eyes, in the way his shoulders held just a fraction lower than they did by day, as though the duty he carried had settled more honestly on him in the solitude of night.
“You’ve been out.” he added, studying you a moment more closely now. His gaze flicked briefly to your cloak, to the slight disarray of it, before returning to your face.
You inclined your head. “Yes.”
A small awkwardness settled in you then, unfamiliar and faintly unwelcome. It was easier to stand before him with a blade in hand than like this, searching for words that did not come as readily.
“Do you go much?” you asked. “Into the city?”
“Not as often as I should,” he admitted.
The honesty caught you off guard.
“It’s easy not to,” you said.
“It is,” he agreed.
There was no defensiveness in it. No attempt to soften the truth or turn it aside.
Your eyes met his then, and lingered. A moment too long, perhaps.
“They don’t expect anything to change,” you said after a moment. “The people there, they barely react to it,” you went on, frowning slightly. “As if… as if it’s already decided.”
Baelor watched you closely now. “That kind of life rarely allows for much expectation,” he said.
You shook your head faintly. “It shouldn’t be like that.”
“No,” he said again, quieter this time.
You hesitated, then pressed, a little more boldly. “But it could be different.” His brow lifted slightly, not dismissive, just curious.
“How?” he asked. The question came without an edge, but it still made you pause.
“There’s enough, isn’t there?” you said. “In the city. In the realm. Food, coin, resources.” Your voice steadied as you went on. “If it were… better given. Better managed.”
Baelor was quiet for a moment.
“Perhaps,” he said.
It wasn't an agreement. Not quite. You caught it.
“You don’t think so.”
“I think,” he said carefully, “that things are rarely as simple as they appear from the outside.”
A flicker of frustration touched your expression, quick and unguarded. “And from the inside?” you asked.
“More complicated,” he said, with the faintest hint of something dry.
You exhaled softly through your nose. “That sounds like an excuse.”
The words slipped out, and this time, you felt it the moment they did. The weight of them and the impropriety.
You straightened slightly. “I—” A small pause. “Forgive me. That was….”
Baelor regarded you for a moment and then, to your quiet astonishment, something softened. Something like restrained amusement flickering at the edge of his expression.
“It was honest,” he said. A beat. “And not entirely untrue.”
That eased something, just slightly. Still, you held his gaze, more careful now.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant,” he said gently.
The way he said it, without censure and without distance, made it difficult to look away, so you didn’t. Silence settled again, but it felt different now. Less fragile and more deliberate.
“It can be,” he continued. “An excuse. In the wrong hands.”
You nodded once, slower now.
A pause lingered, and then, before you could stop yourself–“When you’re king,” you said, “will it still be complicated?”
His gaze held yours, steady and unreadable for a moment longer than comfort allowed, as though he were measuring not just the question, but you.
There was no offense in it, only weight.
“When I am king,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, “it will still be complicated.”
Something in your chest sank just slightly, but he hadn’t finished.
“But that does not mean it must remain unchanged.”
You regarded each other thoughtfully then, and then without knowing quite why you said-
“I thought about leaving,”
“I’d be surprised if you hadn’t,” he replied, moving his hands to intertwine at his back.
“At first, it was because of them,” you said. “The rumours.”
Even now, you did not name them directly, but you did not need to.
Something in his expression stilled, the softness there giving way to something more intent, not anger not quite, but a quiet displeasure at something he could not openly address.
“And now?”
You hesitated.
“Now it feels… small.”
Baelor was very still now.
“I do not place people in my service lightly,” Baelor said. His voice had changed, not raised, not sharpened but steadier now, firmer beneath the quiet. “If I must answer for that,” he continued, “then I will.”
The words landed with a weight you had not expected. “That is not a burden I consider yours to carry alone.”
The words lingered between you, and then something shifted.
Not in the space, but in the quiet way he looked at you now, less prince and for a moment and more simply a man who had chosen to listen.
“If this place becomes… difficult,” he said, measured but gentler than before, “you may come to me,” he finished. “For anything.”
You stilled slightly, caught off guard by it.
Not the offer itself, but the way it was given. Without expectation and without condition.
The words were neither grand nor spoken loudly, but they settled with more weight than any promise of titles or position. And he spoke as though, for that brief space of time, nothing else in the keep demanded his attention.
“Thank you, your grace.” you said at last, though the words came quieter than you intended.
They lingered between you for a moment, soft and unguarded in a way that felt at odds with everything the keep demanded of you.
Instead, he held your gaze, and something in his expression eased, just slightly. Not the careful composure he wore by day, but something warmer, quieter. A small smile followed, unforced and fleeting, but no less real for it.
You inclined your head, if only to give yourself a reason to break the moment, and stepped past him, close enough to feel the faint warmth of him as you passed. “My prince.”
Your steps carried you down the corridor, steady now, the soft echo of them folding into the silence of the keep. Behind you, the moment settled into memory.
And this time, the weight of the night and the keep did not follow quite so closely behind.
Summary: Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.
Companion piece to:
Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.
Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.
THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.
Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you...
Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he's been keeping for almost a decade.
Whiskey, it’s always been Brendon’s drug of choice.
Some people after they lose a child lose the will to live. They throw themselves off bridges, step under trains but not Brendon. He had fallen back into old habits, numbing the pain instead with his old friend Johnnie Walker.
In the years before his son’s arrival, he’d been a functional alcoholic.
At the time he would have said the life and soul of the party.
A fuckboi, you would have called him.
If he’s honest with himself, he was a drunk outside of his work hours, scheduling his surgeries for late afternoons so he didn’t have to operate with a hangover.
He worked hard, played hard, fixing up professional athletes at a high-end sports clinic for astronomical fees. He was the best at what he did, focusing on minimally invasive techniques and fast rehabilitations. His spent his evenings in the club, his weekends at the types of parties only celebrities hear a whisper of, and his roster was filled with one-night stands he barely remembers, which incidentally was how his son Tobias was conceived.
He has absolutely no recollection of the puck bunny when she turns up at the clinic five months pregnant with his child, not until she shows him the pictures. Park the Shark, a nickname given to him by an NBA player whose fucked up ankle he fixed, was a messy son of a bitch, leaving a trail of shit that he’s spent years and thousands of dollars trying to eradicate from the internet. He demands a paternity test almost immediately and that kid… it turned out to be 100% his.
The moment he realised he was going to be someone’s father… his entire universe had been flipped upside down.
His own parents were a haphazard, shitty pair, both with addiction issues. It didn’t take a genius to see where his own had come from.
I’ll do better, he’d promised the sonagram on the fridge as his fingertips traced over the shape of his son. I’ll love you the way that I should have been loved.
He stops going to the parties, pours his booze down the sink, replaces his cravings with the gym. By the time his son is born, he’s four months sober, and rocking it.
The moment that little boy was placed in his arms, his entire life had changed. His world before Toby was closed off, dull and muted. Now it was cracking open, bursting with colour and vibrance as he stared down at the baby with his eyes and a pert, heart shaped mouth.
He ends up becoming the primary caregiver almost immediately. He half expected it when he had his lawyer draft up the custody agreement because Rowena’s interest wasn’t in how often he got to see his son, it was solely on the amount of child support she’d receive.
That was fine with Brendon. He taken the full paternity leave, doing night feeds with formula because Rowena wanted to get back on the bunny circuit. She was itching for a husband this time, and there were a couple of new rookies on the Penguins who were young, dumb and didn’t know any better.
By the time Toby is four, his mother has only seen him six times in his entire life. She vanishes the moment the kid starts to get upset at the fact a virtual stranger is trying to wrestle him into Gucci dungarees. Brendon tries to partition for full custody, but Rowena fights him on it because she wants to keep that child support money rolling in.
He manages to balance out his work schedule with an elite daycare centre near the clinic, one that focuses on interactive and immersive learning. He picks his son up on the way home, making them both dinner before a bath, story time and bed. He adores the little life they have. The nights snuggled up on the couch watching Pixar movies, the days at the park playing on the swings, the nightlight he has in his own room because Toby likes to sneak into his bed since they’ve switched from a crib to a big boy mattress.
For the first time Brendon’s heart is full…
And then he gets that phone call, the one that feels like someone has reached inside his chest and torn his god damn heart out.
There was an accident at daycare, a shoving match between two kids over a stuffed giraffe. Toby wasn’t even been involved, he’d been a bystander who’d caught an elbow, fallen back, hit his head on the corner of the table.
By the time Brendon gets to the hospital, his son is brain dead.
The only thing keeping him alive is the ventilator breathing for him.
He can’t explain the way he fractured in that moment, how the pieces of him shattered, crunching underfoot as he was faced with an impossible decision.
Turn off the ventilator and allow Toby to pass peacefully or keep him alive and watch his body start to deteriorate.
He spends two days trying to contact Rowena. The number he has for her isn’t in service, his Instagram messages go unread. There’s nothing he can do but sit in a hospital chair and watch his son wither away with every hour that goes by.
By day three he can’t take it anymore. He can’t be this cruel to the person he loves the most in this world
He signs the paperwork and holds his son’s tiny hand as he passes away in the early hours of the morning. In the aftermath he sits there, staring at an empty bed as the steely haired nurse with the gold J in his ear arranges for his son’s body to be taken to the funeral home he’d recommended.
“They’ll take very good care of him.” He promises as he talks Brendon through the process of what happens next. He’s clutching SmuSmu in his hands, a stuffed shark they’d gotten at the aquarium because Toby had heard someone call him by his nickname and thought it was hilarious. “He’s in the best possible hands.”
The earnestness in that man’s voice…
Brendon truly believes him.
It’s two days before the funeral that Rowena finally gets in touch. The things she says, they’re vicious. He takes them on the chin like the man he is until she accuses him of ending Toby’s life intentionally to hurt her, to stop those child support payments that she needs to fund her lifestyle.
He hangs up on her then, texting her the funeral updates before he delves into the bottom of a bottle. She doesn’t attend and he doesn’t expect her to.
He’s loosening the tie around his throat when he steps off the elevator after the service, and finds two cops at his door. He’s forced to explain the circumstances of his sons’ death, that his mother, who has been absent his entire life is lashing out in her grief.
It gets worse after that, phone calls, texts, social media posts. All blaming him for Toby’s passing. He blocks her on everything, spends days locked in the home he built with his son, drinking, crying, punching walls until he breaks his hand.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” His voice cracks as he tells this to Jesse, the same nurse that took care of his son. The other man is checking the IV in his arm, making sure it’s secure so that they can flush his system. He needs surgery on his hand, but his blood alcohol level is far too high to be considered anywhere near safe to go under the scalpel. “I don’t know how to live without him.”
“I’ve never lost a child, but from what I have learned from people who have… There’s no quick or easy way through it.” There’s a sadness in Jesse’s voice, one that comes with seeing far too much tragedy. Brendon gets it, the E.R, it’s not for the faint of heart. “Having support helps, we have a list of groups, I could get some of them for you?”
Brendon doesn’t speak, that emotion is welling up in his chest, his eyes stinging as he catches a glimpse of the family room across from the nurse’s station, the place where he’d been told his son was brain dead. Jesse pulls the curtain across when he catches his stare, severing the connection between the two spaces.
“Why don’t you tell me what he was like?” He offers, pulling up a chair and Brendon, he does, he tells him everything. From his son’s tinkling laugh, to the way he would shake his tiny butt to Shakira.
Jesse laughs and Brendon finds himself laughing too, then he’s crying again, apologising and that nurse… he’s the kindest man on this earth. He simply reaches over, squeezing his arm as he looks him right in the eye and says. “This is how you keep going. You remember the wonderful bright little boy he was. You keep that memory in your heart, think of it when you feel like you’re crashing out.”
And he does.
Everytime he considers picking up the bottle, he remembers Toby’s little hands leaving paint marks all over the coffee table, his voice singing Baby Shark as he pointed himself and then Brendon.
He stops drinking, hits a weekly grief meeting, quits the clinic.
He takes a job at PTMC instead, using his expertise to reattach limbs and restore mobility to folks who wouldn’t get that kind of treatment otherwise. That work… it fills his soul just a little, enough to make him feel like he’s making a difference.
After a year he moves into a new condo, one with better security because Rowena’s started up again, only this time she’s sending letters and making in person visits, screaming about what she’s owed.
“You’re looking good, better in yourself.” Jesse tells him when they run into each other in the E.R. He’s recently made the switch to PTMC after a bad break up, he also needs a change from Emergency Pediatrics,
“Yeah I am.” Brendon admits as they share a smoke together in the ambulance bay. “No one here knows…”
He doesn’t have to say anymore than that, he can see that Jesse gets it. He’s done everything he can to cultivate his reputation as a no-nonsense professional, despite the fact NBA player Marcus Brawn had swept in during a charity visit to the cancer ward and almost fucked the whole thing up for him by yelling ‘Park the Shark’ across the nurse’s station.
Unfortunately… the nickname had stuck.
It’s Jesse that he calls tonight as he’s sitting in front of that whiskey glass, itching to take that first sip. It’s him that physically pulls Brendon from the stool, who escorts him to a meeting, who calls Rowena and threatens legal action if she dares contact Brendon again.
It’s him that drops Brendon off at your apartment building, who reminds him if he’s serious about you, really fucking serious then you need to hear the truth from him before Rowena decides to blow up his life, because that woman, she’s seven shades of hateful and he does not believe for a single second that this is the end of it.
“Hi.” You say when you open the door, wearing a black t-shirt and pink pyjama shorts with ghosts on. Your hair is piled up on top of your head in a messy bun, held in place with a matching scrunchie. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”
“I know I…” He swallows hard against the lump in his throat, the one that feels like it’s about to damn near suffocate him. “I need to tell you something… it’s about me… I…”
His eyes start to burn, his heart palpitating his chest, his hands curl into trembling fists. You’re going to run he knows it, you’re going to say it’s too much, slam the door in his face and…
Your arms wrap around him instead, drawing his rigid form into the shelter of your body. He melts against you, burying his face into your hair, breathing you in. Your palms smooth over the contours of his back, rubbing light, soothing circles as he clutches you to him like a lifeline, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered on this fucked up little planet.
“It’s ok.” You say softly, your lips brushing over his cheek in a featherlight kiss. “Whatever it is you have to tell me, it’s going to be ok.”
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Summary: Seven days is far to long to go without you...
Companion piece to:
Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.
Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.
THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.
Prequel to:
Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he's been keeping for almost a decade.
It’s been seven days.
Seven days since Brendon’s had you in his bed.
Seven days since he’s actually been able to touch you.
You’d come back from that conference in Seattle and dived straight into a series of night shifts, covering for Shen while he’s on his honeymoon. Which means when Brendon’s clocking off, you’re clocking on with the exception of today because you’re working a double. All he’s seen of you throughout this entire time is a navy blue scrunchie disappearing behind a curtain as you take on yet another patient.
It’s driving him fucking crazy.
When he steps off the elevator into the E.R. it isn’t because he needs to be here. He doesn’t NEED to check in with the patient with the arm break he can fix in his sleep, the same way he doesn’t NEED to ask Mohan where the bane of his existence aka the love of his life is currently squirreled away.
Yeah, he’s decided he’s owning that now.
Seven days apart will do that to a man. It will have him questioning his sanity as he deletes all the other girls he’s fucked in the past from his phone.
Hook ups, booty calls, scrub bunnies, all of them gone.
“She said she’s gonna grab a couple of hours of shut eye in the on-call room before transitioning onto the nightshift.” Mohan tells him bewildered by his presence as he finishes up examining that break that doesn’t actually require his attention. “Enter at your own risk though, she gets super cranky when she’s woken up.”
He knows, he’s had to deal with the grumpy morning version of you whenever he heads out for the gym before six am on your days off. It’s usually pacified with pasties and the best oral sex you’ve ever had in your life, at least that’s what the complaints from the downstairs neighbour tell him.
You’ve just stripped off your scrub top when he pushes his way through the door into the on-call room. It’s not much more than a windowless room with single bed. The sheets are freshly laundered and someone, Abbot he suspects, has placed a Himalayan salt lamp on the nightstand. It casts a warm, peachy glow throughout the room, creating a soothing ambiance as you glance at him over your shoulder, clad in a black sports bra he has peeled off you many times.
You pause folding your tunic as his arms wrap around you, gathering you up close. The way you fit against him… Christ, it’s perfect. He buries his face into the curve of your throat, the tension bleeding out of his body as he breathes you in.
“You’ve missed me.” He can hear the tiredness in your voice underneath the teasing. These shifts, they’re not good for you. He wishes he could just sweep you off your feet, carry you home and have you sleep the next twelve hours away on his memory foam mattress.
“Your ass maybe.” His breath ghosts in your ear as you lean back against him. “And you know, you have great tits… Did you miss me?”
He’s trying not to be needy, to show all of his cards but it’s getting hard to keep them all in order, to not send them skittering across the table in a messy jumble of feelings.
“I missed a part of you.” You murmur, your hips fitting snuggly against the cradle of his own.
You thread your fingers through his, guiding his hand towards the waistband of your scrubs. He growls into your ear, a ferocious desperate sound as his fingers hook in the elastic, dragging them lower. He gets them halfway down your thighs before the door behind him clicks open.
“Doctor Sutton, I just need…” Whitaker’s voice falters as Brendon’s head jerks towards him, a snarl twisting at his lips.
“Get. The. Fuck. Out.” The words are almost violent, harshly punctuated as he tugs your scrubs back over your hips, covering you up from preying eyes.
“Sorry, sorry, I just-”
Brendon does not fucking care. He practically back kicks the door shut into to the R1’s face.
“Fuck.” You drawl out the word, snatching up the tunic of your scrubs from where it’s fallen onto the bed and pulling it on. “I have to go fix that. I should have known better than to-”
“No.” Brendon sighs pinching the space between his brow with his forefingers. “I shouldn’t have followed you in here, I should have just waited.”
This has the potential to be a catastrophe, not for him but for you. If this gets out that the two of you were almost fucking in the on-call room, he’ll get a slap on the wrist, and an atta boy. You… you’re looking at a suspension at least.
“I’ll talk to him. He’s a good kid, he’s not looking to blow up anyone’s spot.” You straighten your scrubs and once again Brendon can see the exhaustion in your features. You’re running yourself into the ground, burning out. It’s part of the reason he wanted to check in with you, because he knows where this leads, he’s been here before. He wanted to make sure you weren’t heading down the same path, that you were actually giving yourself time to rest. “You better head back upstairs before they start wondering where their moneymaker’s gone.”
It’s not meant to be a dig but the words, they settle like a barb underneath his skin. They’re a reminder that as important as you are to him, the two of you are in two completely different worlds when it comes to status in this hospital.
“Rae.” He says and you pause in the doorway, your hand grasping the handle. “I did miss you, you know? This wasn’t about the sex, it was about you, about wanting to see you…”
It’s important that he says that, that you know he wasn’t trying to solicit a hook up. He just wanted a moment with you, a few seconds to reconnect before he returned to a quiet empty condo later this evening.
“I know.” The edges of your mouth tip up into a fond smile. “Despite what I said it wasn’t just your dick I missed. It was you Brendon, I missed you.”
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ABSOLUTELY LOVED how you wrote pup to be the protegé of Park the Shark!! Something about him taking pride in her after he's moulded her to be the perfect Orthopod... everyone in the ED coming around to defer to her too,,, yeah I fear he'd only get more obsessed over her
( gif credits to the lovely @parktheeshark for this crisp gifset ! )
☤ ─ MIRAGE ; Park the Shark
a/n. Dynamic previously established here in this fic. Don’t worry folks this 700wc drabble is NOT the continuation of Pearls Before Swine— Just a part 1.2 to buoy the Shark frenzy rn while I work on part 2. Enjoy!
A COLLAR BONE displacement sinks you to the demersals of PTMC, much to your obvious chagrin.
“Alright,” you sigh, snapping your gloves on while sailing into Trauma-2 swiftly. A streamline path unconsciously parts open for you like water slicing through the prow of a ship. The Med Students comically shrink from you like anemone. “Let’s quickly get this over with, please?”
“Look’s like Shark’s favourite pup is in,” Garcia, brows to hairline, hums. She watches you eerily circle the gurney like Park would, shark-like; the same pensive look in your eyes as you zero in on the angry, violaceous mottle swelling right above the patient’s sternum.
“I said please, didn’t I?” you shoot lazily over your shoulder.
Robby and Garcia share a look. Half-amused, half-stunned. Enough for the bay to shift and click into place: It appears you’ve inherited a bit of Park’s notorious bite since they’ve last seen you down the ED.
“Got pulled out a once-in-a-lifetime procedure for an open scapular fracture all for a…” You straighten up from the bedside expectantly. “X-Ray, please? Thanks.”
You lean towards the machine revealing a—
“Posterior sternoclavicular displacement,” jumps in an obvious gunner, “which, presents rarely at 3% of all shoulder-related dislocations. So, kind of once-in-a-lifetime, too.”
A glacial beat drifts pass.
Beside him, Robby can see Whitaker visibly grimacing; steeling for the familiar, sharp Orthopaedic snap of, I’m not blind, to spear poor Ogilvie through like a hapless carp the same way he’d endured the humiliation from Park the Shark.
But—
A snort is all you allow; and there ends all acknowledgement of the lanky MS’s existence.
…Arguably worse.
Garcia has to bite back an unnerved laugh. Fills in the chilling silence by presenting the case as you move to palpate the unconscious patient until Robby eventually runs down the list of concerns.
Head, chest, abdomen clea… nd O2 looks good… irway patent since transport… don’t think it’s pressing up against her tra… Radial pulse has been strong and stea… hoping for a…
“Closed reduction should be possible,” you conclude, after taking one final look to reckon the dislocation on-screen of the mobile X-Ray. “But I want her sent up to CT before she wakes. It’ll be the only window we can get her flat on her back without any complaints.”
“Alright,” Robby begins—
“Uh,” cuts in Whitaker, before he can stop himself, “Will the Shark be on this, considering it’s an uncommon case?”
You suck in a sharp breath at that, unimpressed. It’s enough to suspend the bay again into quiet stillness.
“There’s always a bigger fish,” comes your curt answer. It’s not hostile at all, but subtly edged enough to feel the nip from a familiar set of jagged, serrated teeth.
It makes Whitaker wince again.
“Doctor Park,” you correct, “sent me down personally to consult this case.” You circle back round to the exit in an efficient glide once more, snapping your gloves off pointedly. “If you have a problem with that,” you make a vague, cavalier jerk of your head upwards, “take it up to the Shark.”
The Resident deflates, wide-eyed. “Oh, no, no, I just… he’s my patient— I’m just, concerned—”
“Hey. I get it,” you dismiss, as courteously as you can muster. Try to shed that bracing energy that seems to follow you and have people defer uneasily at your feet. “Go follow her up, then. And make sure the dislocation isn’t agitated into something acute enough that’ll need a signed consent trip to the OR.”
Whitaker looks to Dr. Robby for assent, who shoots an amused nod of consent in return. “Go ahead. Dr. Park sent her down— means he trusts her.”
“Thank you. And you’re welcome, bottom-dwellers,” you mock-flourish, turning on your heel and immediately out the door.
Then:
“Are all of them like that upstairs?” Ogilvie shudders, once he’s sure you’re out of earshot.
The bark of laughter Robby lets out is met in unison with Garcia’s.
“Better toughen up, kid,” she scoffs. “She said please, thank you and you’re welcome. That’s the kindest Ortho consult you might ever experience in your entire career yet.”
The next time he’d been caught in an elevator trip up with the one and only fabled Shark of Ortho, Robby couldn’t help but muse aloud, “You sent your finest the other day.”
(If Robby had noticed the way Park visibly perked up at the mention of you, however, he didn’t make it known. Files it away with the other curiosities he’s noticed between you two inside his head.)
“Scared the shit out of my poor juniors,” he continues.
Park simply hums in amusement. “Good.”
And if the tinge of uncharacteristic pride in Park’s tone isn’t enough to stun anyone into place— then the unexpected, tiny, curl of his lips in a rare flash of open affection, would.
cw: pregnant!reader, f!reader, protective!Santos, medical inaccuracies
There were very few things that threw the physicians of the ED off. After getting some of the worst cases on a regular basis, their perception of “normal” was quite skewed.
So it didn’t take more than a second for the hairs on the back of Santos’ neck to stick up the second the elevator doors slid open to reveal the infamous Dr. Park. Her fingers stilled over the keyboard, having found a few minutes in the unusual calm of the late afternoon to get some charting done.
Her eyes narrow as The Shark strides his way over in a direction everyone has unspokenly deemed as a ‘do not disturb’ zone. He was making his way right toward you, one of the newest, but best, additions to the day shift.
It’s not that you’d been an unfamiliar face, you were a regular on the night shift, having worked side by side with Abbot for years. He’d grumpily helped introduce you to the day shift one morning when he had worked a few extra hours, branding you with his seal of approval. “She’s one of the best nurses this place has ever seen. Take good care of her for us until she’s back where she belongs,” he’d stated with a straight face, though the swift squeeze on your shoulder told everyone that he genuinely meant what he said.
It hadn’t take long for them to really see what he meant. You were effectively given the perfect opportunity to prove yourself on your first shift, handling back to back MVCs after a pileup without breaking a sweat. You were just as competent if not more competent than even some of the residents, quick on your feet, adaptable in a crisis, and an efficient nurse. Everyone who worked in the department was good, but you were one of the best. And you did it all with ease, always smiling brightly afterward like the cases never phased you.
It took even less time for them to learn why the night shift had been so forlorn about losing you. You were a genuine voice of encouragement when they needed it, a calm voice of reason in stressful moments, a reassuring face when the mood was down, and a sense of tranquility when it got rough. And it also helped that you were always prepared with a granola bar when they got hangry and homemade treats every Friday to boost morale. There was nothing you couldn’t do.
Except now.
You’d joined the day shift a few months back and over the weeks it became apparent why you’d switched. Your excuse had been a light and nonchalant, “my husband and I agreed night shift wouldn’t work for a while.” More directly, you were pregnant. Through the weeks, your bump had steadily grown. Now, you were into your final trimester and more protected than any royal on the face of the planet.
You’d been demoted put in charge of taking calls and filling out charts from the comfort of a fancy lumbar support chair and straightforward triage cases when you got antsy. And that was only because you refused to take your leave until you were ready to give birth. They’d all but begged you to take your time off and enjoy the calmness of being home, but you refused with a nonchalant wave of your hand and a playful roll of your eyes.
Which is exactly why Santos was quick to attempt an interception with the orthopedic surgeon with a cold, “we didn’t call for an ortho consult.”
Dr. Park didn’t even spare her a glance, “I’m not here for any of you.”
Her jaw tightened, watching as he stopped in front of you and braced his arms on the counter above you. She was on the defense, pretending not to listen while now pretending to chart. She needed to be ready to jump to your protection, she wasn’t going to leave you vulnerable to Park’s attacks. She’d only worked with him a couple times, but even those few times were enough to learn that you didn’t deserve any of his usual wrath.
She wracked her brain to try to recall if you’d been on any cases that required any contact with Dr. Park. She couldn’t think of any. For weeks now, you’d been either behind a desk or out in triage handling nothing but the easy cases to keep you away from any heavy lifting or potentially aggressive patients. What could you, the very definition of angel on earth, have possibly have done from your lumbar supportive throne?
“Hey, gorgeous,” Park greeted you in a low voice, drawing your attention away from the screen with the straw of your tumbler between your lips.
“Well, well, well, how nice of you to grace us plebes with your presence, Dr. Park,” you teased, an amused smile spreading across your lips.
Santos huffed under her breath, annoyed that her position meant she could hardly hear you. How was she meant to come to your rescue if she didn’t even know what was being said? She signed off quickly and moved over to the rack that held all the tablets under the pretense of organizing them.
“What are your plans for dinner tonight?” Trinity hears the surgeon ask you, causing the resident to bite her lip and draw in a sharp breath. This interaction is the last thing she was expecting. Not only are you obviously pregnant, you’re also obviously married. That boulder on your finger is hardly subtle and hey, she might not know anything about your husband, but she at least knows he exists. This guy is… shameless!
“I don’t have anything confirmed just yet,” you reply with a sweet smile before you reach out to hand a clipboard to a passing Perlah, “I think my husband is finally going to order the Italian I’ve been craving for weeks now.”
Trinity fist pumps in her mind. Hell yeah, way to make it clear that you’re taken, happily married, and duh, not interested in Dr. Park anyway. She holds back a scoff at the obvious display of male bravado. What, he thinks just because he’s some hot shot ortho that women will drop whatever they’re doing for him? Cheat on their husbands? Ruin their marriages? For him? Gross.
The corners of his lips imperceptibly twitch upward, “how about I make us a well-balanced dinner instead? Fresh salad with lots of iron, nice grilled protein, roasted veggies, and that fancy lemonade I know you like.”
“My idea sounds better,” you smile sarcastically in response, eyes sparkling with delight.
Park exhales with a shake of his head, “you know what your playing hard to get does to me.”
Trinity bites back a gag, deciding it’s time to step in. Not only is he clearly incapable of reading social cues, he’s violating definitely violating a handful of HR policies, and just killing the vibe of the ED. She steps forward, voice steady, “she’s saying no.”
Yet again, she’s not even graced with eye contact as he replies, “not talking to you, R2.”
“You don’t have to be talking to me. I’m sure you’re in violation of plenty hospital HR policies right now and Angel is just tying to be nice. Just run along to your OR and leave us be,” Trinity reiterates as she steps closer with her arms crossed, Ahmed’s name on the tip of her tongue if Park decides to give her a tough time.
Your giggle throws her off for just a second as Park rolls his shoulders with a breathy groan, “HR doesn't need to get involved when the woman I’m flirting with is my wife.”
Her eyes widen as her breath catches in her throat, “your wife?”
“Six years in October,” you confirm gently.
Both of them are quick to rush to your side as you stand from the chair to reach for a tablet, though you’re quick to swat them away in favor of giving Trinity a warm squeeze on the arm, “I promise he’s not bothering me and I’m sorry for making you think you had to protect me. He thinks the flirting still works on me.”
“It does,” Brendon grunts, lifting your tumbler in your direction the second you begin to reach for it.
You roll your eyes, “I’ll find you sexy again when you buy me my damn pizza and pasta or when I’m completely healed from birthing your giant baby.”
“Pizza and pasta are not a balanced—” he starts.
You lower yourself back into your chair, welcoming Trinity’s help while smacking away the hands of your husband. “You’ve never been less sexy to me, Brendon. Get the hell out of here before I find you case to work on,” you threaten with a hand splayed over the apex of your bump.
He’s quick to glance at the board, “there’s nothing for me down here.”
“Goodbye, Brendon!” You bid as you lean back in your chair with a raise of your brows.
“Fine, I’ll get you your Italian tonight,” he grunts, “I also came down to give you your vitamins that you forgot on the counter and your favorite trail mix. I love you.”
You gratefully accept the snack, swallowing your vitamins quickly to prevent him from nagging you any further. “Thank you, my love. I love you too, now go before you scare anymore of my residents. Whitaker’s been hiding out in peds with a colicky baby since you got down here,” you wave off.
Park’s spine straightens, reverting to his usual macho persona, though you recognize the warmth in his eyes as he steps away from the nurse’s station. “I’ll come down for you when our shifts are done. Don’t even think about leaving this building alone,” he warns before turning on his heel to make his way back to the elevator.
“Don’t let her leave alone,” he instructs Santos with a cold glare, before nodding once at you, a silent ‘I love you,’ before the elevator doors slide shut.
“Don’t listen to him,” you reassure Trinity with a light smile, “I’m a big girl. I can handle making my way to the car just fine. He won’t do anything to you. Especially because he knows you’re one of my favorites and he knows better than to piss me off this far into carrying his big-headed spawn.”
Trinity nods with a pleased smile, "I like this sassy side of you, Angel."
You let out a bright laugh, "what can I say? My husband brings it out of me."
You know this because the clock on the vitals monitor is directly in your line of sight, and you’ve been keeping track of the minutes while tracking the patient’s vitals- numbers ticking over in the periphery of your attention while the rest of your brain tries to keep your hands from shaking.
Fourteen hours. You’ve been on for fourteen hours. The last thing you ate was half a protein bar at six am that tasted like shit, washed down with burnt coffee from the break room pot that nobody’s cleaned since before you started this rotation. There’s a tremor in your left hand that you’ve been hiding by keeping it pressed flat against your thigh whenever you’re not actively doing something with it. The skin around your fingernails is ragged where you’ve been picking at it- a habit you thought you’d kicked in undergrad, resurrected now by the particular misery of being the stupidest person in every room you walk into for twelve weeks straight.
And Park is still ranting
It’s the sutures. It’s always the sutures, or the charting, or the way you positioned the drape, or the fact that you apparently hesitated for a quarter of a second too long before calling out a dosage. Today it’s the sutures. Something about your tension. Something about spacing. His voice has that cadence it gets when he’s not actually teaching anymore, when the correction has already been made and absorbed but he’s still going because he likes the sound of his own authority filling a room. It rolls out of him, low and unhurried, the kind of voice that doesn’t need volume because it knows no one in a thirty foot radius would dare interrupt it.
Your eyes sting. Not from crying; you’re so far past crying that the thought of it feels almost quaint, a luxury for people who slept more than three hours last night. They sting because you haven’t blinked in too long, because the fluorescents in this room have that particular institutional flicker that you can’t quite see but can absolutely feel, a faint buzzing pressure behind your orbital bones that’s been building since noon.
"- and if you’re going to work in my department, you need to understand that I’m not going to hold your hand through basic -”
“Oh my god, shut the fuck up.”
The words don’t feel like yours.
That’s the first thing. They don’t feel like something you decided to say. They feel like something that fell out of you, dislodged by exhaustion, the thing holding it in place quietly giving up. Your voice doesn’t even sound right. It’s flat, toneless, the weight of someone who genuinely, completely meant it.
The room changes.
It’s not silence- the monitors are still going, the ventilator still pushing rhythmic air through tubing, the IV pump clicking through its programmed drip rate. But the human layer of the room, the subtle living soundscape of people breathing and shifting and existing in proximity to each other... that just stops.
You feel it before you understand it. A stillness that presses against the outer edges of your awareness like a change in barometric pressure.
Then your brain catches up.
First, the echo of your own voice playing back to you on a half second delay, the consonants sharper than you expected, the fuck landing with a hard, percussive weight that seems to bounce off the tile and come back louder. Then the context: the room, the hierarchy, the badge clipped to Park’s scrubs with ATTENDING PHYSICIAN printed beneath his name. Then the realization. The simple, devastating realization of what you just did.
You are an intern.
Twenty six years old. Four months into your emergency medicine residency. You do not yet have the authority to order a meal from the cafeteria without someone double checking it. You have told a senior attending- the senior attending, the one the other attendings don’t even argue with- to shut the fuck up.
In front of people.
Your peripheral vision starts feeding you information you don’t want. Robby, to your left, has shifted his weight backward. Not a full step. Just a transfer of gravity from the balls of his feet to his heels, a subtle rocking away from you that his body chose before his conscious mind caught up. Whitaker has dropped his gaze to his hands, looking at his own fingers like he’s never seen them before, studying them with the rapt, deliberate focus. Behind you Princess has stopped writing. The pen isn’t moving. The soft scratch of ballpoint on paper that’s been a constant background noise for the last hour is just gone.
Nobody is going to save you.
The thought arrives with a nauseating clarity. There is no version of the next thirty seconds in which one of your co-interns steps forward and makes a joke to cut the tension or offers some plausible reinterpretation of what just happened. You are alone in this like a dream where you’ve shown up somewhere without clothes, exposed and and suddenly aware that every exit is very, very far away.
Your pulse is doing something it shouldn’t. You can feel it in your throat, your wrists, the soft dip behind your ears. A rapid, threadlike fluttering that you’d flag as tachycardic if it belonged to someone else. Your mouth has gone dry, tongue too thick, too present, a useless slab of muscle sitting behind your teeth with nothing helpful to contribute.
Apologize.
The word surfaces like an air bubble, wobbly and urgent.
Apologize right now. Open your mouth. Say Dr. Park, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what- say something, say literally anything, you have a medical degree, you passed boards, you are a person who is capable of organizing words into sentences that-
Your eyes lift.
You don’t decide to look at him. It’s closer to compulsion, the same instinct that makes you look toward a sound you didn’t expect, your body orienting itself toward the source of the danger before your higher brain can intervene.
Park hasn’t moved.
He’s in the same position he was in thirty seconds ago, shoulder against the supply cabinet, arms folded across his chest, one ankle crossed over the other. The posture of a man who was mid-lecture and simply… stopped. His mouth is closed. The steady, unbroken stream of correction that’s been filling this room for the better part of ten minutes has ceased completely, and in its absence his jaw is set, his lips pressed together tight, like he’s keeping something behind it.
His eyes pin you to the floor.
They’re on you. They’re only on you. Not scanning the room for the reactions of the other interns, not cutting toward the door, not doing any of the things you’d expect from a man whose authority was just challenged in front of others. He is looking at you with a fixed, undivided attention that feels less like being seen and more like being ripped apart from the inside, read down to the last molecule.
His expression is... you don’t have a word for it. His brows are level, not raised in surprise or drawn together in anger. There is no visible tension in his forehead, no flare to his nostrils, no whitening around the corners of his mouth. The set of his face is almost neutral, would pass for neutral, except for something happening in the space between his eyes and his mouth that doesn’t match. Something you keep trying to categorize and failing because it doesn’t fit any of the reactions you braced for. Not fury. Not cold professional disapproval. Not the performative disappointment of a superior preparing to make an example of you.
He looks like someone just set something down in front of him that he didn’t order but has every intention of keeping.
Your stomach drops about six inches.
It drops because you recognize that look. Not from Park, not from this context, but from somewhere older and less clinical, somewhere your hindbrain catalogued and filed away under a category you absolutely cannot be accessing right now, standing in an exam room in your scrubs with your career in a shallow grave at your feet.
The air conditioning kicks on overhead, a low mechanical shudder that moves through the vents and stirs the hem of the curtain partition to your right. Someone’s pager goes off down the hall, muffled through the closed door, two short bursts and then nothing.
Park still hasn’t said a word.
He’s watching you the way you’ve seen him watch a complicated case- that particular narrowing of focus, that quality of stillness that means the gears are turning somewhere behind his expression, that means he’s already three steps ahead and you just became the most interesting problem in the room.
His chin dips. Just barely. A fractional tilt downward that changes the angle of his gaze, sends it through his lashes instead of over them, and the difference that makes is something you feel in the backs of your knees.
Your mouth is still open. You haven’t apologized. You haven’t said anything at all. The silence has gone on long enough now to calcify into something that feels almost agreed upon, a held breath between two people who both know what just shifted and neither one has decided what to do about it yet.
Somewhere behind you, Robby clears his throat and murmurs something about checking on a patient in Bay 4. Whitaker rushes to join him. The door opens. The door closes.
Park’s mouth changes.
It’s not a smile. It’s barely even movement. Just the faintest asymmetric pull at one corner, a shift in his expression so subtle that if you weren’t staring directly at it- and you are, god help you, you absolutely are- you would have missed it entirely.
Your brain is still trying to apologize. You can feel the words piled up somewhere behind your soft palate, a traffic jam of I’m so sorry and I didn’t mean and please don’t report this, but none of them are making it to your mouth because your mouth is busy doing nothing. Your lips are parted about a centimeter. You’re breathing through them because at some point in the last forty five seconds your nose stopped being sufficient, your body rerouting to the faster intake the way it does when you’re afraid, when your hindbrain has identified a threat and started allocating resources accordingly.
The problem is that your hindbrain and your forebrain are in violent disagreement about the nature of the threat.
Your forebrain says: career. You’re thinking about your career. The program director. The evaluation that Park files at the end of this rotation. The letter in your file that will follow you to every fellowship application, every attending position, every hospital that ever Googles your name.
Your hindbrain says something much less articulable and significantly more inconvenient.
Park takes a step forward.
Not toward the door. Not toward the computer, or the supply cabinet, or any of the dozen professional destinations that would make this a normal post lecture movement of a senior physician continuing with his day.
Toward you.
It’s one step. A single, unhurried shift of weight that puts him maybe three feet closer than he was, which means he’s now close enough that you can see the specific weave of his scrub top, the way the fabric pulls differently across his shoulders than it does across the plane of his chest, the slow and even rise of his breathing. He’s not winded. He’s not tense. His respiratory rate hasn’t changed at all, and you hate yourself for noticing that, hate yourself for the clinical part of your brain that’s catches that like he’s a patient instead of the man who holds your professional future in his hands and is currently standing close enough that you can see the flecks of amber in his irises that the fluorescents keep catching.
The room feels like it’s shrinking. Not metaphorically; you know it’s not actually shrinking, you’re not psychotic, you haven’t lost your grip on the material dimensions of an eight-by-twelve exam room, but something about the air quality has changed. It feels thicker. Closer. Like the ventilation system decided to shut down at the exact worst moment, leaving you to breathe the same recycled air that he’s breathing, the same molecules passing back and forth between you in a loop that feels more intimate than it has any right to.
Princess leaves.
You don’t see her go, but you hear it, the soft lick of the door latch, the brief rush of hallway noise that floods in through the gap and then seals shut again, the retreating squeak of shoes on linoleum fading into the mid distance. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t make an excuse. She just left, which means she either read the room and decided she wanted no part of it, or she read the room and decided you needed no audience for whatever is about to happen to you.
You’re alone with him.
The realization seeps in, cold and slow, like water filling a basement. It rises around your ankles first, the awareness that the door is closed, that the hallway noise is gone, that the only breathing you can hear besides your own is his. Then it’s at your knees, your waist, your chest, and by the time it reaches your throat you understand with a complete, full body certainty that whatever is happening right now is not what you thought was happening thirty seconds ago.
Park tilts his head.
It’s a small movement. The kind a dog makes when it hears a frequency it can’t quite identify: curious, alert, the whole body orienting around a single point of interest. But there’s nothing canine about the way he’s looking at you. Dogs tilt their heads because they’re confused. Park tilts his head because he’s decided something and he wants to see you from a slightly different angle while he enjoys it.
“Fourteen hours,” he says.
His voice is different. You can’t identify what changed. The pitch is the same, the register is the same, the vowels still carry that particular unhurried precision that makes everything he says sound like a bastard. But there’s a texture to it that wasn’t there during the lecture. Something underneath the words, packed into the consonants, something that makes the back of your neck prickle the way it does when you walk into your apartment and feel certain someone else was just in it.
You swallow. You feel your throat click with the effort. “What?”
“Fourteen hours on your feet. Four months into the hardest rotation of your first year. Running on what, coffee and adrenaline? Maybe some spite.” He pauses. His gaze moves down your face in increments. Your forehead. The bridge of your nose. Your mouth. He stays on your mouth for a beat that lasts about a half second longer than clinical assessment would require. “And that’s what comes out.”
You can’t tell if it’s a question.
Your hands are shaking again. You gave up pressing them against your thighs sometime in the last minute and now they’re just hanging at your sides, trembling faintly in a way that you’re desperately hoping he can’t see but almost certainly can because Park doesn’t miss things. That’s the whole problem with him. That’s always been the whole problem with him. He catches the suture tension that’s off by a degree, the half second hesitation, the pulse that’s running eight beats faster than it should. He is a man who is professionally trained to notice the things your body does before you’re aware of them, and right now your body is doing several things you’d prefer to remain unaware of.
“Dr. Park-” you start, and his expression shifts.
Shifts. Not changes. There’s a difference. A change would be readable. A change would give you something to work with, anger you could apologize to, disappointment you could grovel through, cold professionalism you could match with your own until the moment passed and you could go have a cardiac event in the supply closet like a normal person with dignity. But this isn’t a change. It’s a shift, tectonic and internal, something rearranging behind the surface that you can only detect by its effects on the landscape of his face.
His eyes narrow, lids dropping maybe a millimeter, just enough to change the structure of his gaze, and the look that comes through that narrower aperture is... focused isn’t the right word. Focused implies effort. This is something past focus. Something that has settled into its attention the way a thing settles into still water, disturbing nothing, displacing everything.
He looks at you like he’s already taken you apart and is now considering the order in which he’d like to do it again.
His tongue touches the inside of his lower lip. You see the movement through the skin, a brief, subtle pressure that reshapes his mouth for less than a second before it’s gone. It’s nothing. It’s a unconscious gesture, a self soothing tic, the kind of thing people do a hundred times a day without thinking.
It doesn’t look unconscious.
“Dr. Park, I’m- ”
“Don’t.”
One word. Quiet. Not sharp, not cutting, not delivered with the clipped authority he uses on the floor when a resident is about to make a mistake. This is softer than that. Lower. It comes from somewhere deeper in his chest, and the sound of it lands at the base of your spine and sits there, warm and heavy and refusing to move.
“Don’t apologize,” he says, and then he smiles.
It’s barely a smile. It wouldn’t register as one in a photograph, wouldn’t survive the flattening of a two dimensional image. You’d need to be standing exactly where you’re standing, this close, in this light, in this airless little room to catch the way the corner of his mouth lifts. To see the way it pulls something taut across the planes of his face, reshapes the hollows beneath his cheekbones, turns the set of his jaw from something authoritative into something predatory.
It is, you realize with a clarity that goes all the way to the marrow, the expression of a man who has been waiting for something he’s very much looking forward to ruining.
The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
It doesn’t need to. His eyes are doing something far worse- they’re warm. Not kind warm. Not reassuring warm. Warm the way a hand on the back of your neck is warm right before the fingers tighten. Warm the way a voice goes warm when it drops into the register it only uses behind closed doors. There is a heat in the way he’s looking at you that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with appetite, and it is so profoundly, catastrophically different from anything you prepared for when you walked into this hospital fourteen hours ago that your brain simply stops trying to process it and hands the reins to something older and less rational.
Your body knows what this is.
Your body has known since his chin dipped, since the first pull of his mouth, since he hasn't stopped looking at you. Your body has been screaming the answer at your prefrontal cortex for the better part of two minutes and your prefrontal cortex has been politely declining the call because accepting it would require you to reconcile the clinical reality of your attending physician with the man who is currently looking at you like he intends to take his time.
Park reaches past you.
His arm extends to your right, his hand landing flat on the counter behind you, and for one vertiginous, blood loud second you think he’s reaching for you, caging you in, and every nerve ending you have lights up simultaneously. But he’s not. His fingers close around the chart Princess was writing in before all of this happened: your chart, your patient, the one with the sutures he was critiquing when you decided to set fire to your entire professional trajectory.
He picks it up. He looks at it. He looks back at you.
“Fix your tension,” he says. Same low register. Same impossible warmth. “Then come find me.”
He holds the chart out between you.
You take it. Your fingers brush his. The contact lasts less than a second, barely qualifies as touch, just the drag of his knuckle against the pad of your index finger as the chart changes hands. He doesn’t pull away quickly. He lets the contact happen, lets it register, lets you feel exactly how steady his hands are compared to yours.
Then he turns and walks to the door, and you watch him go because you can’t do anything else, because every voluntary muscle in your body has been temporarily requisitioned by the part of your brain that’s still processing the afterimage of his smile.
He pauses with his hand on the door. Half turns. Looks back at you over his shoulder with an expression you’ll be replaying at two in the morning for reasons you refuse to examine.
“And intern?”
You can’t speak. You manage something- a breath, a sound, a squeak, something that exists in the neighborhood of acknowledgment.
The warmth in his eyes sharpens into something with an edge, something that gleams.
“Get some sleep,” he says. “You’re going to need it.”
The door closes behind him.
You stand there, chart in your hands, pulse in your teeth, the ghost of his knuckle still burning along the length of your finger.
The ventilator cycles. The IV pump clicks. Down the hall, someone pages radiology.
Park the Shark x overprotective trope... i just wanna see him flash his teeth at a patient for being combative with y/n. 'Nobody can bully her except me' shtick hhhnnnggg
( gif credits to the lovely @parktheeshark for this crisp gifset ! )
☤ ─ PEARLS BEFORE SWINE
summ. Ortho is paged to the ED. Park the Shark fortifies his fierce reputation.
pairing. brendon 'shark' park / f!resident!Reader
w.count. 2.5k!
a/n. Implied power-imbalance , corrupted mentor/mentee dynamic if you squint , an annoying amount of eldritch maritime motifs . Apologies if Shark is ooc here given he had like 3 minutes of total screentime— I hope y'all enjoy nonetheless! & Thank you @lumissandbox for beta-reading this shipwreck of an imagine 🥀
UNCANNILY SHARP MOLARS are a common sight when Dr. Park snarls out and berates hapless surgical interns amid long procedures.
Anyone who’s ever worked with him— let alone heard of him, is aware of Park the Shark, who’s come around to be some cautionary, fantastical fable.
A mythological creature of PTMC’s Orthopaedics Department— some beastly, thalassic leviathan— who’s all jagged rows of endless teeth and killer instinct; Made out to be a divine, merciless warden of the sea responsible for piecing together centuries old bones buried five fathoms deep into bedrock.
A virtuoso of his field who you owe your knowledge to. Who’d taught you the fearlessness common of surgeons, but also instilled in you the fear of failure that’s needed to temper it.
What is it that Garcia and Walsh like to call you residents under his wing (or fin—), again?
Shark pups.
Left to fend for yourselves most of the time. Sink or swim. A dogfight of devouring each other alive in a desperate attempt to keep your head above water; to make it through this riptide of a Residency and be the best of the best.
Park the Shark stands on a mantlepiece of his own making. A faultless reputation sharp enough to cut, and the stringent attitude to match that’s a given considering his medical prowess and achievements. The other juniors— aw, these your shark pups, Park?— tenderfoot and wet behind the ears, worship the ground he walks on like suck-up remoras.
You admire him, yes. But most of the time you just… try to get by. Keep your head down and stay out of his way.
(Not that you never advocated for yourself, that is. Being a woman in a particularly male-dominated specialty has only drilled into you an extra layer of thick-skin from criticism and inherent misogyny. You don’t fawn to the quote-unquote Ortho-bros, and have enough clever sense to know when to be candid without crossing the line.)
Perhaps that’s why he’d quickly clamped his jaws around you.
Always seen as the ‘favourite’; the ‘Prodigal Daughter/Mentee’, even if it never remotely feels like you’re worth any of Park’s precious time.
Resentful, the other Residents eventually came to the conclusion that competition starts with you:
Always the one personally selected to assist in Park’s odd cases, always the one his shark-like gaze searches for first in a crowd, always the one getting teeth sunken into and then humiliatingly chewed out for the smallest, mindless things because You’re supposed to be the competent one out of all the others, for fuck’s sake.
They spin yarns of boyish rumors. Call you names that stick. Sharkbait, Catch, when they’re feeling particularly bitter. Or the Jewel of the Sea; Park’s prized (Mother-of-)Pearl, when they’re feeling particularly childish.
It’s fine. You can ignore those, and let your work do the talking. Besides, they never do address you that way around Dr. Park, anymore— not after he’d nearly bitten the head off of one of the R3’s after he’d overheard you openly be called Chum-dump in passing.
(“The fuck did you just say?”
“Uh… Nothing. I— It won't happen again. Sorry, Dr. Park.”
“The hell you apologising to me for and not her?”)
You tell yourself it’s just because Park doesn’t want to be associated with the likes of you; that it’s nothing to do with him being chivalrous— he’s just being professional. Doing his due duty as your Senior Attending to browbeat workplace misconduct.
(Don’t think too much of it. He doesn’t care. You’re not of value to him in any way you think.
How does the saying go? Never cast pearls before swine—)
You wonder if he’s aware of how much his implicit bias has you isolated in an already isolating field for a woman. A target on your back. How his apparent unspoken ambition for you and your capabilities alone have become somewhat of an albatross around your neck.
You’ve done the work to get here, you remember him muttering mid-procedure once. I might make a surgeon out of you yet.
Park is utilitarian; he doesn’t waste time on petty endeavours— he couldn’t possibly be doing it on purpose, could he? To keep you orbiting close to him whether you like it or not, lonely from the ostracism you receive from your fellow peers, all for the sake of imparting in you what’s best. Deliberately exploiting his influence into favouritism so you rely on him and only him for company; starved for kinship.
None of which he ever gives you, either way.
Just his stoic, brooding silence. A single hum of assent or curt nod when you answer his questions flawlessly during one of his rare moods of actual teaching (“Hm. You’ll close after I’m done, pup.”); Or his lingering presence over your shoulder in the breakroom when you’re brewing a fresh pot of coffee, shoulders brushing (“I take it black.”).
Feels more like bait, really. Dangling right in front of you; waiting for you to take the bite.
Or have you already bitten?
“ED’s paging. You don’t need me in here,” Park declares, over a traumatic pelvic crush injury slowly coming to its end. He nods to the surgeons in Vascular when they say they’ll finish up the rest of the procedure, and jerks his head at you to degown. “You. With me.”
The elevator sinks both of you all the way down to the bottom-dwellers. Emergency Medicine: a never-ending bustle of nervous energy and raucous commotion of sounds that grates at Park’s ears. When he sails into Trauma Bay 2 with you tailed close behind, medical staff part for him like the Red Sea; shoal of fish dispersing from an apex predator.
Robby greets him calmly despite the patient groaning his lungs out. Garcia is already rattling off an efficient presentation. …Crush injury to foot and ank… Compartment syndro… torn between salvaging the limb t… what do you think?
Meanwhile, a pair of impressionable Med Students observe, rapt, as you glove up and curiously round the writhing patient in the exact same way Dr. Park does— an unconscious habit you’ve picked up from him; circling calculatingly like a shark sniffing out blood in the water. (Do you hear that? quietly nudges one of the Residents, the JAWS theme?)
They watch as you shadow Park, comically insignificant against the hulking brawn of him, scrutinising the X-Ray of the patient’s shattered foot. It’s a unique case, alright: a complex multiple fracture of practically every bone in his foot up to his ankle from a freak accident.
Even Park reacts with a tiny, impressed snort that only you manage to catch by chance proximity.
“Give me something for the fucking pain already!” a voice lashes out, synchronising you and Park into sparing a narrow glance up from the bedside of the patient’s gurney.
“Mr. Aldrich, we’ve already given you more pain meds after the regional block,” soothes one of the ER nurses, “the ketamine will take a minute to kick in—”
“Screw you nurses!” he hisses, thrashing his head pointedly at you as he squirms in place. “Get me a real doctor!”
“You’ve got multiple in one room here to help you, Sir,” Garcia overrides, humorously, “take your pick.”
An exasperated growl. “Fucking, I don’t know, a bone doctor?!”
“Good news! You’ve got Orthopaedics to your left,” she gestures, shooting you an amused look.
Mr. Aldrich glares harshly at you. “Well? Move, bitch, and let me talk to the big guy behind you.”
Across the bay, Robby doesn’t get to snap at the verbal harassment in time. No, it’s—
—Dr. Park, pinning his tenebrous gaze at the patient as he cocks his head ominously.
“You’re gonna wanna speak respectfully to the ‘bone doctors’ responsible for getting you back on your feet, Sir,” he drawls, sangfroid as always before returning his attention completely to Robby.
(You don’t try to pick apart the notable undercurrent of… something in his tone. Chalk it off as non-negotiable decorum. If it isn’t Dr. Park who’d have said something, you’re sure someone else would have.)
Hell of a fracture, you ignore the patient, running a mental map of the potential procedures it’d take and what the prognosis would look like. Dr. Park busies himself with more details regarding the injury: mechanism, labs, drugs. Pokes and prods clinically at the patient’s numbed foot.
“We’re gonna need your consent, Sir,” comes everyone’s eventual finalised conclusion, where you keep your tone as calm as possible in a bid to deescalate the tension, “before we get you prepped for surgery.”
“You better fucking make sure I walk again,” he seethes. “My legs are my livelihood, you know that? Do you know who I am?”
“Mr. Aldrich,” you answer, patiently. “I’m taking that as a yes?”
“Oh, you think you’re fucking funny, do you—?”
An iron-grip stops the patient’s forearm short well before you even register it:
A swing at you. An attempt to snatch at you from the bedside to drag you like an undertow.
Sharks are a predatory species born with sixth sense. An innate electroreception that helps them zero in on the most sensitive of muscle movements within close-range. Top of the food chain. Evolutionarily driven by pure, lethal instinct leading them to their prey.
You wonder, idly, if Dr. Park has it too—
Bloodlust. Untamed animalism prowling somewhere behind his hunter eyes. His scrub sleeves are pulled tight from the flex of his biceps, tension of corded muscles in his forearms taut with brutal force from where he’s canceled out the threat in a whipcrack of a second: shackling the patient’s wrist effortlessly in a dizzyingly lightning-quick reflex.
Your heart stutters at the scene.
“Go on,” Park dares, voice glacially cold and sea-pelagic dark. “Take a swipe at my resident again, and I will break each and every single bone in your hand before resetting all 27 pieces of it back together.”
A beat.
You’d have been able to hear a pin drop in the trauma bay, somehow, from how suspended everything feels.
Akin to witnessing an abyssal leviathan come to breach ashore after being provoked.
It makes something treacherous take flight in your chest.
That for as much as a supercilious asshole Park is sometimes, he still keeps a controlled, watchful eye on those in his wake as a mentor. Utilises that intimidating, ubiquitous command of presence he carries to his unfair advantage when things go leeways into dangerous waters.
It’s not heart, per se. But it’s certainly something rare. Some abstract, omnipresent patina of his that surrounds your being like a levee and safely harbours you. Shoreline rock armour, almost: Feeling like the broad, muscled stonewall that is Dr. Park has become your own living, breathing, metaphorical breakwater.
You find yourself foolishly replaying his words like a broken record in your head.
My resident.
The patient visibly deflates, snatching his weak arm free from Park’s vice-like clutch as he rears back and loses all bravado. “I consent to the surgery,” he grits out, still turning his nose up against everybody. “After that I’ll sue all of you assholes for— for harassment. And you! For threatening me.”
Robby and Garcia bite back a laugh at the irony.
“Looking forward to it,” Park sneers, aggressively snapping his gloves off. He turns back to you and, uncharacteristically, nods at you to sidle past first and make headway towards the exit. “I’ll book an OR.”
Thanks, Shark, Robby calls out, gaze flickering curiously between you two before it lands as a side-eye to Garcia— who also seems to be trying to decipher something nameless as Park hovers close behind you.
The entire ordeal leaves a buzz under your skin.
My resident, you repeat again. His chum. His catch. His coveted pearl; his favourite pup—
The words are muffled in your memory. Underwater. The flash of canine-sharp teeth as he bit the threat out, cavalier, deceivingly calm. The unbidden warmth of safety blooming in your ribcage after he’d put himself between you and danger, and you’d essentially been tucked protectively behind the fabled Shark of PTMC’s Orthopaedics.
You should neither be allured nor girlishly thrilled at the idea of Park showing any semblance of anger at your behest— you’re in a hospital, for christ’s sake, not the cold open of a romance novel— But who doesn’t like to be defended at times? Let alone by the most notoriously unsympathetic surgeon you’ve ever come to know yet?
“Thank you,” you muster the courage, once both of you are taking the silent ride back up to the Ortho-wards, “for earlier.”
He scoffs. It’s delivered, surprisingly, with less bite than you steeled yourself for.
“How about you keep your head on a swivel,” he advises pointedly, glaring down at you with disapproval. “Should’ve just let him grab you. Might’ve learned a lesson or two.”
But you’ve worked alongside him long enough to catch the minutest of tidal shifts in his callous voice— an antsiness; the faux-calm of doldrums out at sea. Something hadal in you knows that had the patient actually managed to snatch you in that riptide grip of his, Park would have ensured the man left the hospital with no functioning hands at all.
Or perhaps it’s just a delusion. Feverish calenture. A self-indulgent desire to have secretly collared the terrifying Park the Shark to be your own proverbial seadog:
Bristling and snapping his serrated teeth at anyone that got too close; orbiting you like a predator possessively guarding their own claimed territory. Exclusively yours.
(“Only I get to call you pup,” he’d said, once upon a time. Out of context, it makes your head reel every time you recall it.)
“Yeah. Sorry,” you say, pathetically. A force of habit; defaulting into deference.
Only—
“Are you?” he narrows, shrewdly.
It feels like something’s buried itself right into its target. Harpoon to a siren’s heart.
“I—I…” you blink. Stumble your words. No, comes the candid instinct. You think of how he’d stepped in, how he’d handled the danger; All for you. I liked it.
“Don’t get used to me playing nice,” he continues at last, looking damningly straight into your soul.
It lights your body aflame. Feel a rush to your cheeks at the unintended (perhaps?) implication of his words. “That’s your nice, Dr. Park?”
The elevator dings through the charged air. He turns back forward lazily.
“For you,” he grunts dismissively. “Yeah.”
You blink. The doors slide open.
Park the Shark stalks off, and you don’t get to answer.
A/N: Part two in the ModernAU AKOTSK based off this post. I am so so excited by the amount of people that enjoyed this and will work on a masterlist and maaaaybe a moodboard (more chances with a spotify playlist tbh). As usual, if anybody wants to be tagged in the next parts, please let me know!
- summary: You're worried that Egg doesn't seem to have any friends his own age and he spends his time either with you at the studio or, to Maekar's dismay, with Dunk at his farm.
- part 1 can be found here
- pairing: modernAU ceo!maekar x artist!reader
- characters: Egg, Maekar, LYONEL BARATHEON
- word count: 1.8k
- content: a few curse words, established relationship, slice of life, small age difference (30-32 to Maekar’s 43-44), reader is curvy/plus size, Lyonel is very fun to write, Maekar is always one step away from an aneurysm, evil Lannister, private school mothers continue to be the bane of my existence.
Since moving in at Summerhall, you made it a point to have breakfast together in the garden with him and Rhae, instead of the dining room, where it was usually just the three of you seated at a table that could fit twelve. Egg, when managing to keep him still for five minutes, enjoyed munching on his food in the kitchen with the household staff and bombing them with questions in between bites. It was a mystery when Daeron and Aerion kept themselves fed.
Today the Oldtown Private School and Weirwood Day School were having an event at the botanical gardens where children and parents from both schools could socialise and ‘strenghten community through academia’ - or at least that was what the newsletter said. Maekar rolled his eyes when he saw the message, muttering something about how ‘only a bunch of hippies’ could send their kids there.
“Maybe not every parent wants their child to wear a beret as part of the uniform,” you mused over your breakfast, remembering the great lenghts Egg went to avoid wearing it. Thank the Gods the school didn’t require a dress code today.
“I don’t see anything wrong with that beret,” Maekar protested, taking off his reading glasses and throwing them on top of the newspaper beside his plate of food. “He will grow into it.”
“That’s not the point, love. He looks like a mini tyrant.”
“All children his age are tyrants,” Maekar complained.
“How are you feeling about today, Egg?” you asked the boy as you drove to the city, leaving behind the open fields and wooded groves of the countryside where Summerhall was situated. Maekar insisted you take his car, a sleek black Mercedes, to the event; a subtle way of saying yours was not even nearly up to standard for a school function. “There’s another school invited. That means more chances of getting to know someone even if those mothers don’t warm up to me.”
Aegon shrugged his shoulders, but gripped the box of pastries tighter in his lap. He insisted holding onto it during the ride like precious cargo, afraid something would happen to the ‘peace offering’ along the way. “Great expectations bring bigger disappointments.”
“Ouch. Have a little faith in me, buddy.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not concerned about you.”
You, on the other hand, woke up at the crack of dawn panicking what to wear in order to make the best possible first impression. Maekar found you in the dressing room around an explosion of clothes and made sure to fuck away all your anxiety in the shower. Twice.
“Take that Hermès bag I gave you for your birthday,” he said as you were both getting dressed for the day. As usual, he was struggling with his cufflinks. “Those witches care more about brands than personality.”
After parking the car and taking the box out of Egg’s hands, you walked side by side down the gravel path to a clearing where children were playing, making sure to survey the place for any parents that were obviously from his school. Your eyes landed on a table with refreshments and, not far from it, a handful of women standing close to eachother, whispering occasionally between themselves. The rest of the parents were scattered around with other children or on their phones.
Bingo.
Egg tugged on your blazer and you bent down enough for him to whisper in your ear. “That’s them.”
“I figured as much… Now are you ready to mingle while I try to charm their extensions off?”
He made a face. “I make no promises.”
“Promise me you will at least try? I’ll buy you waffles after.”
“For waffles,” he vowed solemnly. You ruffled his short hair and sent him on his way.
Anxiety creeped over as you got closer to the table. You decided to grab a glass of lemonade and arrange the box along with the other treats parents brought to buy some time.
“Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air,” a voice startled you. You put on a smile and turned to greet her. She wore her golden hair braided around her head in a crown, a few wavy wisps escaping the updo. The clothes screamed Ralph Lauren ad – an impecable blend of function and casual elegance, styled effortlessly with subtle gold creoles and a leather strap tank watch.
You introduced yourself, shaking her hand. Her ring finger almost blinded you. “I’m Cerelle Lannister, head of the Parent Council.” Her features put her closer to Maekar’s age than yours.
“It’s nice to meet another parent from Aegon’s school.”
She was studying you, just like her clique was doing from a few feet away. You could feel their eyes staring holes into you even with your back turned. They didn’t even bother to move farther away while they whispered.
...must be an au pair…
Don’t be silly, I think she’s the girlfriend. She doesn’t have a ring.
Not for long. Give her more time to know him better.
You know I don’t like to gossip, but that Kelly is fresh out of the box. It’s not about personality.
Well, she’s working for it today.
“It’s a shame Maekar doesn’t have the patience for these gatherings. How else are we to catch up and discuss new initiatives?”
You took a sip of lemonade. “He’s just very busy.”
Cerelle’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re such a darling for helping him. Gods know those children need a female influence in their life after what happened with Dyanna. You do know about her, right?”
You bitch.
“I’m aware.”
Holding your own in a conversation with her felt more like a game of smokes and mirrors – every sentence had an underlying message and pleasantries masked stinging remarks.
“Don’t tell Maekar I said this, but we were getting worried about little Aegon. I heard he’s a bit shy and introverted at school. A boy his age should socialise more.”
“Must be a school thing,” you mused. “Aegon is plenty sociable in his other activities.”
She hummed, clearly not pleased with your message when reading between the lines. “Well, I have to go tell the girls all about you. We should get better aquainted over tea sometime,” Cerelle said with a well practiced smile and left you alone at the refreshment table.
Translation: fuck off.
You needed to put some distance between yourself and those women. The open field did nothing to ease with the caged in sensation Cerelle left you with.
Why did I quit smoking? I could use a cigarette right now.
The rest of your time was spent under the shade of an old oak tree, sipping lemonade and keeping an eye on Egg as he played with some kids and their dogs – most likely from the other school. He searched for you in the crowd of people scattered around the field and you gave him a wave and a thumbs up. From the corner of your eye, a tall silhouette of a man was getting closer and closer. A man who was wearing the most obnoxious yellow silk shirt you had even seen in your life.
“Tell me, what does a lovely woman like you do in a place like this? By the Gods, I’ve seen funerals with more potential!”
You rolled your eyes into the back of your head.
“I’m making sure a ten year old is socialising enough,” you muttered.
“The Targaryen boy,” he stated.
“That one.”
You could feel his eyes dancing between you and Egg while he chose his next words. The earlier exchange with those aweful women left you in no mood to play nice with another arrogant parent. Maybe Egg could meet a new friend at Tanselle’s painting class if you convinced him to give it a chance.
“Baelor’s offspring are too old to be in school,” Lyonel trailed off, hands buried in his pockets as he leaned sideway against the tree. He had that laissez-faire air about him with his wind swept curls and lazy smile. “I’m not even going to bother with the other two brothers, so that leaves good old Maekar. Which of them is this one - number four or five?” he grinned, very pleased with himself.
“Six,” you mumbled, eyes following Egg around as he found a spot on the grass next to another kid with eyes glued on a screen. They started exchanging a few words from time to time, between game levels no doubt. Baby steps.
He let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell, he’s been busy.”
You shot Lyonel a look that didn’t have any effect on him. In fact, his interest soley focused on you. “You know eachother?”
“Our families do business. So… Where did he keep you hidden away all this time?’
“Oh, you know… Tucked away in one of his desk drawers. Don’t worry, he makes sure I have enough water and sunlight.”
Nothing could have prepared you for the booming laugh he let out, head thrown back and completely unashamed by some startled parents nearby. You found yourself laughing with him under the shade of the oak tree as the leaves swayed slowly in the breeze.
“I like you. I bet you keep that old grump on his toes.”
“Six children do the job just fine, trust me,” you said, the trace of a smile lingering.
“I’m perfectly aware! I have four of those myself,” he mused with a smile on his face. “In fact, the shy one next to your boy is mine.”
My boy.
All things considered, the day ended on a good note. Like you, Lyonel was pleased his offspring had an interaction that didn’t involve dogs and you exchanged numbers to set up a playdate for them. He even introduced you to the Starks; a polite couple with few words to say, but sincere in their manner of speaking.
Egg stuffed his face with waffles, as promised.
By the time you parked in front of the entrance you were ready to throw yourself into a couch and nap. Egg on the other hand stormed inside the house, running straight to the garden. Maekar greeted you in the hallway with a kiss that had you melting into him. “Aegon’s in a good mood,” he muttered against your lips and captured them in another kiss, this time applying more pressure as his hands rested on your hips.
“He’s high on sugar. I loaded him with chocolate waffles.”
“Was your plan a success?”
You let out a groan, remembering Cerelle. “Those women are vile! But Egg got along with another boy his age from Weirwood Day School.”
“I won’t have Aegon running around barefoot and hugging trees, woman. Whose child are we talking about?”
“His name is Lyonel Baratheon. I understand you do business together.”
Maekar closed his eyes, feeling a headache washing over his temples. “Fuck me…”
Summary: You show kindness to the wrong person - or perhaps the right one. (aka you’re nice to Daeron Targaryen one time and he is immediately unhealthily obsessed)
Warnings: 18+, darkish romance, obsessive behaviour, stalking behaviour, unhealthy codependence, alcoholism, super brief groping by a stranger, mentions of female masturbation, cunnilingus, slight dub-con, mostly unedited
Word Count: 7.2k+
targaryen masterlist
If you lived anywhere else, the monotony of your everyday life may have been too boring to bear. As it was, you lived in Flea Bottom.
It meant you knew where you were sleeping every night, and could grow used to the small shabby roof overhead. It meant you ate the same two meals every day and never went hungry. It meant you had a job that funded these things. You did not have to worry about the weather, nor the thieves, or the filth of the street.
Monotony in Flea Bottom was a blessing.
Westeros was not always a kind place, but it seemed Flea Bottom bought out the worst in people. You had found yourself there after a series of small tragedies in your life. The death of a parent, a bout of sickness and the theft of what little coin you had carried had ushered you to King’s Landing the way an undertaker would direct a funeral parade.
Your serving job in the tavern was the best thing that could have happened to you. The owners allowed you to rent a tiny room upstairs for a small amount of your already small wage. They watered and fed you and did not work you overly hard. A blessing, indeed.
You hummed to yourself as you swiped your cloth over the tables. No matter how frequently you cleaned them, they never quite seemed to lose that greasy, sticky feeling they had acquired over the years.
You liked to keep yourself busy, though, so you worked your way around the room clockwise until all the tables were as clean as they would get.
You tucked the cloth into the pocket on the front of your apron, frowning. The Mole’s Head was tucked away in the outskirts of Kings Landing, and so it could be rather quite on weekdays. There were always a few locals who turned up every night and you served them happily, glad for the company. Apart from them, Tuesdays were brutally dull.
Grabbing a jug of ale, you made your way back around the room, offering top ups and slipping coins into your pocket as you went. At the table furthest from the door, you paused.
You did not recognise the man there. You tilted your head a little before glancing around. It appeared as though he was alone.
Tapping your fingers on the edge of the jug, you debated whether to wake him up. It was not as though he needed more ale – or any alcohol, for that matter! – for he was slumped over, cheek pressed into the table, drool pooling around his face.
The tavern was due to close in half an hour. Not for long, of course. Just long enough for things to be tidied and money to be counted. It would open back up at seven in the morning, and you would begin your work again at midday.
You walked back to the bar, refilling a jug of wine and dropping it at a regular’s table. He pressed coins into your palm and you thanked him, distracted.
“Do you know that man?” you asked, jerking your chin in the sleeping stranger’s direction.
Joel followed your gaze. “Never seen him before. Want me to get him out of here?”
“No, thank you,” you shook your head. “We’ll leave him be for now.”
There were many reasons why people drank. To socialise, to celebrate, to forget. You had seen it all within the year you had worked at The Mole. You felt as though you’d become rather adept in guessing exactly what each person’s reasoning was.
You stared at the stranger with the boldness of someone who knew they were unnoticed. His hair was tangled and unwashed but it was an interesting shade of yellow. His clothes looked expensive, all neat stitches, rich dye and careful embroidery. You recognised the colours of House Targaryen. Could it be that he worked at the Keep?
If so, he had come a long way just for a drink. There were a dozen taverns between the Keep and The Mole.
This man was running from something, you decided. A lover, or children, or duty, perhaps. You had run once too, from the sorrow that was drowning you and taking over your life. Funny how you had both ended up at the same place.
The stranger had chosen the shadiest, loneliest corner of the bar to drink in. You were the only one working and so it must have been you who had filled his cup; and yet you could not remember the colour of his eyes or the sound of his voice or even what he had ordered. Maybe wine, you thought, but you could not be sure.
Something like guilt prickled in your chest. It was easy to go unnoticed in Flea Bottom. Sometimes all that someone needed was for someone to see them. Markis and Ana had seen you, that summer’s day, and had given you a job that you sorely needed. They had stopped the rapid decent you were in and you would be ever thankful to them for it.
At the bar, you rested your face on your hands and propped yourself up on your elbows. It was almost closing time. The tavern was getting even emptier. Only Joel and the stranger were left.
Joel stopped at the bar, dropping his empty mug with a ‘thud’. “You sure you don’t want me to throw him out?”
“No,” you said quickly, “he, um, paid for a room upstairs. I just remembered.”
Upstairs there were three rarely used rooms. They were dust filled and the sheets were thin and moth-eaten. Once there was four but now one of them, the smallest, belonged to you.
Joel offered to drag the stranger upstairs but you shook your head and ushered him out. When he was gone, you paused, thinking.
You would wake the stranger up, you decided, and if he was too inebriated to make it home, you would help him to a room upstairs. The upstairs was so rarely used that Markis and Ana were unlikely to notice.
You felt like it was your fault for overserving him. Ana did not typically care about that sort of thing; money was money. But you would feel terribly guilty he was to take to the streets and have something happen to him.
Straightening your shoulders, you made your way over to the table. You stood in front of it, wringing your hands, wishing the man would just wake up himself. What if he was violent? It was too late now. You’d made your bed and now you had to lie in it.
Tentatively, you reached out and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. You shook him as gently as you could and, when that did not seem to work, you grabbed a handful of his clothing and pulled.
The man shot up with a curse, waving a dagger that you had been unaware of. You squeaked and took a step back, holding your hands in front of you to show that you meant no harm.
“Please, my lord, I was just waking you up,” you explained.
It took a moment for the man to see you. He was blinking furiously, yellow hair plastered to his cheek, sweat drenching his face. He could be handsome, you realised, were he not so drunk.
“I-I,” the man swiped a trembling hand over his face. “Where am I?”
Sympathy panged in your chest as you told him. “There’s an empty room upstairs if you’ll have it, my lord.”
The man seemed to calm at that. He got unsteadily to his feet. He fumbled with the dagger for a moment before sheathing it and pawing at a drawstring bag at his side. His fingers dipped out of sight for a moment and returned with something shiny.
You blanched at the gold dragon. You could count on one hand the number of times you had seen one. The entire tavern was hardly even worth that much, let alone a creaky old room.
“Never mind that,” you said, “let’s just get you upstairs.”
The man blinked at you, dazed. When he did not move, you took the dragon from him and tucked it back into his coin pouch, ignoring the way his eyes burned into the side of your face.
“Can you walk?” you asked.
The man took one step, hip colliding loudly with the edge of the table. He swore and swayed on his feet. You panicked for a moment before tugging his arm up and sliding beneath it, bearing more of his weight than you thought yourself capable of.
“Together, then,” you said between gritted teeth.
It felt ridiculous. Between several near-falls, pausing to lock the doors, and navigating the twelve uneven steps, you felt as though an hour had passed by the time the pair of you made it upstairs.
You steered him into the room furthest from yours and closest to the stairs so he could make his way out in the morning. Sweating, you let the stranger go. He fell back onto the bed with an ‘oomph’, dust flying up from the disused sheets like foul confetti.
Both of you began coughing. You opened the one tiny window the room boasted and breathed a sigh of relief as the cool night air began seeping in. The stranger had gone quiet, and when you turned around, you half expected to find him asleep.
He was not. He peered at you with bleary eyes, fingers caressing the coin pouch at his side. He looked rather pitiful.
You tried to smile. “Wait here a moment.”
You dipped back downstairs, filling a cup with water before returning. The stranger was still awake and he watched as you placed the cup on the single rickety side table. Suddenly shy, you wiped your hands on your apron and glanced about the room.
“I’d feel better if you slept on your side,” you admitted. “In case you vomit.”
“In case I vomit,” the stranger echoed, nodding. “Would you, ah, help me? With my boots?”
“Oh! Of course.”
You knelt at the end of the bed. With deft fingers, you yanked apart the laces and pulled his boots from his feet, depositing them at the end of the bed. You glanced up and caught the man’s eye. You felt to flustered to decipher the look he was giving you and so you got to your feet and retreated to the door.
“The doors are locked at the minute, but they’ll likely be open by the time you wake,” you blathered, “you’ll be good to go by then. Um, sweet dreams?”
The stranger stiffened for a moment, eyes widening, before they landed on you and seemed to come back into focus. “Sweet dreams.”
Embarrassed, you left the room and fled to your own. With a curse, you shut your door and crouched on the floor next to your straw mattress.
“Have sweet dreams?” you whispered. “As though he were a boy? Oh, how humiliating.”
You wriggled about on the floor for a moment, willing yourself to just melt into the boards and disappear forever.
Once you were calmer, you considered your door. It had only a flimsy lock, one that you did not often use. The man had seemed harmless enough, but he was still a man. You slid the lock across and retreated to your mattress.
It was strange trying to relax, knowing someone else was sleeping only a few doors down. You tossed and turned for a short while before sleep came to take you. If you had dreams, you did not remember them.
The stranger was gone by the time you awoke. The bed was turned over neatly, certainly tidier than he had found it, and the window had been closed. It was like he had never been there at all.
You went about your routine with a bounce in your step, pleased by your good deed. You could hear the sound of the tavern downstairs as you washed your face and dressed yourself. You neatened your own room before descending the stairs.
Ana was waiting for you at the bar. She handed you a plate of buttered bread and helped you into your apron before disappearing to her own home out back. Ana and Markis lived in their own small home on the back of the property. Between the three of you, there was never a need to hire anyone else.
You ate your lunch between serving customers, fetching them bowls of hearty soup whenever they asked and topping up their cups. The tavern had a brief burst of business around midday before settling once again, leaving you with only a handful of regulars and a tattered paperback book you were attempting to get through.
Your father had taught you to read as best he could but you lacked the confidence and tried to practise whenever you could. Book hidden beneath the bar, you flipped through pages between top-ups and idle conversation.
Absorbed by your menial tasks, you almost didn’t notice him coming in.
He looked different this time. Nervous and twitchy. Tidier, maybe. His hair had been combed through and his clothes looked freshly washed. His face, too.
You were right. He was handsome.
He made his way to the same table as the night before and seemed to settle down. You flinched when he made eye contact, suddenly remembering your duties. You filled a pitcher of wine halfway, grabbed a cup and made your way over.
You placed both things in front of him. The man placed a coin on the table and your eyes widened, recognising the same gold and emblem from before.
“My lord,” you began, “this is too much –“
“No, no,” he interrupted, “please. This is for last night.”
You pushed the gold back across the table, toward him. “Truly, there is no need. I will only accept money for the wine.”
The man swallowed. He picked the coin back up and rubbed it between his fingers as though looking for imperfections.
“Then why?” he said finally. “Why did you – why were you so kind to me?”
You stood still for a moment, thinking. Then, “I find kindness is sorely lacking in Kings Landing. And you looked as though you needed it.”
You hurried through the last part; nervous you were overstepping. After an awkwardly long pause, the man slipped the coin away and instead presented you with several copper stars. You thanked him gladly and took the money, returning to the bar and squirreling it away.
Unlike the day prior, the man required no refills as the day progressed. You kept busy with all your usual tasks and tried to ignore the man who seemed determined to stare a hole into the side of your skull.
Every time you glanced over at him, he was already looking at you. He sipped slowly at his wine, observing you over the rim as you bustled about.
You made another lap around the room, topping up Joel’s cup as he chatted with a friend. He jerked his head in the man’s direction.
“Same man from yesterday. He bothering you?”
“No, no,” you brushed him off.
At least you didn’t think he was bothering you. The man’s gaze certainly made you feel something, but you did not feel confident enough to put a name to that feeling.
Deep in thought, you didn’t notice the drunken man swaying toward you. You yelped when the unfamiliar man jostled against you, hands squeezing at your thighs as he cackled into your ear.
Joel got to his feet and snatched the man up by his collar, dragging him toward the door before you could catch shriek. Hand on your breast, you sucked in a shaky breath and watched as Joel hit the man with an open-handed palm.
From the corner of your eye, you noticed that the man had also gotten to his feet. He was stood, hands braced against the table, eyes glued to you. You had no doubt that he would have dragged out the drunkard himself had Joel not gotten there first.
Still slightly shaky, you went over to him. “Can – can I get you anything?”
“Does that happen often?”
“Well,” you murmured, “sometimes. But Joel usually takes care of –“
“Who is Joel?” the man asked, eyes shooting up to your face.
You gestured over your shoulder. “The man who dragged him out. He watches over me.”
The man was still on his feet. You saw his jaw clench and his eyes dart behind you before he sat back down.
“Forgive me. I never asked your name?”
Surprise briefly took your words before you remembered yourself. You told him your name quietly and with more than a little uncertainty. “And yours, my lord?”
“You may call me Daeron. No need for formalities.”
There was something in the way he said it. Something pleading, something slightly desperate, that made you choke on air. You struggled to decipher his tone for several moments before even registering exactly what he had said.
Your blood ran cold. “My prince.”
The man – Daeron Targaryen – looked up at you with eyes like fresh rainwater puddles. How had you not seen it before?
“Please,” he insisted, reaching out to touch your hand, “Daeron.”
“My prince,” you dipped your head, “please, tell me if you need something. Anything.”
You turned your back on him and rushed back to the safety of the bar. Joel watched you, glancing suspiciously between you and the prince, before going back to his conversation.
Your heart was thudding in your breast as though it might tear right through the skin. You had liked him better when he was just a sad stranger, not a Targaryen fucking prince.
You busied yourself cleaning glasses, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your hands and the repetitive process. How stupid had you been, really? The golden dragon, the clothing, the hair. Dirty yellow but – perhaps silver in certain lights?
You scrubbed a palm over your face and tried to regain your composure. There was no use in panicking. The prince had been kind and had done nothing untoward. You would serve him as you would anyone else in the tavern and never tell a soul he was there.
Daeron did not call for you the rest of the evening. He drank slowly from the same pitcher you had originally given him and watched you openly as you performed your duties. Ever the coward, you did not go over to check on him, instead reasoning that he would call you if he required anything.
As the sky darkened and a new wave of customers came in, you began to forget about the lost Targaryen in the corner. Eventually you turned only to discover that, at some point, he must have slipped out.
Relief swept through you like a tidal wave. Lighter, you wiped your hands over your apron and turned your attention onto the customers. This, you were familiar with. This, you could do.
The hours marched on and soon Ana appeared to relieve you for the rest of the evening. It was past eleven and you were due back downstairs by seven. You grabbed your book and tucked it into your skirt pockets before tugging off your apron and hanging it on the hook, wishing Ana a good evening as you disappeared upstairs.
It was like an entirely different world. Dust hung in the air and stirred as you walked through it. Sound was muted and you felt utterly alone, but all the better for it. It was easy to pretend that Flea Bottom wasn’t crushing in around you in the peace of the upper rooms.
You paused outside the bedroom Daeron had stayed in the night before. How simple he must have thought it. You huffed a laugh and continued toward your own room.
Once inside, you toed off your shoes and stretched your arms above your head. You pulled your book from your pocket and tossed it onto your straw mattress before finding a candle and lighting it, settling in for an hour or so of slow reading.
When you hit the mattress, something tumbled to the floor. You frowned and chased it until it rolled to a stop. You recognised the glint of gold and shock rose as it dawned on you exactly what it was.
You raised it to the candlelight. Some part of you could not held but admire the golden dragon, even as horror dawned in your chest. It had been on your pillow, placed gently in the spot you rested your head every night.
Daeron Targaryen had been in your room.
You had never held a golden dragon before. It could’ve been your imagination but you felt as though it carried its own heat, warming your palm as you turned it this way and that. In the candlelight it shone, obnoxious and lively.
It felt as though it was burning your skin.
You got to your knees and shoved it into your mattress, hiding it amongst the compressed straw until you were sure you would struggle to find it yourself. You felt numb as you sat on that same straw, crossing your legs and pulling your book onto your lap as though you actually intended to read it.
Your eyes scanned over the words but they did not register. The only thing on your mind was a question, repeating over and over again in its refusal to be ignored.
What was Daeron paying for?
The room, you told yourself. He was paying for the room. Overpaying, but why not? He was a Targaryen prince.
You told yourself that repeatedly, right up until the point you were tucked beneath scratchy blankets and falling asleep. At no point did you actually believe it.
Thursday slipped by without an appearance by Daeron. You were still nervous, casting glances over at the entrance every few minutes right up until you went upstairs.
The entire time, all you could think of was the golden dragon tucked into your mattress. When you got to your room, you had stuffed your hand into the straw until you felt it. You had ripped your arm away as though it had burned you and slept uneasily knowing it was just beneath you.
Friday was busier and you were thankful for it. You carried jugs and bowl of soups until your arms developed a pleasant ache and your feet were sore in your worn shoes. Since it was busy, Ana was assisting you in serving and you got good work done between the two of you.
You were not sure how you knew he had arrived. A flash of yellow hair, the hint of black and red. The tavern seemed suddenly smaller and you knew that a dragon had entered and made himself comfortable at his table.
You were not sure when it had become his table but it felt right to refer to it as such. People drifted away when he approached and made themselves comfy elsewhere until he had the entire table to himself.
You breathed a sigh of relief when Ana made her way over to him. Interaction with him seemed impossible at this point. Should you bring up the coin? Maybe you had time to go fetch it from upstairs and return it?
You jumped when Ana’s hand cupped your elbow. She looked you up and down, surprised by your suddenly jumpiness. “The gentleman has requested you.”
“Oh,” you said dumbly.
Ana smiled encouragingly and gently pushed you in Daeron’s direction. You stumbled a little before regaining your balance, wine nearly sloshing over the sides of the jug you were holding. You felt a line of it dribble over your fingers, sticky and bitter.
The difference between Daeron on that first evening and Daeron now was like night and day. He looked sober and looked worse for it. He was well groomed, eyes heavy and attentive on you as you made your way toward him. You, on the other hand, felt dishevelled and in need of a good soak in the tub. You wanted to drop the jug on the table and flee behind the bar.
Instead, you filled up Daeron’s cup without looking at him, heart hammering in your breast. Droplets of wine spattered on the table as result of your trembling hands.
You straightened up and met his eyes. “If that is all, my lord –“
Before you could turn, Daeron had reached out and grabbed your wrist. His slightly slick palms betrayed his otherwise calm appearance. He used his grip on you to tug you toward him until you were practically astride him, his thighs caging you in.
Mortified, you looked over your shoulder to see who was bearing witness to your shame. Ana looked surprised but made no move to free you. Money was money and Daeron looked like someone who had a lot of it.
Again, you thought of the gold dragon beneath your bed.
“Please,” he said, “drink with me?”
You heard the pleading note in his voice. It reminded you of the first time you had ever seen him, how the misery had seemed to seep from his pores and congeal around him. What, you wondered, did a prince of the realm have to be so miserable about?
It was hard to be under his full focus. The candles around the tavern made his eyes glint and shift. He looked every bit the blood of the dragon. He was devastatingly handsome, all soft waves and begging eyes, and his hand was smooth and warm where it held your wrist. It was the sort of hand that had never seen a hard day’s work.
“I cannot,” you murmured, “it would be inappropriate. And I have other customers.”
Daeron blinked as though he was only just remembering there were others in the bar. Still, he did not let go of you. He looked around and his lip curled in disgust. It was so different from his previous expression that you flinched and took a step back, pulling your arm from his hand in a jerky motion.
Daeron got to his feet as though he would follow, arms outstretched toward you. “Please! Please, just, sit with me for a moment. I need – I need –“
Daeron placed a hand to his chest as though he was struggling for breath. You paused in your retreat, concerned. His eyes were fluttering and he was swaying on his feet. Worry quickly stomped out your trepidation as you stepped forward and tucked yourself beneath his arm for support.
“It is alright, my lord,” you soothed, “it is terribly warm in here. Let’s get you outside for some fresh air.”
You lead Daeron to the door leading to the alley next to the tavern. The lights and noise faded away as the door swung shut behind you, leaving you with Daeron in the darkness. You blinked rapidly, trying to get used to the change in lighting as you helped Daeron lean his back against the crumbly brick wall.
His breathing was still fast. You looked around, half expecting the kings guard to appear and slay you where you stood.
Daeron’s hands fell heavily on your shoulders, dragging your attention back to him. He was shakier than you were comfortable with so you allowed it and tried to ignore the way you relaxed into his hold.
He allowed for no complaints as he dragged you into his chest, wrapping his arms around your back tightly and tucking your head beneath his chin. For a moment, you did not breathe. All you could smell was leather and some kind of scented oil. The aroma melted your brain and turned you to mush in his arms.
You could hear his heart thundering in his chest, though now yours surely matched it, and you could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.
You were not naive. You had been with men before. You had fumbled about with several boys in your younger years, clumsy and unpractised and unsatisfying, and you had had one lover since coming to Kings Landing.
You felt those same feelings rising at Daeron’s touch. The stirring in your stomach and the way your nipples seemed suddenly sensitive against the fabric of your top. Every inch of you seemed to come alive, eager for more touch, but your brain knew what your body did not.
This -Daeron Targaryen- was not for you.
You shivered as you felt the stirring of his manhood beneath his belt, lazily nudging into your stomach. His breathing was still fast but for an entirely different reason now. There was interest there, no doubt, but you would not have him.
You almost laughed. Never had you imagined that there would be a day you would have the interest of a Targaryen prince. But what was interest? It was not monotony, nor food in your belly, or a roof over your head and privacy.
It was chaos. And you would not allow yourself to fall into the same hole you had been in before you had come to Kings Landing. You would not go back to that place.
Placing your hands on Daeron’s chest, you firmly pushed back. There was a moment where you were afraid that he would not let you go but then his arms were falling away, allowing you to step back and look up into the hurt on his face.
“I will get you some water,” you said, clearing your throat. It felt bone dry.
Daeron stilled, eyes flickering over your face as he tried to decipher your emotions. You kept your eyes downcast as you made to move back inside.
Daeron’s hand found your wrist once again, tugging you back to him with firmness. You gasped as your shoulder hit his chest and his other hand found your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.
He pressed his lips to yours, saving you from any weak protest you may have been able to conjure up. His hand remained on your face, as though scared you would pull away before he was ready. You melted in his arms and shoved the shame away for a later version of you to deal with.
Daeron kissed like a man starved. You could taste the wine on his lips, on his tongue, as he lapped at your mouth with tender strokes. You let your own lips part with a sigh and felt Daeron groan at your acceptance, chasing the taste of you right into your mouth.
You let him have you like that, all pliant and wanting. Let him kiss the need from your lips and hoped he might take it all so that you could forget he even existed. He seemed to push his own need back into you; you could feel the hard line of his cock press into your belly and had a brief moment of madness where you considered what it would be like to be taken like that, shameless and hungry.
You practically had to tear his hands away from your face. Something like a whine rumbled in his chest as he chased your lips, stealing several more kisses before you pushed him firmly away.
Both of you stood there, chests heaving and knees weak. Dazed, you brought your fingers to your lips and felt the way they had swollen from his attention. Daeron’s eyes darkened at the movement and it wasn’t until he stepped forward, hands reaching again, that you shook yourself from your reverie.
“I have to go,” you said quickly, diving for the door and rushing inside as though dogs were at your heels.
You waited for a moment to see if he would follow. When he didn’t, you found Ana and made some excuse of an upset stomach and a headache that threatened to split you apart. She looked concerned but did not push, instead suggesting that you take the rest of the evening to yourself.
You took her up on her offer and took the stairs two at a time. Once you got to your room, you pushed open your tiny window and sucked in greedy lungfuls of the evening air. Your skin felt as though it was burning. You pressed your hand to your forehead and found it cool to the touch.
With a sigh, you threw yourself onto your mattress and closed your eyes. The darkness made the warmth between your thighs feel even more intense. You squeezed your legs together, sending tiny jolts of pleasure through your system. Slowly, you reached for the skirt of your dress and began to tug it up your legs.
Air caressed your exposed thighs as you let them fall apart. You could feel the slick gathered in your undergarments and felt oddly embarrassed. It was not like you to be so careless, so reckless. You tightened your hands into fists. All you wanted was to relieve the pressure a little bit, to touch your –
A floorboard creaked from right outside your room. You shoved your skirts back down and sat up, feeling caught. A quick glance told you that you had remembered to lock the door and you breathed a little easier.
It was not unusual for a customer to wander drunkenly upstairs. But this was not that. You could not be sure how you knew, only that you were certain Daeron Targaryen was outside your room.
You quietened your breathing and listened hard. There was a slight groan from the wood as whoever it was placed a hand against the wall of your room, as though they could feel you on the other side.
Cautiously you lowered yourself back to the mattress, hands bundled at your chest and skirts in disarray about your knees. You remained like that, half scared, half aroused, until eventually the footsteps faded and you heard the sound of someone descending the stairs.
Only then, when you were sure you were alone, did your fingers delve into your undergarments to bring you relief.
Daeron returned to The Mole’s Head every evening for the next three days, or so you heard. Ana told you over quiet breakfasts and meaningful glances. She was obviously curious about whatever had happened but, sensing your reluctance to talk, did not press the matter.
She and Markis had also allowed you time away from serving, sensing your warring emotions and confusion. You had been content in the kitchen, away from the eyes of regulars and Targaryen princes, but today would see you serving again. You could not hide forever.
But that was not until the evening. For now, you busied yourself with the market. You took your time wandering between stalls, attempting to keep your mind blank and body busy. Children raced about the place, knocking over baskets of fruit and pinching things whenever backs were turned.
As you walked at a leisurely pace, the buzz of anxiety was still very much present. You carried a holey bag with you and practically strangled the thin straps between your fingers. Your hands were relentless on the fabric, twisting and pinching and pulling as an outlet for your otherwise concealed emotions.
So absorbed were you in your actions that you almost did not notice the carriage approaching from behind. The smear of black and red in your peripheral vision had you jumping back, clearing out of the way of the approaching horses.
You kept your gaze down as the coach got closer. People began craning their necks, curious about who was inside such a fine vehicle, and with the Targaryen emblem no less. You beat your own curiosity down with a stick, urging the carriage to move faster and out of sight.
It did no such thing. Your mouth parted as the coachman directed the horses to a stop several feet in front of you. You made to move but then the door opened and familiar hands were reaching for you, pulling you into the shaded privacy of the coach before you could even shout.
Daeron pulled the door shut and sat back opposite you, something resembling sheepishness rounding his shoulders and softening his features. Thoroughly shocked, you could only stare. Daeron knocked on the roof of the coach and you rocked forward in the seat as the coachman directed the horses back into a lazy trot.
“You have been avoiding me,” Daeron said simply.
You were stunned.
“I do not understand why,” he continued, eyes searching your face, “when I know that you enjoyed our kiss as much as I. If you feel even a fraction of what I do, then I know the distance must be painful for you.”
The words may as well have been spoken in a different language. You held your hand up and squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself awake. When that did not work, you sank back into the seat.
“It was just a kiss,” you said softly, “and you are a prince.”
Daeron’s face twisted with scorn. “Just a kiss?”
The words sat heavy on the air for a moment. You felt warm and flustered and wished the coach had windows to crack. The soft sway of it had you feeling vaguely nauseous and was ramping up your anxiety to levels unheard of.
Daeron seemed to think for a moment, his face smoothing into something soft and cunning. He sank to his knees in one swift movement. The coach had little room and it left his chest brushing your knees with every rotation of the wheels.
You flinched at the contact but Daeron was having none of it. He laid his hands on your thighs with a boldness you had not expected. His fingers squeezed the fabric, making indents in the soft flesh as his breath stuttered out of him. Despite your words, you did not brush him away.
“I can give you more than a kiss, sweetling,” he murmured, “I can give you everything you could ever want. And I will have the same from you in return.”
“My prince –“
“Daeron,” he lazily corrected, hands bunching in the fabric of your dress.
“Daeron,” you whispered, “please, you can’t.”
“But I can,” he insisted. He spoke as if he were trying to convince you of the fact. “And I so fucking want to.”
You could feel your lids getting heavy as Daeron began to push the bulky fabric of your dress further up your legs until it was bundled around your waist. You could not tell if he was shaking or if it was just the movement of the coach.
Daeron pressed his nose into the crook of your knee and inhaled. It tickled and had you shifting in your seat. Afraid you were going to push him away, Daeron opened his mouth and set his teeth to the soft skin there, sinking them in just enough to have you go still.
He pulled away, blinking up at you with watery eyes that screamed desperation. He laid his cheek on your thigh, eyes falling to the junction between your thighs that he had consumed his every waking moment since he had woken up in the tavern over a week ago.
He reached for the fabric that concealed you from him, tugging at it as though it had personally offended him. He cooed softly when you lifted your hips and let him tug it down thighs until you were completely bare.
“My sweet, kind girl,” he mumbled, eyes fixated on your cunt. “It is easier like this, no? When you cannot hide from me?”
His words were making your head spin. Daeron wriggled his palms beneath your ass and spread you wide, notching your knees over his shoulders. You squeaked as his breath hit your swollen folds, so sensitive that even the air felt like a physical caress.
After that, he wasted no time. It was like he knew that the longer he dragged things out, the more likely you were to come to your senses and go tearing from the coach. And he would not have that.
Daeron laved his tongue over your clit like he had done so a dozen times. He found your most sensitive spot with ease, flicking his tongue over it until you were clamping a hand over your mouth to keep in your noises.
The sight of him there, on his knees, face buried in your cunt was almost enough to have you shooting over the edge. Daeron must have sensed it in the way you pressed your cunt to his face, near grinding your clit on his nose as you approached your peak.
Daeron pulled him face from you with a groan. Your arousal coated the lower half of his face. His cheeks were ruddy and his eyes sparkled in the light that snuck in past the closed curtains. He pulled one hand from your ass and reached down and palmed his cock through his trousers, hissing through his teeth as he worked the sensitive head.
“Tell me you want me,” he urged, “just me.”
He was cruel. You canted your hips and whined a little, near dizzy from the denial. You would say anything if it meant he would put his mouth back on you.
“I want you, Daeron,” you managed, “only you. Please.”
He dove back in with gusto, tongue spearing your cunt as his nose nudged at your clit. You nearly yelled from the combination of sensations, torn between your clit and your entrance. Daeron’s eyes were glued to your face as he ate you out like a man who had not eaten in weeks.
Whether it was his tongue, his nose, or the fact that he was palming himself eagerly like a virgin boy, it did not matter. Daeron drove you over the edge like he had known he would from the second he set eyes on you. You knew that once you hit the bottom, he would not allow you to get back up. You let him do it anyway.
Daeron pulled away from you with reluctance and only after you’d pushed at his head, too sensitive to handle the soft lapping of his tongue at your spent cunt. He made no move to wipe his face, seeming to enjoy the scent of you on his skin. He did not finish himself, instead reaching to pull down your skirts and arrange you as he liked. It was unlikely he was content to remain that way for long.
He did not return your undergarments. You watched as he stuffed them under the seats and did not bother protesting. There was little use in arguing with a prince, you had come to realise. The gentle pulsing of your cunt eased the sting of realisation a little.
You tried to speak through your dry throat.“I have to go to work.”
“I will go with you,” Daeron said quickly, leaving no room for argument.
You watched as he licked his lips, eyes never leaving yours. You could still see the outline of his cock in his trousers and knew he intended to use it later. He seemed a little less intense now, a little more rounded after being placated.
Daeron squeezed your knee. “I will not be parted from you. Not after this.”
There would be no more monotony in your life. Not after Daeron had had his tongue inside you and his hands grasped at you like you were something he was afraid to lose.
additional mini Daeron PoV
The very moment Daeron had awoken in a dusty room with a golden dragon still weighing heavy in his coin pouch, he had been curious.
Daeron was not the curious sort. Usually he was too lazy, too drunk, too bored to be curious.
But there it was, burning hot in his gut as he left the stuffy room and stood awkwardly in the corridor. He could tell it was well past seven by the sun steaming in and the noise downstairs.
He looked from the stairs to the other doors. He wondered which one was yours. He stood there for a moment longer before turning back to his own room.
Daeron found himself closing the window and making the bed in the way he had seen the maids do. He almost laughed whilst doing it; perhaps he was still drunk.
🍷
Daeron returned that afternoon after a morning of pretending he wouldn’t. There was no harm in curiosity, he told himself, and he wanted to get a better look at the tavern girl who had refused his money.
You did not notice him when he entered, nor when he made himself comfortable at his table.
It gave him time to study you. You were pretty, he discovered. The type of beauty that one might not notice at first glance but was ultimately irrefutable. He admired the way your hair was working its way out of its style and the way you smiled easily at the men who occupied your attention.
Daeron wanted you to smile at him like that. The need rose unbidden and burning hot, clawing its way up his throat until he choked it back with a gulp of bitter wine.
You brought over some wine and Daeron tried not to feel smug that you remembered what he had been drinking the night before. Even he did not always remember. Again, he tried to give you money. If you took it, then that would be the end of it, he told himself. His curiosity would be sated and he could go back to the Keep, eventually return to Summerhall, and never think about you again.
Instead you smiled softly when he asked why, and said something about kindness. You, in a dusty tavern on the edge of Flea Bottom, wearing worn down clothes and surrounded by people who would kill you in a heartbeat for what Daeron was offering.
When was the last time he had experience kindness before you? Daeron could not remember.
When he snuck into your room that night, Daeron told himself he was only being kind in return.
🍷
Daeron did not pretend his visit the next night had anything to do with curiosity. This was about need and about the fierce possession that had raged in his gut when he had seen you be groped by that fool the day before.
Daeron needed kindness in his life. More than the small, stupid men who occupied so much of your time. Daeron needed you, he decided.
He looked at your warm but tired eyes, at the way you subtly tried to thumb through a book beneath the bar. He thought about the poky mattress in your tiny room and the absence of any possessions. He thought about the spark in your eyes whenever you caught him staring and the way your hands shook when you poured him a drink.
Perhaps Daeron could be something you needed, too. He would make it so.
a/n- people have been asking a lot for the mmc povs so i thought i’d include a mini one this time🫣
please leave comments, likes + reblogs if you enjoy my fics and would like to see more♥️
— summary: on your wedding night with baelor, you finally discover from where valarr has inherited that pretty white streak of hair.
— content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), oral sex (male receiving), happy trails, body worship, praise kink, insecure!baelor, yes his white streak is down there!!!
A/N: shout out to @/vhagars-dementia for putting this idea into my head!
The first time you see Baelor naked, the air catches in your throat and you can sense every inch of your body tingling with thrill.
The atmosphere is electric, heavy with his scent, with longing. He has been lusting after you all through the wedding ceremony, and even worse, throughout the entire time that he has been courting you, so patiently and earnestly.
And finally, the night had come.
Baelor has helped you pull down his pants and smallclothes, and your lips fall open when his manhood springs out, so hard and dripping already, so ready for you.
Sure, the size is remarkable and appetizing to say the least, but the most arousing feature is the trail of little curls that leads to his crotch.
More specifically, the path of white curls that marks the way through his dark hair below his stomach.
Your tongue follows it religiously.
Baelor trembles and moans and grunts in response to your sweet attention, glancing down at you with hazy eyes and a face transfixed with desire and love.
“So this is where Valarr inherited his own little white streak,” you tease, a sly smile peeking out of the darkness as you snuggle closer between his opened legs.
Baelor blushes deeply, suddenly feeling like a shy young boy in love, and is relieved that his embarrassment is obscured by the shadows of the bedchamber.
Even so, his sudden self-consciousness is plain to hear in his low, trembling voice. “You—you don't like it?”
You huff warm air against the sensitive skin of his pelvis, kissing the silvery hairs once again before looking up at him through your lashes, “My Prince, I think it's one of the most beautiful and attractive things you have.”
He flutter his closed eyes, one of his hands sliding down to your hair as your tongue teased the plump tip of his cock, gasping your name under his breath.
“Which one is the most for you?”
You smile lightly at his hesitant question, understanding that the passing of the years and the absence of his former wife has left their mark on him. On his body, on his sense of self-worth. And definitely on his desire to please you, to be worthy of you.
You kiss his tip, greedily scooping up the drops of seed that trickle from his slit, and his thighs twitch beneath your hand.
“Your eyes, your voice, your hair,” you begin to recite, grabbing his cock in your hand so you could drag your tongue all over it, giving yourself extra time to kiss the spot in between his heavy, full balls before heading back up. “And definitely this now.”
Your husband chokes out a small laugh that crawls up from deep in his throat, cutting short the moment when you guide his cock into your mouth, sucking on the tip.
His hand sinks into your hair, tugging gently. “Slowly— slow. That's it. Go easy, yeah?” he pleads in his rough voice, interrupted by pants and grunts. “It's been a while...”
To his pleasant surprise, you do as he asks, taking your time to appreciate him and make him enjoy his own pleasure. Every single time your warm tongue glides over his silver-haired path, you feel a spasm course through his body.
You indulge in the salty-sweet taste of his desire on his skin, feeling his cock throbbing hard in your hand, demanding for more.
And you move up again, tracking the length of his shaft with the tip of your tongue, outlining the veins that bulge beneath the taut skin, all the way back to the white trail that adorns his lower abdomen so beautifully.
You kiss him right there, where the dark hair turns snowy white, a sign of lineage that now belongs solely to you.
“So you do like it...” Baelor teases you from up above, unable to hide the way his back arches and his fingers pull unconsciously at your hair. “Gods—”
“So beautiful,” you keep whispering sweet praises, kissing and petting him. “So pretty, Bae”
When you're finished and you're both trying to catch your breath, tangled up in the mess of bedding sprawled out on the bed, you lean towards him, gazing at him with a dazed smirk, your eyes gleaming with love in the afterglow.
“Do you think my child will have any white streaks in their hair?” you wonder, full of enthusiasm.
Baelor chuckles softly as he looks into your big, bright eyes, and then turns to face you, his hands sliding around your waist to pull you closer to him.
“If they do not,” he coaxes, thumb tracing lazy circles at your hip. “Then, we shall simply have to try again. And again. And again—”
You laugh, breathless, pressing your forehead to his chest affectionately. “Is that your only solution to everything, my love?”
“When the problem is this delightful?” he asks back, delicate lips brushing your hair. “Yes.”
Baelor rolls with you gently until you are beneath him, careful, mindful, his weight supported on his forearms so he does not crush you. And he looks down at you with those beautiful tow-toned eyes, beaming with love and deep affection.
“If the gods grant us a child,” he murmurs drowsily, arms embracing your body as he lets himself fall on top of you, his face snuggling into your chest, “they will be born of love. That much I swear.”
“Then let them have your stubbornness,” you whisper sleepily. “And your white streak.”
He huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, pressing soft kisses on it.
pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
and so the story goes: a dragon falls in love with a wolf, ice invites fire.
content warnings/contains: stark!reader (no physical description other than the fact you're barthogan stark's daughter); set pre-akotsk so no show spoilers, but post first blackfyre rebellion; strangers to lovers; implied age gap; protective!smitten!baelor; angst/fluff; mutual pining; falling in love; sexual tension; court drama.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pinterest board | inspo tag & asks | ao3┊baelor/lady stark playlist | aerion/lady stark playlist
⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 84k┊next update: 21.03.26┊rated: t.
summary: the trial of seven has ended, and now you had to face the consequences and the scrutiny of the targaryen princes
content: slow burn, love triangle, knight reader, found family, age gap, panic attack warning
note: i’m so sorry i’m finishing this so late…i found this part quite difficult to write but i hope you enjoy it anyways, tho beware it is quiye slow and more of a filler. ALSO ty for all the love on the last part, i really didn’t expect it and it means so much that you guys would enjoy my writing
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was hard to tell the real voices from the ones in your dreams. Though your father’s voice was the clearest of them all, calm and steady, exactly as you remembered.
At least, you thought they were dreams.
The dead didn’t tend to speak to the living, or so you believed.
You reached desperately for the voices that brushed your ears rather than the ones that echoed in your head, but every time you did, the pain dragged you mercilessly back under.
In between the bouts of darkness, everything came in fragments: bursts of harsh white light, a bitter chalky taste coating your tongue, hands prodding and poking at you incessantly.
“…The puncture… avoided any organs but she’s lost so much… only the gods…” A voice floated somewhere above you.
The pain, though, was constant. It shuddered through you like a cold sweat, leaving you clawing for any semblance of warmth before the dark swallowed you again.
Then one voice swam softly through the haze, more tangible than the others before.
“Thank you maester, please ensure she has whatever she needs and that I might be summoned when…or if she wakes.”
Anger now tangled with the confusion. You wanted to shout, to tell them you were still here, still breathing but your tongue felt leaden, your eyelids heavier than stone. The words died before they could ever leave your lips.
Mercifully when you woke again there was no longer any burning bright light or painful poking, but there were no longer any voices either.
The room was dim, lit only by the waning fire beyond the bed where you lay. The scent of crushed herbs and fresh linen reached your nose, threaded faintly with sweat.
Lifting your head, even just a little, felt like it drained every ounce of strength, and just brought your attention sharply back to the dull, heavy throb in your side. Though you were almost grateful for the pain, as it served as a reminder that you were alive.
For a long time you remained still, the only measure of time passing being marked by your uneven breaths.
Though the world was clearer to you now, your memories were not. They came to you like ripples in water, fading before you could even quite figure out what they were.
The ringing of steel.
A chilling warmth.
The taste of salted iron.
Two pairs of Targaryen eyes.
Then it all rushed over you at once and suddenly you had to get up, had to move, had to find answers. Had to get out of wherever the hell you were.
Your arms felt weak, your fingers clumsy and heavy but you managed to sit up. A brush of cool air hit your legs as you weakly dragged the bedsheets off.
Your gaze drifted downward.
Linen was wrapped tightly around your middle, thick and firm beneath an unfamiliar cotton nightdress. You frowned faintly at the sight of it. The bandages looked heavy, deliberate.
Strangely, you could not remember the moment the blade had cut you, his blade.
Only the battle before it. The chaos. The noise. And the prince that stood over you.
The pain must have come later.
Perhaps that was a mercy.
Getting to your feet proved even harder. You swung your legs slowly over the side of the bed, your muscles trembling with the effort. For a moment you simply sat there, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
Then, gathering what strength you could, you pushed yourself upright.
The moment your weight settled on your legs, they nearly buckled beneath you.
You caught the bedpost just in time, gripping the wood tightly as your vision blurred. Your knees trembled violently, threatening to give way as your body protested against the sudden movement.
For a moment you could only cling there, breathing hard, willing the weakness to pass.
It did give you enough time to search the room for something familiar but there was nothing to be found. Your pack, armour and sword…all gone.
It spurred you onwards towards the door, panic more than sense taking over now.
The corridor beyond was gloomy and silent. You pressed close to the wall, using it to steady yourself as you forced your legs to keep moving. A chill seeped through your bare feet and along your arms where they brushed the stone, sending a slow shiver crawling over your skin.
It stretched dauntingly ahead of you, as did the realisation that this was Ashford castle, and you had been put here, and kept here?
Fear crept in with the chill now.
You had played the Targaryens, and most men on that tourney field for fools. Were they keeping you alive and close now just to see you punished?
Perhaps you could’ve waited in that room, waiting on their whim for when you’d learn of what they decided to do with you, but patience has never been one of your virtues.
Around two corners and down a set of stairs, and at the end of it the deep murmur of voices finally found you.
You shuffled along steadily, fighting the way the world tilted and swam around you. Everything still felt distant, unreal, as though you were watching it all unfold from somewhere just outside yourself.
What had first been a low murmur slowly separated into distinct words and steady voices. They spoke quietly, but there was a weight to their tones that was measured, deliberate, the sort of authority that carried even when kept low.
These were not servants speaking in the hall.
You slowed to a stop, catching yourself against the wall as a wave of dizziness passed through you. The cold stone steadied you somewhat, rough beneath your palm.
For a moment you simply stood there, listening.
A bitter thought crept in despite yourself. The last time you had lingered in these corridors, listening where you ought not to, it had been with far lighter consequences in mind. Then it had felt almost like a dare, another small risk taken in the shadow of the tourney at Ashford Castle.
Now it felt very different.
For one thing, Duncan’s voice was now achingly absent among these ones.
“...you have been a most gracious host my Lord,” a soft voice said. “I regret however, that our presence has given the singers a story of Ashford they will not let die soon.”
“It has been my honour your grace, you are welcome to its halls for as long as you wish.” Another replied eagerly.
“I thank you, but we will be on our return to King’s Landing as soon as my nephew is stable enough for the journey.”
There was a small shift among the men, the faint rustle of movement.
“And the girl?” A different man spoke.
“Your Grace, if I may, she entered the trial in disguise. A woman is no knight. By law alone the trial could be considered invalid. It would be well within your rights to see her punished.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, and you with it.
Then another voice spoke, thoughtful, but cautious. “...perhaps she was sent by the gods as an instrument of divine will.”
“Divine fucking will.” Another scoffed.
You pictured the silver hair and beard that belonged to the speaker, as well as the scowl that matched it.
It was hard not to share the sentiment though, these men might do anything to reconcile with the idea of a woman holding a sword.
“Her courage is more important than custom. She fought with honour just as any man on that field” The first voice returned. “I believe we should set this matter to rest.”
Silence settled thickly in the room, the kind that comes when men must accept a prince’s judgment whether they wished to or not.
“Very well, Your Grace,” another man said at last.
For a moment you stayed where you were, leaning against the cold stone wall, letting the tension slowly drain from your body. Relief came cautiously, like something you hardly trusted, as the words settled heavily in your mind.
‘Set the matter to rest.’
Then fatally, the corridor started to sway again.
You pushed yourself away from the wall before the dizziness could swallow you again, forcing your feet to move.
One corner. Then another. Each step felt heavier than the last. The dull ache in your side stirred with every movement, the pain gradually sharpening as though it had been waiting patiently for you to forget it.
The voices soon faded into the walls you left behind.
The castle seemed strangely distant now, the corridors stretching longer than they had before, the torchlight flickering in soft distracting halos along the walls. Your hand drifted back to the stone for balance more than once as the world threatened to tilt beneath you.
By the time you reached the half familiar hallway leading back to your chamber, you knew you were close to fainting. The door however stood just achingly ahead, slightly ajar, the dim glow of the fire inside spilling welcomingly into the corridor.
Only minutes ago the bed had felt like a prison you were desperate to escape, now it was the only refuge your body wanted.
Almost there.
You took one step toward the bed. Then another.
Your hand reached for the bedpost, but the distance was treacherously farther than it had seemed. The strength left your legs all at once, as though someone had cut the strings holding you upright.
Then the floorboards rushed up to meet you, the impact sending a sharp burst of pain through your side that stole the breath from your lungs.
Your fingers twitched weakly against the floor, but your arms refused to lift you. And then the weight of exhaustion settled over you like a heavy cloak, dragging you downward no matter how hard you tried to fight it.
The fire continued to crackle faintly in the hearth somewhere beyond your blurred vision.
You let out a slow, unsteady breath, and the room returned quietly back into blackness.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Something was shaking you. Relentlessly.
You tried to ignore it, tried to sink back into the soft, painless dark where nothing hurt and nothing demanded anything of you. But the shaking came again, more insistent this time, tugging at you to return to the world.
Your eyelids fluttered open weakly. The world beyond them was thick and slow when it finally crept into view, shapes swimming and blurring like reflections in disturbed water.
“Please… wake up.”
The voice was small, tight with worry. It was one you had heard before.
You blinked, forcing your eyes to focus.
A round familiar face hovered above you, framed by the dim light of the chamber. The owner’s violet eyes wide with anxious relief.
“Egg?” The name left your cracked lips as little more than a rasp.
For a heartbeat he simply stared at you, as though he scarcely believed you were awake at all.
Then he moved all at once.
His small arms wrapped suddenly around your neck, nearly knocking the breath from you. The sudden pressure made you wince, as pain flared sharply through your ribs, but you lifted your arms anyway, gladly returning the embrace as best you could.
Funny, you thought, how someone you had known only a handful of days could already feel so familiar.
And for the first time since waking, the room felt a little less strange.
Egg pulled back just enough to look at you again, his expression a strange mixture of relief and lingering panic.
“I thought for a second you might—” He stopped himself, swallowing the rest of the words. His brows furrowed as he glanced down at you. “But why are you on the floor?”
You managed a weak breath that might have been a laugh. “I fell… I suppose I overestimated my strength.”
Egg immediately scrambled to his feet, letting you use his body to hoist yourself up. “Here let me help you.” For someone so small, he held you with surprising determination.
Your fingers tightened slightly on his sleeve, your first question begging to be answered. “Is Duncan alright?”
Egg nodded quickly. “Yes well, I think he’s faring a little better than you are, but…Lord Harding was taken in the first charge.”
The brief relief that had begun to settle in your chest faltered. Your gaze dropped for a moment as the words sank in. You had known someone must have fallen, trials of seven rarely ended cleanly, but knowing it and hearing the name were two very different things.
“Lord Harding…” you repeated quietly.
Your mind drifted back to the field, the dust rising beneath trampling feet, the shouting, the brutal ring of steel on steel. Faces had blurred in the chaos, men moving and falling faster than thought could keep pace. And yet you had fought beside him, shoulder to shoulder, without ever having spoken a single word to the man.
Egg’s expression dimmed as well, the moment of brightness fading just as quickly as it had come. He glanced toward the door before lowering his voice.
“I heard the lords speaking. My father too. They said you could be tried for it—for the disguise. For pretending to be a knight.” He swallowed. “They said you could be imprisoned.”
He climbed onto the edge of the bed beside you, sitting stiffly, his hands twisting together in his lap.
“I begged him to spare you,” he continued in a hurried rush. “I told him I commanded you to fight, that you couldn’t refuse a prince. I thought… maybe that would help.” His words stumbled over each other. “I’m sorry.”
He looked up at you again, urgency returning all at once. “There’s still time,” he said quickly. “You could leave. I know where your sword is—it’s in my uncle’s—”.
“It’s okay, Egg,” you murmured, your voice still thin with exhaustion. Slowly, haltingly, you told him what you had heard in the corridor, or what little of it you could piece together through the haze of pain and dizziness.
Egg listened closely, the tension in his shoulders easing little by little as you spoke.
“Well he does owe you.” A boyish grin tugged at his mouth. “Your fight with my father, it was incredible. I wish you could’ve seen the look on his face afterwards, I’ve never seen him that way.”
Before you could respond, Egg hopped off the bed, excitement overtaking him completely. “The way you evaded his attacks…
He delved into an enthusiastic performance, eyes bright as he darted about the chamber swinging his imaginary sword through the air. He ducked suddenly to one side, then the other, twisting his body as if avoiding a rain of blows from an unseen opponent.
“And then Father came at you again, like this!” he said, lunging forward with surprising ferocity.
“But you blocked it!” he continued, “Everyone thought he had you, but you just—” he slashed the air again, nearly knocking over a stool, “—turned it on him.”
You watched him in tender silence, leaning weakly against the bed, the pain in your side briefly forgotten as the young prince hopped and spun about the chamber with earnest determination.
And then you noticed the figure in the doorway.
He stood just beyond the threshold, tall and still. There was the faintest hint of amusement at the corner of his mouth, as though he had arrived in time to witness the end of Egg’s enthusiastic performance.
His gaze moved past Egg and settled on you.
For a brief moment the two of you simply looked at one another across the room, the air settling into a quiet stillness. There was something searching in his expression, as though he were measuring you again, now that the dust of the trial had settled.
Baelor Targaryen stepped further into the room, the firelight catching the silver strands in his dark hair. His gaze lingered briefly on the bulge of bandages at your side before returning to your face. Suddenly you wondered whether the sore gash across your cheek really looked as bad as it felt.
“I am glad to see you have survived your victory, Ser.”
Egg turned toward his uncle, the bravado of his swordplay vanishing at once. For a moment he looked very small again, far younger than he had a heartbeat ago. “I’m sorry, your grace I-.”
“It’s quite all right,” Baelor said gently. “Though I suspect your father might remember the scene rather differently.”
He offered a faint smile, but it lingered unanswered in the quiet of the room. “If you would leave us now please Aegon.”
“Of course, your grace.” Egg answered. He turned back to you before going, offering one last anxious smile, as if to reassure himself you were truly awake. Then he slipped out into the corridor, the door closing softly behind him.
Suddenly you were acutely aware of yourself, of the rough linen sheets, of the ache beneath your ribs, of the cool air against skin that was far too bare. You tugged the covers higher, clutching them instinctively to your chest as though they might serve as armor.
Across the room, he regarded you quietly, his long fingers idly turning the ring on his hand.
“Egg kept vigil beyond your door,” Baelor said. “He would not depart his post all the while you were asleep, insisting upon standing guard until word came of your condition, that he might be certain you were safe.”
“…He’s a good boy.”
Baelor nodded once to you, before turning towards the fireplace. “I owe you my thanks, you perhaps saved me a nasty blow,” He smiled faintly as if remembering something. “My brother is a formidable man,” he added, turning back to face you. “As I expect you discovered for yourself.”
You shifted slightly against the pillows, wincing as the movement tugged at your wound, avoiding his gaze. The memory of the clash, the noise, the shouts, still rang in your ears.
“You don’t owe me anything, I wasn’t fighting for you,” Your eyes lingered somewhere near his shoulder rather than his face, “…your grace.” The words felt awkward on your tongue.
For a moment you thought you might have offended him.
But his expression didn’t change.
“All the same, you fought with a particular courage and it shouldn’t go unnoticed. And it hasn’t.” He replied. “I believe there are whispers among the small folk of the ‘lady in mail’.”
Your brow lifted faintly despite yourself. “I suppose there are worse names.”
“Indeed, but I can’t pretend your tale has pleased everyone… there’s disgruntlement among the lords and knights. A woman stepping between them and a question of honour is not a story that sits comfortably with their pride.”
You finally glanced back at him then, your fingers tightened slightly in the sheets. “I know but I’d do it again. For Duncan.”
“As would I.”
The weigh of both of your quiet confessions filled the room.
For a moment, Baelor simply held your gaze, a look you had quickly come to find as unsettling as it was strangely compelling. Up closer, you could make out the details of him more clearly, the weathered bronze of his skin, marked by sun and years, and the dark beard along his jaw, already threaded with streaks of grey. His hair, the same deep shade, was beginning to silver at the temples, and his nose bore the slight bend of a break that had healed long ago.
Silence enveloped the room.
“Your horse is safe in the stables,” he added almost as an afterthought as if bringing himself back to reality. “Though I’m told it took three stable hands and a great deal of patience to calm the poor creature after the trial. It seems it was as determined to fight as its rider.”
You smiled gently, though the thought lingered uneasily in your mind. You had dragged the animal into that storm as surely as you had yourself, only you at least had a choice in the matter.
“Well Lord Ashford has kindly offered his hall to you for however long you need it, and I shall alert the maester that you are awake.”
You suspected Lord Ashford’s generosity might have been somewhat less forthcoming, had a request undoubtedly not come from a prince.
He turned to the door as words seemed to escape your throat.
“Thank you, your grace.” The admission felt strangely difficult. “I know you didn’t have to argue for me.”
Then he gave a small nod, neither grand nor dismissive, but something quieter. Almost private.
“Rest,” he said.
For a long moment after he left, you simply stared at the door.
The quiet he left behind seemed louder than the conversation itself. The faint scrape of boots in the corridor faded, then vanished entirely, and the chamber fell back into the slow rhythm of a sickroom: the distant murmur of the castle, the soft crackle of the hearth, and your thoughts.
His words lingered in your mind, the ‘lady in mail’. You could almost hear the smallfolk saying it in the markets, passing the story between them like gossip over bread and ale.
You were not sure whether the thought filled you with pride or dread. The voices of the smallfolk could so easily be ones of admiration or mocking scorn.
Not longer after the Maester came to check your wounds, assuring you that there were no signs or fever or infection. And then the maid servants followed suit.
They worked gently, washing away the stale sweat and dust of the past days with warm cloths and soap that smelled faintly of lavender. Their hands were careful around the bandages, patient in a way that felt almost strange.
The quiet attentiveness of it all felt oddly unsettling, as if you had wandered into someone else’s life and were wearing it poorly.
Your thoughts drifted as they worked.
You couldn’t help but turn over everything. The fact that you had participated in a trial of seven and lived to tell the tale, the mercy of a Targaryen prince and how two days ago you hadn’t dreamt of being any more than a part of the watching crowd.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next morning had settled fully over the castle by the time you awoke, and finally forced yourself out of bed.
The first attempt nearly ended with you back on the floor. Your legs trembled the moment you put weight on them, and the dull ache in your side sharpened immediately into something far less forgiving.
You reached for the simpler things laid out nearby, a simple everyday gown someone had left folded on the chair. Even dressing proved an ordeal. Every motion pulled at the bandage around your middle, forcing you to pause more than once to wait out the sharp protest in your ribs.
By the time you had finished lacing the back of your dress, you were already winded. You took a moment to rest, chewing on a piece of toast that the servants had left behind while you slept.
The thick castle walls had become enough for you and you needed air, and you needed to see Duncan.
You left your chamber quietly and made your way into the corridors. The stone passageways felt less confusing than they had the day before; either you were stronger now, or your mind had finally begun to settle after the haze of fever and pain. Your steps were still careful, the dull pull in your side reminding you not to move too quickly, but at least the world no longer tilted beneath your feet.
The sudden lurch in your stomach, however, was very real when you turned a corner and nearly walked straight into someone, and soon realised who it was.
You stopped short.
So did he.
For a moment neither of you moved, the narrow corridor suddenly feeling far smaller than it had a moment before. His presence filled the space with quiet, immovable certainty, and you felt the strange awareness of standing directly in his path.
Your eyes lifted slowly to meet his.
Maekar Targaryen stood a few paces away, broad and unmoving as the stone walls themselves. Even without armour he was impossibly imposing.
Harsh light from a nearby window caught the pale silver of his hair, the colour stark against the darker shadow of the passage.
The marks of old pox scars mottled his pale face, faint but impossible to miss once seen, lending his features a roughened edge that made his gaze feel all the more unforgiving.
You noticed a deep purple bruise high on his cheekbone and wondered briefly if you had been the one to put it there.
Yesterday you had stood across a field from this man with steel in your hand, half certain his face would be the last thing you ever saw. It felt strangely unreal to meet him now in a quiet corridor with nothing between you but a few paces of stone.
“You’re walking.” He noted. It seemed more of a statement than a question.
“Yes.” You replied, shifting slightly on your feet.
“Have you seen my son? I had expected to find him haunting your door again.”
“No.”
The brevity of your answer hit the air with a bluntness that mirrored his own. A flicker of mild irritation crossed his face, marked by the slight flex in his hard jaw.
For a moment you thought that was the end of it, that he would simply continue on his way and leave the encounter buried in the quiet of the corridor.
But to your dismay, after only a few paces he stopped again.
“Who taught you to wield a blade?,” he asked, his voice echoing with a reluctant curiosity.
You let the silence stretch, before offering the only truth you had. “My father.”
“If I were your father I’d-.” He started.
“Yes, I know,” you said, the words escaping before caution could catch them. You squared your shoulders, meeting his gaze with a defiance that you knew was unwise yet unbreakable. “You’d probably have me marry my brother and submit to churning out silver-haired heirs, who will grow up to burn villages and call it justice.”
For a moment he just stared at you incredulous, the air around you icy despite the warm sun pouring in through a window.
Your quickness to anger would undoubtedly be the death of you.
“You speak boldly, especially for someone who owes her life to my brother’s mercy.” He fumed. “Your father may have taught you well but a wiser man would have taught you how to live in the world as it is.”
“I didn’t ask for mercy.” You said quietly.
“No, you asked for attention. You turned a trial by combat into a spectacle for half the realm.” He returned, looming over you, though you showed no signs of backing down.
A bark of humourless laughter escaped you. “With respect, your son turned the question of Targaryen honour into a spectacle, by snapping the fingers of an unarmed girl.”
“You presume to lecture me on honour? You disguised yourself as a knight, and forced my brother to defend your actions before every lord in attendance. You had courage but courage does not grant you the right to forget your place.”
Your jaw tightened faintly. “With respect, if everyone had remembered their place yesterday, Ser Duncan would be dead, your grace.”
The corridor seemed to hold its breath around you, and you could swear you almost heard his heart thumping in time with your own.
“If you see Aegon, tell him his father is looking for him.”
You didn’t stay to watch him limp away down the corridor, half relieved that it seemed to be the second encounter with him you had made it out alive from. You prayed there wouldn't be a third one.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The walk from the castle down toward the tourney grounds had been longer than you remembered. Your wound protested with every step, but the sharp edge of it was drowned beneath the rush of adrenaline still coursing through you.
Your heart was still beating harder than the walk alone could explain.
Maekar’s words followed you down the stone path like an unwelcome shadow.
They battled endlessly in your mind, each one striking against the next, mixing with the responses you had given, and the many more you had not.
The words you might have striked back at him if you had thought of them sooner. The ones that would have cut deeper. The ones that would have made you sound wiser instead of simply angry.
It was strange, you thought, how two brothers could carry the same name and yet cut from entirely different cloth.
Did they not share the same father? The same tutors, the same endless lessons in history and swordplay? Had they not once trained side by side in the same practice yards as boys, their boots kicking up the same dust?
Yet somewhere along the way the paths between them had split. One seemed so human while the other seemed to have been forged with all the hardness and fire of a dragon.
Before making your way down toward the tourney grounds, your steps carried you towards the castle stables, seeking an old friend amongst the new ones.
The air inside was warm and thick with the familiar smells of hay and leather, which were welcome to you after the stuffiness of the castle.
It was quieter than the courtyards outside, the morning bustle already drifting toward the pavilions and tents beyond the walls. A few stable boys moved about their work, but none paid you much attention as you walked slowly down the narrow aisle between the stalls.
Your horse lifted its head the moment you approached, ears flicking forward in recognition. The soft thud of its hoof against the straw sounded almost like a greeting.
You stepped inside the stall.
“Hello,” you murmured softly.
The horse nudged forward at once, pushing its nose against your shoulder with the impatient familiarity of an old companion. You lifted a hand in return, resting it against the warm line of its neck.
“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I dragged you into that mess,” you continued under your breath. “All that noise and shouting… the lances, the crowd.”
Your hand stilled briefly against its neck. “You didn’t ask for any of that.”
The horse shifted its weight slightly, blowing a warm breath against your sleeve. You huffed a faint, tired laugh.
“I suppose you did better than I did,” you said. “You at least had the sense not to get stabbed.”
It nudged your shoulder again as if impatient with your self-pity, and you scratched behind its ear, feeling some of the tightness in your chest ease.
“Still,” you murmured, leaning your forehead lightly against the side of its neck, “thank you.”
For a little while you stayed there in the quiet of the stable, listening to the soft sounds of shifting hooves and rustling straw, grateful for the quiet company.
Eventually you straightened again. There was somewhere else you needed to be, and someone else you needed to see.
You gave the horse one last pat along its neck before stepping back out into the aisle.
“Behave yourself,” you told it softly. “I’ll be back.”
You had decided to make for the Fossoway tent, hoping that Duncan would be there, or at least a friendly face who could tell you where he was. The familiar banners would too have been easy enough to spot among the sea of pavilions.
But you never made it that far.
A solemn but sweet music passed faintly out of a large nearby tent, underscored by the steady thrum of talk.
“To Harding!”
The cheer that followed was loud, but not joyful. It carried the strange mixture of respect and sadness that belonged more to remembrance than celebration.
Understanding settled over you. Without a second thought, you stepped inside.
The interior was crowded with knights, squires, and men-at-arms. Tankards lifted and lowered as men spoke in clusters around the long tables set beneath the striped canopy.
A few musicians sat near the back, coaxing that same gentle melody from their instruments while the gathered company drank in quiet honour of the fallen.
Your gaze swept the crowded space, searching for a familiar silhouette among the sea of boiled leather and surcoats.
It didn't take long to find him.
Duncan stood near the far side of the tent, hunched slightly over in conversation with a man at a table whose face you could not see.
You made your way towards them through the throng of tables, ignoring the eyes that fluttered to you as you passed.
Raymun’d voice cut through the din as you passed, flushed with the heat of the tent and the cider in his cup. He hailed you with a boisterous grin, calling for a flagon to be filled on his coin, but you lingered long enough only to return his sentiments.
“Nevertheless I congratulate you Ser, you’ve certainly done well for yourself.”
You reached out, your fingers pressing firmly against the rough wool of Duncan’s elbow.
He spun with a start, his massive frame nearly knocking a flagon from a nearby table, but the moment his eyes found yours, his breath hitched. He enveloped you instantly, a rib-crushing embrace that smelled of horsehair and old leather.
Yet, in that fleeting second before he pulled you close, you didn't miss the grim, hard set of his jaw.
Beside him, Prince Daeron sat slouched over a scarred trestle, watching the pair of you with an absent look. He looked more like a hungover squire than a prince of the blood, his silver-gold hair tangled and his doublet stained with wine.
“Well,” the Prince murmured, as he drained the last of his cup. “I suppose I should take my leave. I came for the ale, and now I’ve had my fill of it.”
He pushed himself up from the bench with an exaggerated sigh. He lingered a moment, his gaze drifting to you with a strange amusement. “I am glad to see you have survived your injuries, my lady… and my father’s pride. Both are equally dangerous to cross, I fear.”
Daeron offered a thin ghost of a smile, though it stopped well short of his bloodshot eyes. With a vague wave of a hand, he turned toward the tent flap,
“The gall he has to show up here—.” Duncan’s voice was low, the words half-swallowed in irritation as he the departing prince.
“I know,” you said quietly. “But come on, let’s sit before one of us collapses.”
The two of you found an empty table tucked into the corner of the tent, half-shadowed beneath the canvas.
You slid onto the bench first, gripping the edge of the table as you lowered yourself carefully.
Duncan moved a little slower himself, easing onto the opposite bench with the stiffness of a man whose body had also seen better days. His shoulders hunched slightly as he settled, one hand briefly pressing against his ribs.
He really did look awful, with one of his eyes fully close from a brutal purple bruise and barely a spot left unbloodied on his face.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The quiet between you felt strangely heavy, filled with everything that had happened since the last time you had stood together on that field.
The murmur of the wake continued around you; low voices, the scrape of tankards across wood, the soft thread of music drifting from the musicians, but it all seemed distant, as though you and Duncan were sitting in some smaller, quieter pocket of the tent.
The two of you were so clearly a marked more deeply by the last day than anyone else in that tent.
“I tried to come see you yesterday,” Duncan said at last, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “But they told me you were still resting.”
“Yeah whatever they gave me for the pain knocked me out cold for a while.” You replied.
“I can’t decide which of us looks the worse.” He let out a self deprecating huff. “I should’ve let you pass on that dirt track, maybe you’d have had more luck.”
You hoped he didn’t mean it.
“Between the two of us I think we make our own bad luck enough to turn it into good.” You smiled, though Duncan seemed to find it hard to return.
He leaned back slightly, studying you more carefully now, as though reassuring himself you were truly sitting there.
“I thought…” Duncan began, then stopped.
His gaze drifted past you, toward the open side of the pavilion where the empty tournament field lay beyond.
“I thought you might’ve died out there,” he admitted quietly.
The words hung awkwardly between you.
You tried to lighten them with a small breath of a laugh. “Well,” you said, “Prince Maekar certainly tried to make that possible.”
But Duncan didn’t smile, he simply shook his head once, slow and firm.
“I shouldn’t have let you do it,” he said. There was no anger in his voice, only a quiet certainty.
“You couldn’t have stopped me Duncan.” Your voice was steady now. “I made my decision and I would make it a million times over, because it was the right thing to do, consequences be damned. Just as you thought when you stepped between Aerion and Tanselle.”
Duncan accepted your words quietly, though the weight on his shoulders didn’t fade.
For a time the two of you remained there, the conversation drifting into quieter things, half-finished thoughts, the strange disbelief of having survived the chaos of the previous day.
Around you the wake carried on in its slow rhythm: cups raised, names spoken, the soft lament of the fiddlers weaving through the tent.
Eventually Duncan pushed himself carefully to his feet. “Perhaps we should make on our way.” he murmured, offering a large, calloused hand to steady you as you rose from the bench.
The two of you made your way toward the tent flap, weaving through clusters of knights and squires who paused in their conversations as you passed. Some nodded respectfully to Duncan. Others glanced toward you with open curiosity.
You had only just stepped beyond the canvas when a voice called after you.
“Well,” the knight drawled, his voice thick with the rasp of a man who had spent the afternoon shouting at the lists and the evening drowning his senses in the casks. “If it isn't the Lady in Mail herself."
The title carried a jagged edge, sharp enough to hook the attention of a nearby knot of men-at-arms. Beside you, you felt the massive frame of Duncan shift, his weight settling into a stance that promised a storm.
He held a half-empty cup, his cheeks flushed with the heat of the wine, though his eyes remained uncomfortably sharp.
He came to a halt, letting his gaze travel slowly from your skirts to your brow before it settled into a crooked, knowing half-smile.
The knight raised his tankard in a lazy, mocking salute. He took a heavy step closer, ale sloshing dangerously near the rim as he gestured toward you with a gloating tilt of his head. “Quite the show you gave yesterday,” he said, his smirk widening. “Though I was under the impression the Trial of Seven was reserved for knights and men of true honour.”
His mouth twisted, dripping with a sudden, ugly venom. “Instead, we find a woman creeping into the fray behind a false face.”
A ripple of low, jagged chuckles drifted from the shadows of the pavilion. The knight didn't flinch; he took a long pull of his ale, wiping his mouth with a greasy sleeve before continuing. “What honour is there in such a deception? I wonder… did Harding pay for your spectacle?”
Your gaze drifted across the tent rather than meeting the man’s eyes. The fiddlers had stopped playing entirely now, their bows hovering uncertainly over the strings. Tankards hung half-raised in the hands of watching men, the air thick with the anticipation of a fight.
“How dare you,” Duncan rumbled. The giant’s voice was low, vibrating in his chest like distant thunder, but it was edged with a cold, white-hot fury.
You felt suddenly, bone-deep, tired.
“Please,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as you reached out to steady yourself against Duncan’s arm. “Let’s go.”
For a moment it seemed he might not listen. He looked as if he were ready to bring the whole tent down upon the man. But after a breath he turned sharply and followed you out into the open air.
Duncan was still fuming as you left the tent behind, muttering dark curses under his breath. You listened in silence.
Strangely, you found you didn’t have the strength left for anger. The day had wrung something out of you, leaving only a dull heaviness in its wake.
“You know,” came a voice from behind you, warm with amusement, “I had not imagined you to be so pretty beneath your helm, Ser Gillem.”
You turned.
Lyonel Baratheon stood a few paces away, clearly well battered by the trial but relaxed, watching the two of you with a faint, knowing smile.
His dark eyes, sharp and full of life, flicked between you and the towering, sullen Duncan. “I know the prince wasn’t imagining your pretty face, when you were sending him stumbling around in the dirt either,” he continued, closing the distance.
He took your hand in his, his grip surprisingly gentle and raised it to his lips. “By the Seven, you can swing a sword, my lady.”
“Thank you, my lord,” you said. “Though I fear the credit may be somewhat exaggerated.”
Lyonel straightened, studying you with clear amusement. “Exaggerated?” he repeated. “Half the camp spent the afternoon arguing whether they had just witnessed the finest swordplay of the tourney or the greatest embarrassment ever dealt to a prince.”
Duncan let out a faint huff beside you, still clearly irritated from the encounter in the tent.
“I’m just glad to have gotten away with my life,” you added quietly.
At that, Lyonel’s smile softened slightly, the humor fading just a little from his expression.
“Well then,” he drawled, clapping him once on the shoulder, “I suppose I offer you my congratulations, Ser Duncan. It seems Baelor Targaryen has decided he cannot face the world without you looming behind him. I’d make peace with the departure of your honour, you’ll soon realise dragons don’t make good company.”
You looked between the two of them, confusion settling slowly across your face. “What do you mean?” you asked. “Duncan?”
Duncan still would not meet your gaze. He shifted his weight, as though the words themselves were difficult to carry.
“I pledged myself to Prince Baelor,” he muttered at last. “I’m to join his personal guard… and ride with him back to King's Landing.”
You watched him carefully as he spoke, as if the truth might change before the sentence finished. But it didn’t.
Something hollow opened quietly in your stomach and your smile came a moment too late. “That’s… that’s great,” you said.
Before either of them could see too much of your face, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him in a quick, shy embrace, and for a moment you were grateful for the excuse to hide your expression against his shoulder.
“It’s what you wanted,” you added softly.
Duncan hesitated before returning the hug, his arms settling awkwardly around you as if he wasn’t certain whether he deserved the congratulations.
When you pulled away, you turned instead toward Lyonel Baratheon, smoothing your expression into something polite. “I should head back to the castle,” you said. “I’m sorry if I don’t get to see you again before you leave, my lord.”
Lyonel waved a dismissive hand, though the easy smile never left his face.
“Nonsense. You’re welcome in the Storm’s End any time.” He placed a hand over his chest in mock ceremony. “Come to Storm's End and I’ll host a grand tourney in your honour.” His grin widened. “I should very much enjoy watching you knock a few green boys into the dirt.”
You tried to laugh, but the sound never quite came.
Duncan was watching you now, a faint crease forming between his brows. “I’ll walk you back up to the castle,” he said.
You shook your head immediately.
“No, that’s alright,” you replied, forcing lightness into your voice. “You’re hardly steady on your feet as it is. I’ll manage.”
Neither man looked entirely convinced.
“Goodbye,” you added quickly, already turning away.
The path up to the castle climbed steeply from the camp, the sounds of laughter and fiddles fading with every step you took. Torches burned low along the road, their light wavering in the wind as shadows stretched long across the ground.
You walked quickly at first, eager to put distance between yourself and the tents.
Duncan riding south with Baelor ‘Breakspear’ to King's Landing was considered an honor, even you could recognise that. It was the sort of thing songs were written about.
You should be glad for him. You were glad for him.
The thought repeated in your mind, but it felt strangely thin, like a piece of cloth worn nearly through.
Halfway up the hill your breathing began to change.
At first it was subtle, a little faster, a little shallower but then suddenly the air felt far too thin.
You tried to draw in a deeper breath, but it caught halfway, leaving your lungs tight and aching, which only made your heart begin to hammer even more.
Another step forward, and the sound of your boots on the ground echoed far too loudly in your ears.
Then the memory surged up without warning.
You could see it again as clearly as if it were happening now: the scream of a horse, the smell of churned mud and blood, the sharp jolt running up your arm every time your blade struck another’s.
Your breath came faster.
You remembered the moment you’d stumbled, the weight of armor dragging at your limbs, the terrifying second when a blade had flashed toward you through the chaos—
Then the path blurred before your eyes as your heart pounded harder, faster, until you were sure it was going to burst through your ribs. Your fingers trembled as you reached out blindly, finding the rough stone of the outer wall beside the road.
You leaned against it heavily.
Breathe.
But the air refused to come properly. You were convinced you were dying.
Your lungs worked in short, desperate bursts while the images still clung stubbornly to the edges of your vision, the dirt beneath your knees, the taste of copper in your mouth, the knowledge that one wrong movement would mean the end. It was all replaying over and over again in your head, no matter how much you tried to wish it away.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
You weren’t there. The trial was over. You were safe.
Still your body refused to believe it.
Your hands shook as you pressed your forehead against the cold stone, the chill grounding you in a way nothing else could. For a moment you stayed like that, breathing against the rough surface, letting the solid weight of it remind you where you were. Slowly, painfully slowly, the roaring in your ears began to quiet.
In. Out.
Your breaths grew deeper, though they still trembled.
Then finally the tourney field faded, leaving only the looming castle ahead and the distant murmur of the camp far below.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When you returned to your chamber, the door was already ajar.
Inside, Aegon was exactly where you should have expected him to be.
He stood in the middle of the room, your sword clutched in both hands, the blade wavering uncertainly as he attempted what looked like a very careful practice swing. The weapon was clearly too large for him; the point dipped toward the floor every time he tried to raise it again, forcing him to heave it back up with visible effort.
The sight might have been amusing under other circumstances.
“Please don’t play with my sword,” you said tiredly as you stepped inside. “Your father will have my head if you so much as give yourself a scratch.”
The adrenaline that had spiked during your walk, the phantom roar of the battlefield and the crushing weight in your chest, had finally abandoned you, leaving only a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion.
You lowered yourself onto the edge of the mattress, gripping the frame as the dull ache beneath your ribs flared sharply in protest.
Behind you, Egg hurriedly slid the blade back into its sheath, far more carefully than he had drawn it. He set it against the wall where it had been before, then turned back toward you.
The excitement that had lit his face a moment ago faded quickly.
He studied you for a moment, taking in your pale expression and the way your knuckles had turned a milky white in your grip.
“Are you alright?”
You nodded faintly, though your eyes remained anchored to a knot in the floorboards
Egg hesitated.
Then he stepped closer.
You felt his small hand settle over yours where it rested on the bed.
“Your hand is cold,” he said quietly.
You let your fingers curl around his without thinking, the warmth centering you slightly against the restless churn of thoughts still running through your head.
“I think I may have overexerted myself,” you admitted after a moment.
Egg didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead he shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other before speaking again.
“My uncle asked to see you,” he said. “He’s in the Lord’s solar.”
Your brow lifted faintly.
Egg hurried on. “But I can tell him you’re resting if you want. He wouldn’t mind, I’m sure.”
You drew in a slow breath, pushing yourself a little straighter despite your body’s every instinct telling you to submit to your exhaustion.
“No,” you said after a moment. “It’s alright. I’ll go.”
Egg studied you another second before nodding. “Alright,” he said. “I can show you the way.”
The walk across the castle was even quieter than the one you had made that morning. The long stone halls echoed softly with your footsteps as you followed Egg through turns and stairways you had not yet learned to navigate alone.
Every so often he glanced back at you.
You tried to ignore them. Instead your thoughts drifted ahead to the man waiting in the solar.
Baelor Targaryen had already shown you more kindness than you had expected from a prince. Which somehow made the summons feel more unsettling, not less.
You spent the rest of the walk wondering what exactly he might say. Had he changed his mind, now convinced by the lords and his brother that you were little more than a fraud, hell bent on making the matter of Targaryen honour a joke?
The heavy oak doors of Lord Ashford’s solar loomed at the end of the gallery.
Before Egg could knock, raised voices drifted through the door, or rather, one raised voice did.
“So you not only spare her, but reward her.”
You and Egg both froze, shooting each other a wide eyed look but not daring to move an inch.
Inside the solar, Baelor answered with the same measured calm you had come to recognise.
“She fought with honour,” he said evenly. “And with skill that few knights possess. She deserves a chance to hone her skills, to train.”
“Train?” the other voice repeated incredulously. Maekar sounded as though the word itself offended him.
“As what, exactly? A curiosity? A court spectacle for idle lords?”
“I have made my decision, brother.”
Maekar’s reply came low and sharp. “Very well. On your head so be it.”
Egg barely had time to step back before the door was wrenched open.
Maekar strode out into the corridor with the force of a storm breaking loose. His cloak swung sharply behind him, and the anger that had been contained within the solar now seemed to fill the passage itself.
He stopped short when he saw the two of you standing there. For the briefest moment his pale eyes flicked between your face and his sons’.
“Eavesdropping now?” he said curtly.
Egg straightened at once. “No, Father, we were just—”
Maekar cut him off with a sharp motion of his hand. “Come,” he said.
Egg hesitated.
Maekar’s gaze hardened. “Now, Aegon.”
Reluctantly, he glanced back at you once before stepping toward his father who was already striding down the corridor, before you offered him a sympathetic smile in return.
Within moments their footsteps had faded around the corner and the corridor fell quiet again.
Behind you, the solar door remained open.
“You may come in, you know.” Baelor’s voice carried from inside,
You stepped cautiously into the room.
Baelor stood beside the window with his hands resting neatly behind his back.
“I suspect,” he said gently, “that you have already heard the substance of our conversation.”
You shifted slightly. “Some of it, your grace.”
Baelor inclined his head. “Then I will spare us both the theatrics of pretending otherwise. I meant what I said.”
Baelor watched you for another moment before continuing.
“You fought yesterday with courage and discipline that many men train their whole lives to achieve,” he said. “It would be a waste to send you back into the world without the opportunity to refine that skill.”
He paused briefly.
“In King’s Landing there are training yards, masters-at-arms, and opportunities that simply do not exist elsewhere.”
His gaze met yours steadily. “I would offer you a place there.”
For a moment the words hung between you, heavy with possibility.
King’s Landing.
You never had layed eyes upon the place or even wished to, having forever associated it with the family you hated. And now the family you had been given the opportunity to serve.
It would have felt like an impossible gift to anyone else. And despite your supposed hatred of the family that offered it the first thing that came to your mind was the echo of Maekar’s voice.
A spectacle.
A weakness.
“I can’t.”
The words came out quieter than you intended.
Baelor Targaryen did not react immediately, nor did he seem at all surprised by your answer.
“I heard what Prince Maekar said.”
A flicker of something unreadable passed across Baelor’s face at the mention of his brother.
You forced yourself to continue. “He’s not wrong,” you said begrudgingly. “You offering me something like that… it makes it look as though you’re rewarding me for what I did.”
“You believe you should be punished instead?” Baelor asked mildly.
“That isn’t what I meant.” You let out a slow breath, searching for the words.
“Yesterday was already more than enough of a spectacle,” you said. “If you bring me to King’s Landing after that to train me as some sort of… knight, people will say exactly what he said they would.”
Your gaze drifted briefly toward the window behind him. “That you’re weak. So soft are you that you’ll have a woman protect you.”
You couldn’t quite believe you were saying the words as they left your mouth. Nor did you know whether the intention was to spare Baelor’s dignity or your own.
Why should you accept for either of your sakes.
If you did ride to court, it meant standing beneath the eyes of the realm, listening while lords who had watched you fight now laughed behind polite smiles at the woman who had dared wear a knight’s armour.
It meant serving the very family whose judgement had hung over your head only hours before. The family that you had spent almost your entire life cursing.
And yet the thought of leaving alone was no easier.
It meant leaving Duncan behind, and the boy who had waited outside your door as though your life were worth guarding. It meant turning away from the one place in the Seven Kingdoms where you might truly learn freely, where better knights than you walked the halls and where every day you might sharpen the skill you had bled for.
Then your father came to mind.
You wondered what he would have said if he could see you now, standing in the solar of Ashford Castle, weighing whether to ride south in the company of princes.
He had fought for the dragons once, long before you were old enough to understand what that meant. He had ridden beneath their banners during the Blackfyre Rebellion, when the realm had torn itself apart over which branch of their blood should rule.
Had he really seen something in the Targaryens worth giving his life for, that you hadn’t?
Baelor didn’t move for a moment.
Then he gave a soft, almost thoughtful huff of breath. “My brother has never lacked confidence in his opinions.”
You glanced back at him.
“But you think he’s right,” Baelor said.
“I think…” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “I think you have more important things to worry about than defending your choice of guards.”
Even as the words left your mouth, part of you wondered why you were arguing with him at all.
“You believe this offer is about gratitude,” he said.
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
His answer came simply.
“It is about potential.”
Your brow tightened slightly.
Baelor continued.
“You stepped between princes, knights, and a crowd of watching lords without hesitation,” he said. “You fought with composure under pressure that would have broken many trained men.”
His gaze held yours steadily.
“That is not something I am inclined to ignore because it makes certain people uncomfortable.” The quiet firmness in his voice left little room for argument.
Still, you shook your head faintly.
“With respect, your grace… I don’t belong in King’s Landing.”
“Few people do,” Baelor replied dryly. “I sometimes think I don’t myself.”
Despite yourself, you almost smiled. But the unease remained.
For a moment the room fell quiet again, the faint crackle of the hearth in the corner filling the space between you.
Baelor folded his hands loosely behind his back. “I am not asking you to decide at this moment,” he said at last. “But we ride early tomorrow…if you do wish to come with us.”
“Thank you, your grace.” Your words were not a hollow courtesy.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dawn had only just begun to touch the towers when you reached the yard.
The sky above Ashford Castle was still pale with early light, the first thin streaks of gold creeping slowly over the sky. The castle was already awake. Stablehands moved between the horses with quiet urgency, breath rising in clouds in the chill morning air as saddles were tightened and straps checked for the long road ahead.
It had not taken long to pack what little you possessed.
Your belongings had never amounted to much, your weathered armour, a whetstone, the few small things that had followed you from place to place these past years.
They now sat tied behind your saddle in a worn bundle that looked almost laughably small beside the baggage of the noble riders gathering in the yard.
You ran a hand along your horse’s neck as you fastened the last strap, feeling the familiar warmth beneath its coat. The poor creature had calmed since the chaos of the trial, though it shifted impatiently beneath your touch, as if sensing another journey ahead.
Beyond the stables, a cluster of riders had already begun to form near the gate. Cloaks stirred in the morning wind.
The road north waited beyond those walls.
Toward King's Landing.
You stood there for a moment longer than necessary, your hand still resting against the saddle leather.
It would have been easy to turn away even now. To remain here at Ashford, to slip back into the quieter life on that dirt track, the one you had known before all this madness had begun.
Instead, you gathered the reins and led your horse across the yard.
Fic that can be read as a complement to this one: here
— summary: on your wedding anniversary, ser duncan makes a disastrous mistake when he assumes that baelor and maekar are merely your overprotective chaperones rather than your husbands—yes, both of them.
— pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!sister!reader x maekar targaryen
— word count: 2.5k
— content: targcest, polyamory, fluff and humor, dunk being his usual cute himbo self, mentions of reader's hair length, jealous & protective husbands, maekar is a grump, baelor is the sweetest, teasing, implicit sexual references, pda.
⋆ . ۰˚ ౨ৎ ── series masterlist with different characters’ versions: here!
The Great Hall of the Red Keep is a sea of black and scarlet. Tapestries fluttered in the draft, and the smell of roasted boar and spiced wine filled the air.
At the high table sit the Three, the very heart of the realm's stability. Baelor and Maekar flank you like twin pillars. You, their sister–queen, sit beautifully between them, the golden thread that holds their polar opposite temperaments in a perfect, peaceful balance. For a rare moment in the history of the Red Keep, the dragons are at rest, and the hall hums with the contented music of a kingdom in celebration.
Dunk had heard this was a day of great celebration. Seeing the flowers and the finery, he simply assumed it was your Name Day. After all, why else would two such powerful men be hovering over you so protectively?
Among the crowd of polished lords and perfumed ladies, his figure stands out like a mountain in a field of hills. The knight sits uncomfortably in his seat, his massive frame barely fitting the chair provided.
Beside him, little Egg is busy stuffing his face with lemon cakes, looking far too amused by his friend's gaze directed at you, complicitly laughing at some comment Maekar has whispered into your ear.
“Don't look at her too much, father won't like it,” the young prince struggles to swallow the rest of his pastry so he can scold the knight, who eventually turns to look at him, his brow wrinkling slightly in confusion.
“Why are those two hovering over her like guarding hounds?” he ventures to ask once he clears his throat, genuinely interested in knowing.
But as Egg thinks he's just cracking a joke, he rolls his eyes, unamused by his little attempt at humor, and goes back to devouring his plate of food.
When the moment comes for the two of them to go over to the big main table where you're sitting, he can feel his heart about to burst out of his chest.
He had seen high-born ladies before, but not one quite like you, with your silver hair braided with pearls and your eyes ablaze like flames of violet, making him feel as if he is in the presence of a goddess herself.
“Your Graces,” Dunk salutes your brothers, bowing so low his head is nearly level with the table. That brings a sweet smile to your face. “And to you, M–my Princess... a very happy Name Day. May you have seventy more, each as— as beautiful as the last.”
Baelor raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “Name Day, Ser Duncan?”
“Aye, Your Grace,” Dunk responds, his gaze drifting back to you, his expression one of pure, wide-eyed adoration. “It’s only right that the whole city celebrates. I’ve traveled from the Reach to the Wall, but I’ve never seen a wonder quite like the Princess. You’re... well, you’re like a sunset over the Summer Sea.”
Dunk, feeling bold just because he thinks he is merely being a kind knight to a young maiden, looks at Baelor and Maekar with a sympathetic expression.
“It must be hard for you two,” he then says earnestly.
Maekar’s eyes narrow, already irritated by how much the knight has spoken. “Hard? In what way, boy?”
“Well,” Dunk continues, completely unaware of the cliff he is walking off, “having such a sister. You’ll have to beat the suitors off with clubs!” He blows air like a boy in love, “a woman this beautiful is a full-time job for any man—I can see why it takes both of you just to keep her from being stolen away by a better-looking lord.”
He turns back to you, missing the puzzled, frowing looks on the faces of the two brothers by your sides as they both stare at him.
Ser Duncan just gives you a toothy, innocent grin. “You're far too much woman for just any ordinary man to handle, anyway, Your Grace.”
The silence that comes after his words isn't instantaneous; it's a ripple that spreads from the high table and fills the Great Hall like winter itself has just walked in. The strumming of a lute dies on a sour note, and the clinking of glasses stops all at once.
Prince Aerion is mid-gulp when Dunk finishes his little speech. The sheer absurdity of the hedge knight's words—treating both of your husbands like a lowly chaperones—sends the wine straight into his windpipe. A sharp, mocking bray of laughter crawls up his throat, clashing with the liquid.
“A—a sunset...” Aerion manages to choke out between violent coughs and laughs, clearly more amused by the situation than everyone else. “A sunset over the Summer Sea! Gods be good—”
Beside him, Valarr doesn't look nearly as amused. He reaches over and delivers a heavy, bruising slap to Aerion’s back—ostensibly to help him breathe, but in reality, he’s trying to knock the wind out of him to shut him up.
Dunk, still beaming with his big, innocent smile, looks around as he senses a crowd of eyes locked on him and his smile gradually begins to fade from his face.
The murmurs break out immediately after, like a disturbed hornet's nest.
Egg, standing right behind Dunk, slaps a hand over his face, totally crushed by embarrassment. He drags his palm down his features, his fingers digging into his forehead as a flush of crimson heat crawled up his neck, turning his ears the color of a tomato.
At your side, the temperature seems to drop ten points. Maekar becomes so rigid that for a moment you fear he has morphed into a statue beside you. His knuckles, clenched over the table, are white, and his icy eyes, frozen on Dunk, promise a slow and painful execution.
Baelor, ever the diplomat, leans against the back of the chair and lays a hand on your lap, seeking your touch to soothe his own anger and offense and simply staring up at him with the purest of displeasure.
You, for your own part, bit your lip, trying to suppress a laugh. “Ser Duncan, you are too kind. But this is not my Name Day. It is the anniversary of my wedding.”
Duncan blinks again, looking between the three of you, starting to feel a surge of coldness begin to creep up his body from his feet. “Wedding? But... to—to which one?”
“Both, you witless, low-born clodpoll!” Maekar finally snaps, barking back at him and making you wince. “She’s our wife!”
Duncan can definitely feel the tension in the room now, and he takes a moment to look carefully at the three of you, studying the whole scene. Baelor is no longer smiling, and his hand rests over yours on the table now, intertwining his fingers with yours. On your other side, Maekar is glaring at Dunk as if he could somehow burn him out of existence with his fiery gaze, his hand possessively gripping you around the waist.
Dunk’s jaw drops.
He looks once again at Baelor, then Maekar, then back to you and his brain seemed to short–circuit.
“Oh...” He squeaks, his mind scrambling to come up with the appropriate words. “Oh!—that... that certainly is— efficient—Seven hells—”
He drops to his knees before you, bowing his head in supplication, his ears burning with a deep, terrified crimson that matches his surcoat.
“I thought... I assumed— I have no excuse for my ignorance—I am t–truly sorry, I beg your mercy,” Dunk’s voice cracks, resembling more that of a frightened squire than a knight of the realm. He doesn't dare look up.
He squeeze his eyes shut, his massive shoulders shaking as he stammers out a final plea. “Please, Your Graces, it was my mind that was blinded by the Princess’s— I mean, the Queen's... radiance. My tongue simply tripped over my heart.”
Egg, who remains loyal by his side despite all the commotion, gives him a little kick to make him shut up once and for all. He knows all too well that the knight’s ‘compliments’ are sounding more like treason with every passing breath.
You stand up, letting your lovers' hands slide off your body, which makes them even more upset.
“Rise, Ser Duncan,” you urge him, smiling genly as you reach out to him, making a gentle gesture with your hand. “Please, before you burrow a hole through the floorboards.”
Dunk looks up very slowly, his face a mask of pure mortification. When you extend your hand to him, he stares at it as if it were a holy relic he isn't allowed to touch. “Forgive me, Your Grace—Graces”
“We forgive you, Ser. You haven't done anything wrong,” you declare, your eyes dancing with mischief. “In fact, I should thank you. It isn't every day someone tells my husbands to their faces that I am ‘too much woman’ for them to handle. It’s a refreshing change of pace.”
While you are enjoying the comedy, the grumpy men on either side of your empty chair are significantly less amused as they share a single glance behind you at your words, their pride stung by the knight’s clumsy suggestion that any man in the Seven Kingdoms could be a ‘better’ match for you.
Then Baelor stands up as well and he doesn't look angry—he looks disappointed, which is somehow worse.
“You would do well to remember who sits at this table before you start offering advice on ‘better-looking lords’ again, Ser Duncan,” Baelor suggests, his voice calm but carrying a sharp edge of authority. “Some mistakes cannot be laughed away.”
Dunk gulps so loudly it is audible. “Y-yes, Your Grace. Of course.”
But it is Maekar who provide the true chill, naturally. He does not stand; he simply leans forward, with his two hands propped against the table. His eyes are like chips of amethyst ice.
“My brother is a diplomat, you churlish knight,” he hisses, his voice vibrating with a low, dangerous threat. “I am not. If you ever imply again that I can't handle my own wife or that she might be stolen away by some better-looking lord, I will personally ensure you never speak another word. I’ll have that clumsy tongue of yours pulled out and fed to the hounds before the sun rises.”
Dunk turns even paler, nodding frantically. “I understand, King Maekar. I— I'll go now. Q–quietly. Very quietly.”
Dunk backs away, bowing at every step, nearly knocking over a wine bearer in his haste to disappear from your husbands' sights.
Egg follows behind him, looking like he wants to crawl into a hole and suffocate from embarrassment as he offers you three a fleeting apologetic smile, which you are quick to return to him in an attempt to ease his distress.
You could hear the tall knight muttering to your son as they both retreat: “Why didn't you fucking tell me?!”
Finally, you turn your gaze back to your husbands. You lean in close to Maekar, brushing a lingering kiss against his sullen, stone-cold cheek to soothe the fire in his blood. On your other side, you give Baelor’s hand a firm, grounding squeeze, wordlessly urging him to reclaim his seat as you settle back into yours between them.
The tension, once thick enough to choke a whole dragon, begins to dissipate like smoke in a breeze. Seeing the Queen’s playful smile and the way she effortlessly tames the two most powerful men in the realm, the place finally exhales and the musicians scramble for their instruments.
A lively, upbeat tune—The Bear and the Maiden Fair—begins to bounce off the stone walls, the drums kicking in with a rhythmic thump that mimics a heartbeat returning to normal.
“Oh, stop it, both of you,” you tease them. “You’ve terrified the poor man. And besides... he did say I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Surely that's worth a little mercy?”
Maekar huffs humorlessly, taking a long sip of his wine to quell the rage building up in his throat. “He's lucky he's so fucking tall,” he mutters. “It makes his neck a harder target.”
Baelor blinks, his diplomatic mask slipping for a split second before a soft, disbelieving chuckle escapes his lips. “Efficiency. I don't think I've ever heard our union described as a logistical convenience before.”
“He just didn’t know,” you shrug, not really taking it as seriously as your kings do.
Maekar turns to give you an incredulous glance, but his eyes soften significantly as soon as they lock onto yours. “He didn’t know about the marriage of the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms?”
Then he huffs again and this time makes an effort to convey his feelings—as you usually insist he should. “Better-looking lords... what the fuck does that supposed to mean?”
You can't help the small, knowing smirk that tugs at your lips. You lean back into the space between them, feeling the radiating heat of their possessive energy.
“Oh,” you muse softly, your voice carrying just enough tease to make them both look at you. “I see. It’s the ‘better-looking’ part that truly haunts you both, isn't it? My poor, insecure dragons.”
Baelor rolls his eyes at your silly teasing, however, he is unable to suppress a soft smile as he observes you bring his hand to your lips to lay a reassuring kiss on his knuckles.
“Don't be absurd, wife,” Maekar grumbles and he doesn't pull his hand away when you reach out to him now. “The man is a fool. His aesthetic judgment is as poor as his lineage.”
“Ser Duncan has a point, however,” Baelor whispers, leaning toward you to press an affectionate and all too slow kiss on your cheek. “It is a full-time job, my fire, handling you.”
“Oh fuck yeah,” on your other side, Maekar agrees wish whis older brother and leans close as well, his arm stretching behind your body, his hand running down your lower back. “We'll show them how efficient we can be.”
Baelor chuckles softly, his fingers tightening around yours under the table in a grounding squeeze. He leans in from your other side, trapping you in a cocoon of warmth between them.
“Look at that, Maekar,” he teases gently, his two-toned gaze fixed on your burning face. “Our Queen is as radiant as the sunset the knight described—now she's shy.”
“I am not shy,” you manage to whisper, though your voice lacks its usual regal bite, and you can’t quite bring yourself to look them in the eye.
They have turned the whole teasing on you now. United. And that's truly wicked.
“No?” Maekar hums and his fingers, still resting at the small of your back, trace the faintest, idle line upward along your spine. It is not improper. Not quite. But it is enough to make your stomach tighten. “You're all flushed, our little wife.”
Baelor laughs under his breath beside you, the sound warmer than you have ever heard it.
“She burns,” he agrees softly.
“I do not,” you insist.
Baelor raises a brow at the subtle quiver in your voice, his mismatched eyes glinting.
And Maekar's smirk grows wider, a mischievous gleam flashing in his eyes as he leans closer to you, his lips brushing your earlobe. “Good. Because the night is young, and as the dumb knight so wisely noted... we have a very important anniversary to attend to. And I intend to be extremely efficient.”
You hide your face against Baelor’s shoulder for a fleeting second, the heat of your blush intensifying at the shared, knowing look your husbands exchange over your head.
In the kitchens of the Red Keep, a young maid from Duskendale is sent to deliver meals to the withdrawn Prince Daeron Targaryen, only to discover she shares his troubling gift of foresight. While he is haunted by visions of fire and fallen crowns, she senses smaller moments before they unfold. As court duty and prophecy close in around him, a quiet bond forms between them—one that may change both their fates.
Word Count: 4.8k
[One Shot]
Slight angst and fluff. A little hope for my hopeless prince. Will this have a part two? Who knows. Maybe it'll come to me in a dream.
›
The first thing she learned about the Red Keep kitchens was that everything burned.
Not just the ovens — though those roared from before dawn until well past moonrise — but hands, tempers, bread, reputations. Steam clung to the ceiling beams. Cooks shouted over one another. Boys ran with baskets of onions and nearly collided with girls carrying tureens slick with grease. The air was always thick with smoke and salt and something on the edge of ruin.
She had never seen so much food in her life. Back home, her mother boiled linens in lye until her knuckles cracked and her shoulders bowed. Here, whole haunches of venison turned slowly over flame. Honey was poured as if it were water. Oranges and Lemons from Dorne sat in bowls just for the looking, sitting in the warmth of summer just to rot.
“Girl, don’t stand there gaping,” snapped Bessa, the undercook with arms like hams. “If you want to keep the place, you move.”
It was her third day, and she still didn’t know which corridor led to which tower without guessing. She had learned the rhythm of chopping and stirring, the hierarchy of who shouted and who was shouted at, but the castle itself was another beast. It swallowed girls like her and spat them out thinner.
“Tray for Prince Daeron,” called a voice near the hearth.
A series of annoyed murmurs ran through the scullions. “Again?” Bessa muttered. “He’ll not eat it. It’ll be such a waste.”
The tray was assembled with little care. A heel of bread, a wedge of cheese sweating at the edge, a slice of cold capon. And a silver flagon of wine — more than the rest of the tray was worth.
“Who’s closest?” asked the steward’s boy. No one answered quickly enough.
“You,” he said, pointing at the new girl. Her stomach dropped. “Me?”
“You’ve legs, don’t you? Take it to his chambers. And mind you, but do knock twice. I’d personally advise you to not stand directly in the middle of the doorway—if he throws something, duck.”
There was hearty laughter from everyone in the kitchen at that. She wiped her hands on her apron, lifted the tray, and followed the boy’s directions through two narrow passages and up a winding stair that seemed to grow quieter with every step. The noise of the kitchens faded behind her, moving to the quiet corridors of the keep. At the end of a corridor hung with faded tapestries, she thinks she had found the door.
She knocked twice on the wooden door gently, only to be met with silence. Her hands shifted the weight of the tray when she felt it slipping, then knocked again.
“Go away,” came a voice from within, sounds like it’s muffled.
She hesitated. “My prince, your food.”
“Leave it.”
There was no narrow side table set outside his door, oddly enough, no waiting page to relieve her of the weight in her arms. Only the heavy oak door banded in black iron, its hinges dull with age and faintly rusted at the seams. The corridor itself felt too quiet compared to the kitchens below—the air cooler, touched with a draft that carried the distant salt of Blackwater Bay and something sour beneath it. She shifted the tray against her hip, fingers already aching, and glanced at the hinges as though they might offer any kind of instruction.
“I’ve nowhere to leave it, my prince.”
For a heartbeat there was no answer. Then a muffled thud from within—a heavy item slowly being dropped to the floor, it seems, followed by the faint scrape of something dragged across the floor.
After a pause, his voice came, roughened at the edges even after a cough to clear the airway. “Enter, then.”
The smell met her before she fully crossed the threshold. Wine. Stale and sharp, soaked deep into rushes and fabric. Not the bright sweetness of a freshly poured cup, but the thick, fermented reek of it left standing too long in warm weather. It clung to the air, to the curtains, to … him.
The chamber was dim despite the hour. Candles had burned low in their holders, wax spilling over in pale rivulets, wicks bent and guttering. The curtains were half-drawn across the tall window, allowing only a thin wash of afternoon light to spill across the floorboards in tired streaks. Dust drifted lazily through it.
Books lay scattered across the floor and along the hearth — some open, pages splayed as if abandoned mid-sentence, others facedown with their spines strained. A chair had been nudged askew. Near the hearth, a silver goblet lay on its side, a dark stain spreading through the rushes beneath it, seeping in uneven circles.
The room did not look ravaged. It looked neglected.
Prince Daeron Targaryen sat near the window in a high-backed chair carved with twisting vines. One boot lay discarded a few feet away; the other remained half unlaced. His shirt hung loose at the throat. His pale hair fell unbound around his face, catching the weak light like spun silver. He did not look toward her as she entered, only stared at something beyond the glass—or perhaps at nothing at all.
She had seen princes before, from a distance—the new girl is not yet allowed to serve any member of the royal family, they said. They rode past in procession, armor gleaming, cloaks bright as banners, hands raised in easy acknowledgment of cheering crowds. They glittered like something made for songs of glory. But this one looked like a man who had not slept properly in days.
Careful not to disturb the fallen goblet, she crossed the chamber to find an empty table, her steps soft against the wood. Up close, the smell of wine was stronger still, threaded with smoke from the hearth and the faint metallic tang of cold ash. She set the tray on a small table within his reach, steadying the rattling cups before they could betray her nerves. “Shall I pour, my prince?”
A breath of laughter left him, it was humorless but not unkind. “It’s already poured.”
She followed the direction of his gaze to the goblet bleeding into the rushes by the fire. “Yes, my prince, my apologies.”
At that, he turned his head.
His eyes were clearer than she expected — violet, though shadowed at the edges, like bruises fading under pale skin. He studied her as though she were an unfamiliar object placed before him without explanation.
“You’re new.”
“Yes, my prince.”
“From where?”
“Duskendale, my prince.”
His gaze lingered a moment too long for her to feel at ease. It was not a leer, nor was there any condescending cruelty in it. He did not look at her as some highborn men looked at servant girls—as though they are nothing but walking flesh and target practice. This felt more like scrutiny.
“They’ve sent children now,” he murmured at last. “Have I grown so fearsome?”
“No, my prince.”
One pale brow lifted slightly. “No?”
She hesitated, heart knocking against her ribs, and reached for the first honest word that came to her. “Only a little bit untidy..”
Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth curved. “Untidy,” he repeated, as though testing the shape of it. “That is rather merciful than what some others would say, I believe.”
The silence that followed felt like stepping blind from a ledge and waiting to see if the ground would meet her. Heat flooded her face. She dropped into a hurried curtsy she should have made upon entering. “Forgive me—forgive me, my prince, I did not mean to be—” For one terrible breath, she thought she had overstepped in a way that could not be mended.
Relief made her knees feel unsteady.
“For what?” he went on, leaning back in his chair, the carved wood creaking softly beneath his weight. He tipped his head against it and closed his eyes. “Speaking truth?” A faint exhale left him.
“If the kitchens send you again, tell them I’ve no appetite.”
“Yes, my prince.”
She remained where she was, uncertain whether she had been dismissed or merely answered. The candles crackled faintly in their holders. Somewhere beyond the thick door, footsteps passed along the corridor and faded into quiet.
After a long pause, without opening his eyes, he said, “You’re still here.”
“I must collect the tray, my prince. If you will not eat.” His eyes opened then, sharper than before, settling fully on her. In the low light, their violet seemed darker — deepening toward indigo.
“You assume I won’t.”
“They said you wouldn’t.”
“They,” he echoed softly.
“The other servants, my prince.”
He studied her for another long moment, as though turning over something unseen in his mind. Then, without breaking her gaze, he reached for the bread. He broke it cleanly in half and took a bite. She did not mean to stare—but there is a certain way in which he ripped the piece in two equal pieces precisely. He swallowed and gave a faint, almost boyish shrug. A crumb caught briefly at his lip before he brushed it away with the back of his hand.
“Well,” he said, mumbling with the bite still in his mouth, “now they’ll have to think of something else to be right about.”
The next day, she was sent again, clutching the tray as though it were heavier than the day before, the stew sloshing slightly with every careful step she took through the maze of corridors. “Why me?” she whispered to Bessa as they passed the boiling cauldrons and stacks of rolling pins, steam curling in lazy spirals around their heads, sticking to the stray wisps of hair that had escaped her braid.
Bessa only shrugged and shoved the bowl of thick barley and herb stew into her hands, the heat radiating through the wood and ceramic, rich and savory, mingling with the scent of salt pork and onions. “Because at least he took something other than the wine,” Bessa said, her tone matter-of-fact, “and because you didn’t come back crying. First after six.”
The tray before her smelled of warmth and something faintly sweet, the bread still warm and dusted with flour, the wine flagon catching the light of the low-burning torches in the kitchen, glinting like dark glass as if warning her of the prince’s possible temper. She wound through narrow corridors, past arches carved with creeping vines, past the sloped stairwell that smelled faintly of cold stone and soot, still trying to memorise the twist of the walls as she went, the sound of her slippers against the floorboards echoing softly in the otherwise silent hallways.
At the door, she knocked twice, lightly, almost timidly, but sharply enough to announce her presence. “Enter,” his voice called, more impatient and clipped than the day before, and she hesitated only a heartbeat before pushing the door open, stepping inside.
The room was darker much now, the curtains fully drawn across the tall window, blotting out the pale afternoon light and leaving the space lit only by the flickering red glow of the hearth embers, which seemed to pulse like a heartbeat in the dim room. Shadows pooled thickly in every corner, swallowing books scattered haphazardly across the floor and half-burned candles whose smoke curled upward like wraiths against the rafters. The smell of wine struck her once again, still the same sharpness and sourness, soaked into the carpeted rushes and heavy velvet curtains, mingling with the smoke and the faint metallic tang of the hearth.
Prince Daeron stood near the fire this time, sand-colored hair catching the ember-light and turning copper at the edges, hands clasped loosely behind his back as he stared into the coals as though they might reveal something hidden, something he was waiting for. She set the tray down on the small scarred table carefully, the wood worn smooth from years of use, and as she did so, he spoke without turning.
“I did not ring,” he said, flat and even. “No, my prince,” she answered softly, aware of how her voice sounded in the thick air.
“Yet you came.”
“Yes,” she said, and he turned to face her, pale violet eyes shadowed beneath lids heavy with exhaustion, a faint dark line tracing beneath them.
“Why?” he asked, and she blinked, uncertain, and whispered,
“Because it is the hour for supper.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, my prince,” she said, and he considered her, tilting his head as if weighing her honesty against some invisible measure, before crossing the room and collapsing into the chair near the hearth with a groan of fatigue.
She lifted the ladle from the bowl, steam curling in thin wisps around her fingers, and poured the thick stew into a small dish, noticing for the first time the fine tremor of his hands. Not enough to make him drop the spoon, but enough that the surface of the stew quivered faintly when he grasped it. She lowered her eyes and tried not to stare, to pretend the tremor had gone unnoticed, but it persisted, subtle and unnerving.
He took the spoon without a word and ate slowly—one bite, then another, three—before his gaze drifted toward the flagon of wine. Instinctively, she reached for it, but his hand shot out faster and caught her wrist. She jumped slightly at the contact, the pressure neither painful nor light, and their eyes met, holding for a strange suspended moment, the silence heavy and almost sacred. For a heartbeat, she felt as though she had stepped into something already in motion, a current of inevitability that neither of them had named. Daeron released her wrist and waited, watching her pour the wine into the goblet as he drank slowly, the deep liquid sliding down his throat, leaving a faint sheen on the pale skin of his neck as he swallowed.
The firelight flickered across his face, catching in the violet of his eyes and the sharp line of his jaw, illuminating the small, quiet motions of a man who had lived much and slept too little, whose world was both heavy and fragile. Outside the drawn curtains, the Red Keep continued on unaware, corridors and kitchens filled with noise and smoke and the smell of bread, but in this dim chamber, she watched him, memorizing the set of his shoulders, the way the light hit his hair, the tremor of his hands and the stillness of his gaze. And for the first time, the act of carrying a tray, of pouring a bowl of stew, of standing in a quiet room beside a prince, felt so monumental and fragile all at once.
The next morning, she woke before dawn, the room still dark and the air cool against her skin, with the taste of honey lingering on her tongue. Not real honey—the memory of it, sweet and sticky, clinging to the corners of her mind like a dream she could almost reach. She dressed quietly, sleeves tugged down over her wrists, shoes soft against the stone floors, and made her way to the kitchens while the household still slept. Steam rose from pots and cauldrons, filling the room with the scent of bread and onions and roasting meats. She moved among the cooks and scullery girls without thought, following some instinct she could not name, and when the trays were being prepared, her fingers reached out before she realized what she was doing, dipping into a small pot of honey and spooning it into his tray.
Bessa’s hand slapped hers sharply, thinking she had wanted a taste for herself. “That’s for the king’s table.”
Bessa grunted but said nothing further, letting the honey remain.
When she carried the tray up, the castle still hushed in the pre-dawn gloom, he was already there, seated at the window, the weak light washing over his pale hair, fully dressed and alert.
“You’re early.”
“So are you, my prince,” she replied, balancing the tray carefully.
He glanced down at the food, eyes sliding over the bread, the stew, the wine—stopping at the honey. Silence stretched like a living thing between them.
“I did not ask for that,” he said finally, low and almost careful.
“No,” she admitted, gaze still lingering on the floor.
“Why is it there?”
“I thought—”
He rose slowly, the chair scraping faintly against the floor, and stepped closer. The air seemed to thicken, charged, as though they were standing on the edge of something that might snap at any moment.
“Thought what?”
“That you would want something sweet,” she said.
He held her gaze for a long, quiet moment. Then, almost delicately, he dipped a finger into the honey and tasted it. His shoulders eased, just barely, the tension in him softening in the faint light.
“I dreamt of honey, for once.” he said, voice soft and distant, almost to himself. “Strange.”
She swallowed hard, unsure what to say, feeling the warmth of relief and the odd shock of intimacy wash over her all at once. She couldn’t possibly tell him that she woke up with the taste of honey on her tongue, can she not?
One evening, the rain fell hard enough to hammer the castle windows, masking even the distant roar of the sea. She carried a tray of stew thick with onions and salt pork, the aroma felt very strong in the close room, but he did not touch it. He sat hunched over the hearth, staring into the fire as though it held all the answers he sought.
“I saw a great structure burn,” he said without preamble, voice low, almost a whisper. She stood uncertainly near the table, hands clenched around the tray’s edge, watching the way the flames flickered across his face. “Dragons above it,” he continued, “screaming. And the men beneath were screaming much louder. A crown fell into the fire but it did not melt.”
“I see them every night,” he went on, “things that have not happened. Things that may never happen. And they sit in my skull like rot. I do not know which one would happen and which one would not. I do not even know if I am understanding any of them correctly or not.” He turned his head slowly toward her, violet eyes catching the firelight. “And you.” Her breath caught.
“You brought honey when I dream of sweetness. You could have brought me other desserts and sweets. But I dreamt of honey, and you brought me honey.” Her heart pounded, loud enough that she felt certain he could hear it.
“They are nothing, my prince,” she said quickly. “Just foolish things.”
“Nothing?” He rose to his feet, the room seeming to shrink around him, heavy and urgent. “Tell me,” he said softly, “right now. What do you know?” She shook her head. “Nothing.”
He came closer, deliberate and careful. “Look at the table,” Daeron instructed. She obeyed, eyes scanning the scene: candles burning low, stew steaming gently, his untouched wine gleaming dark.
“What happens next?” he asked. “I don’t—” “What happens?” Her throat tightened, fear pressing at her chest. She saw the candle gutter, the flame flicker uncertainly, the stew cool untouched, and he would drink and say something cruel and regret it. The knowing settled over her like cold water.
“The candle,” she whispered. “It will go out.” They watched the tiny flame quiver, once, twice, then die, curling smoke into the still air. Silence followed, pressing against her ears and chest. Her gaze lingered at the wick as though she herself had extinguished it by will. “It is nothing,” she said again, but the words sounded distant, hollow even to her own ears. “The candle was short and it already seemed like it w—”
He moved toward the table slowly, like approaching some altar of reckoning. “What else?” he asked, quiet but insistent. She shook her head, backing away. “I don’t want to.” “What else?” His voice needed no volume to command attention. Her eyes burned as she realized the truth.
She did not move toward the table. She did not lift the cup. She remained where she was, hands folded before her, as though she were reciting something already written.
“You will not drink,” she said softly. Prince Daeron looked up. “You will sit there and stare at it,” she continued, eyes steady, voice calm, “as if it might change its mind and become something else. Water. Medicine. Anything but what it is.”
He studied her now; knowing the truth that now only the two of them know. “And then?”
She hesitated, only a breath. “Then there will be three knocks,” she said. She lifted her hand and tapped twice against the window frame, then another one that came a second too slow. Tap. Tap … Tap.
He did not smile. “And who will it be?”
“Two guards,” she replied. “From the eastern passage. One with a scar on his chin. The other will not look directly at you. I could not remember his name.”
His brows drew together. “Something like … ‘Prince Daeron. His Grace commands your presence in the solar. At once’, they would say.”
They stood still, straining for the sound of approaching footsteps. Daeron’s eyes were fixated towards the door, wanting to test the words he just heard. Though his hand would reach out for a goblet within his arm’s reach, but halfway through, he stopped and set it back. Silence pressed in around them for another minute before it finally came.
Three knocks, measured and certain. Tap. Tap … Tap. Daeron’s breath stilled.
“Prince Daeron,” a man called through the wooden door. “His Grace commands your presence in the solar. At once.”
“Impressive,” he murmured, though whether he meant her or the timing of the knock was unclear. The guards knocked again, more firmly this time.
“Yes, yes, I know. Give me a moment.”
Instead, he turned back to the other side of his chamber, to where his wardrobe is—one would expect to be dismissed when the Prince had his fingers fiddling around the buttons around his collar. The moment he shifted, she dropped her gaze at once, as though caught staring at something forbidden. A flush crept swiftly up her neck and into her cheeks, warmth blooming beneath her skin. She pivoted instinctively toward the hearth, giving him her back in a gesture that was half decorum, half self-preservation.
Behind her, she heard the soft rustle of fabric. He crossed to a carved wardrobe near the wall. The scent of stale wine that had lingered in the room was disturbed briefly, then overlaid by something cleaner—linen and faint cedar.
She fixed her gaze determinedly on the dying embers in the hearth, fingers idly messing with the fabric of her apron. Daeron noticed that through the silence.
“Should I be offended,” he asked mildly, “that you will not look at me?”
Her breath caught. “It would not be proper, my prince.”
There was the faintest sound of amusement in his exhale. “You were quite bold a moment ago.”
She felt the heat in her cheeks deepen.
“I spoke only what was true.”
“As did I,” he replied.
She could hear him moving—cloth shifting, the sound of sleeves pulling over arms. When she dared a glance sideways despite herself, she saw only the edge of pale linen as he drew a fresh shirt over his shoulders.. He fastened it with steady fingers and shrugged into a dark doublet trimmed in black, its lines clean and sharp. The faint scent of cedar gave way to something subtler now—lavender oil, perhaps, or simply clean skin. When he tied his hair back properly at the nape of his neck, the transformation was almost startling. The man who had sat among spilled wine and guttering candles was gone; in his place stood someone composed, like a true prince this time.
“You may turn around,” he said at last.
She did so carefully, and her eyes lifted only as high as his collar before retreating again. He noticed.
“If you keep staring at the floor,” he added lightly, adjusting his cuffs, “the guards may begin to think I have you here for punishment.”
Her head snapped up in mortified alarm before she could stop herself. He caught the movement and, just for a moment, allowed himself a proper smile—small, but unmistakably pleased with the effect, as it is not something that happens to him too often.
“I jest,” he said, though the warmth in his expression lingered. “You need not look so stricken, I am not my brother.” She swallowed and composed herself as best she could, folding her hands again to still their nervous fidgeting.
By the time he reached the door, he did not immediately open it. Instead, Daeron rested his palm flat against the wood, feeling the faint vibration of waiting presence on the other side. For a brief second, he allowed the stillness to settle once more.
Instead of opening the door, he turned back into the room.
She had not moved from where he had left her. Her hands were folded neatly before the apron on her waist, fingers laced together as though to keep them from trembling, eyes lowered to the rush-strewn floor. There was something in her stillness, as if she feared that meeting his gaze too boldly might disturb whatever fragile understanding had just taken shape between them. A servant girl looked smaller in that moment, not because she was slight, but because the room itself seemed to press inward, straight to her chest.
For a long while, he simply watched her.
There was no sharpness in his expression now, no searching suspicion, no guarded doubt. What settled across his face was quieter than that—quieter and more uncertain. It was the look of a man who had stumbled upon something he had long believed impossible and did not yet know whether to trust it.
“You knew,” he said again, and his voice had softened. “Before I did. Did you dream of them? Did you see it too?”
She lifted her eyes at that, though only just enough to meet his. The movement was cautious, almost reluctant, but there was no falsehood in her gaze. “I do not dream, my prince,” she murmured. “It’s just … there. I just seem to know it.” The words were simple, inadequate to the weight of what had occurred, yet they were the truest she could offer.
He inclined his head once, a small, thoughtful gesture, as though her answer aligned with something private and long-held. Outside the chamber, the guards still waited; their presence could be felt like a pressure against the door. The world demanded its prince in councils and corridors, in matters far larger than a guttered candle and a little bit of honey.
Yet he did not move.
“You know things,” he said slowly, as if testing each word before allowing it to exist. “Things that have not happened.” A faint curve touched his mouth—not quite a smile, but not bitterness either. “So do I.”
Her breath caught, soft and nearly soundless, but the shift in her expression betrayed it. Until that moment, she had not known whether his visions were metaphor, memory, or just her mind slowly trying to drive herself to madness. To hear them named so plainly unsettled something deep within her.
“For years,” he continued, his voice low and even, “I thought it was a curse meant to rot me from the inside.” His fingers tightened briefly against the door, the wood creaking faintly beneath the pressure. “To be alone with it.”
When he looked at her then, the intensity in his eyes was no longer interrogative. It was searching in another way—almost vulnerable in its steadiness, or perhaps it is comfort to know that he is not the only one.
“And now, you walk in carrying bread and honey, and suddenly I am not.”
The knock came again, sharper and more insistent than before, splintering the stillness between them. The world would not wait forever. He drew in a slow breath and finally turned the handle. The door opened inward, admitting a sliver of brighter corridor light that cut across the dim chamber floor.
But before stepping through, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
“Next time,” he said, in a tone so light it might have belonged to a conversation about supper or weather, “you will tell me what happens after.”
“Yes, my prince,” she replied, her voice steady despite the quickened beat of her heart.
He hesitated there in the doorway, the faintest flicker of something unspoken crossing his face.
Then, very softly, he added before closing the door, “And you will come yourself. No need to come under the disguise of supper.”
She remained where she stood, the room settling slowly back into silence around her. Her heart felt unsteady in her chest, as though it had been struck and was still reverberating from the blow.
A/N: back at it again (falling in love w/ age inappropriate men…)
Note: I know intersex mingling is not a thing in medieval-style environments, but I just wanted my younguns to be allowed to have some fun like we are :(((
Edit: Got way too into this, and now its fucking long and I want Baelor more than ever…
Summary: The call has been sent out to all eligible maidens that Prince Valarr, second in line to the throne, is beginning his search for a wife. However, it is not Valarr with whom you forge a bond…
Word count: 12,768
Trigger Warnings: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), a little angst (personal insecurity expressed by reader), never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
Baelor silently signalled to the Kingsguards to stay within the great hall as he made his way to the door and slipped out while everyone busied themselves with preparing for the dancing portion of the evening. He had a dagger dangling from his belt, and he was experienced in the battlefield. If a threat were to arise in the few minutes he spent away, then he could surely handle it himself.
And he only needed a few minutes, just a handful where he could sit in the quiet and close his eyes and think of all the time that had passed, how Valarr was so grown now, and how he hoped Jena was proud of the man their son was becoming.
As the doors shut behind him, Baelor let out a long sigh and felt his body relax as he began strolling down the halls of the Keep. The sconces were lit, casting warm orange light over the halls, and a gentle breeze blew through the space. He had not walked far when he reached a balcony overlooking the gardens and the sea beyond.
Baelor paused when he noticed a shadow standing at the very edges of the firelight, turned out to the view. When he stepped closer, he caught the folds of a dress, elegant sleeves and a silky fabric, and he recognised the shadow as a woman. He walked onto the balcony, clearing his throat.
“Might I help you, my lady?” He asked quietly as he made his way closer to you, brow furrowing. Why were you here all alone, far from the great hall and the action?
You did not jump at the sudden intrusion, just turned to face him a little before your body went rigid and a look of dumbfounded surprise crossed your face. You straightened up a little, wiped at the soft skin under your eyes, and clasped your hands tightly together in front of you as a hot flush spread under your skin.
“I… your grace,” and you began curtseying but Baelor simply held his hand up to stop you, waiting patiently for your response as you readjusted in your place. “I do not require aid,” you told him quietly then let out a long sigh and turned your head back up to the sky. You let out a sad little chuckle as Baelor stepped closer, the furrow of his brow deepening as he looked at you. “I wanted to see what the night sky looked like in King’s Landing,” you whispered, “if it was different to the sky we have at home.”
The smile on your face was intensely wistful, and when you glanced back at Baelor, it only grew a little. “I know it is presumptuous of me to think about such things, we have only all just arrived in King’s Landing and the prince may never even look at me, let alone choose me to be his bride, but I thought in preparation… it may be nice to know what the sky looked like at least.” You shrugged, a pathetic little movement. “And even if it is not the prince, if it is some other nobleman who takes an interest and is satisfied with my dowry, I shall need to get used to a new sky.”
Baelor was standing at your side now, and he felt incapable of tearing his eyes from you. You wore your hair pulled back, and your face was clean and youthful, Valarr’s age or perhaps a little younger. You wore a velvet dress in the dark blue of a night sky just before dawn, gold trimmings on the hems and gold slippers just peeking out at the bottom. It fell at the tops of your arms, exposing sloping shoulders and a cut of your chest. But it was your eyes that truly brought him in. The eyes of a young woman who thought too much, who carried a soul too heavy for anyone to bear.
When Baelor still did not respond and the silence felt too stretched, you sucked in a deep breath and laughed a little bashfully, blinking and looking around as if you had only just returned to the earth. You continued to chuckle as you pressed your fingers to your cheeks for a moment, checking for any escaped tears before looking back at him.
“My apologies, your grace,” you sighed as if exasperated with yourself, rolling your eyes exaggeratedly, “you have caught me in a moment when I am not only wistful but unbearably talkative.” You smiled brightly at him, and though it did not seem insincere, it hid a great deal. “Perhaps some music and cheer will fix me,” you added, bowing low and quickly dismissing yourself before you made any more a fool of yourself in front of the heir to the throne. Once you had passed him, you made a face at yourself, berating and angry and resisting the urge to slap a hand over your eyes.
Baelor turned to watch you walk away feeling as if he had just been blown over by a strong wind and was still sitting on the ground trying to catch his breath. He could still see you standing next to him, bathed in the silvery light of the moon and tinged at the very edges by the distant lit sconce. He could see your lashes flutter against your cheeks as you blinked quickly and the puffy quality to your eyelids, the shine of recently dried tears.
He felt as if he had intruded on something, and it was not a feeling he often experienced. You had been having a moment to yourself, an introspective scene which you had most likely hoped no one would come across. And he had only been looking for the same, a breath of fresh air outside of the buzzing hall full of people clammering and clawing for one purpose. Though he had not expected the maidens to wish to escape, why shouldn’t you?
But there was something about you, perhaps your beautiful dress or your pretty smile, that seemed to have lodged itself beneath his ribs…
Baelor’s eyes drifted away from the Lord as they walked through the gardens, hands clasped behind their backs as a Kingsguard followed close behind. The meeting was necessary, a discussion on grain production and stores, but both men had been sequestered within the Keep all morning and had decided that a taste of fresh air was a necessity.
The Lord was explaining… something. His hands were moving as he spoke in a low voice, but from the moment they had entered the gardens and Baelor had heard the distant voices, his focus had drifted. He looked up and spotted the different little clusters of people dotted all over the grounds.
A group of elderly women, most likely grandmothers and aged aunts, were seated around a table under a gazebo, pots of tea and cups deposited in front of them as they chattered, occasionally laughing a little too loud or hacking a cough. There were other gatherings, fathers and brothers of the potential brides mingling amongst each other, waited on by maids and servantboys. The young ones had made their own cluster though.
Baelor found Valarr at a table near the edge of the gardens, just in front of a patch empty of bushes that allowed a view out to the sea. Usually Valarr would be inside with him, sitting through every meeting and counsel and hearing that Baelor had to sit through in preparation to become the heir to the Iron Throne. Or perhaps he would be in the training ground, practicing his skills with the idle Kingsguard, or even just expelling his rage at a straw practice dummy. But Valarr had the week to choose a bride, which meant he was relieved of political duties and would not find peace if he chose to train.
The table was populated with both ladies and lordlings of a similar age to Valarr, all speaking amongst themselves with small smiles on their faces or loud boisterous laughter. Baelor could not fault them, this was one of the few times the men and women were allowed to mingle, though he was sure there was a Septa fuming at the sight. He allowed himself a small smile, feeling soothed at the thought of his son at least enjoying himself a little despite how much the prospect had daunted him before. It was only then that Baelor caught sight of you.
You were sat across from Valarr, bordered on either side by other young ladies. Though your chair faced toward the table, to the other people surrounding you, your head was turned toward the sea. You blinked slowly, as if a part of you was in tune with the calm of the water, but the moment was over in a flash, and one of the young women said something in your direction that made you laugh, your head leaning back and eyes squinting prettily.
You were wearing a dress in a dark emerald green, a shiny fabric embossed with a darker pattern he could not make out from the distance. There was gold embroidery on the sleeves at your forearms, and like the dress from the evening before, it was draped precariously at your upper arms, leaving your shoulders bare to the sunlight. You wore simple jewellery, and your hair was pulled back from your face and into an intricate set of braids. You looked elegant, lovely.
Baelor watched you listen to the conversation being passed around the table, your eyes flitting to Valarr as he spoke, and his son’s eyes flitting to yours as you responded. Someone at the table scoffed, the boy beginning to speak over you. You simply pursed your lips, leaning back in your seat and guiding your hardened eyes to the tabletop. Baelor knew Valarr would rectify the slight, would politely bring you back into the fold, but you seemed to forget the insult quickly as the woman to your right gently pressed her hand to your forearm and shot you a look that plainly told you that she had noticed, that this was not a new occurrence. Baelor swallowed both his laugh and his smirk.
You let loose a long sigh, leaning back in your seat and placing your hands in your lap as you began looking around. It did not take long for your eyes to land on Baelor, standing still now on the path that wound around the gardens and back to the Keep, his eyes on you over the Lord’s shoulder. You went rigid when you noticed his attention, though you attempted to act as if no change had occurred in you. You turned your hands over and pressed your palms to your lap, and your lips parted as you tore your eyes away from him. You cautiously crept your gaze back in his direction, but your eyes flitted away when you noted that he was still watching you.
Your chin lifted a little, and you adjusted yourself in your seat to be higher, your spine straighter, and Baelor smirked, finally tearing his eyes from you to allow you a second of respite. You were sweet, attempting to look more respectable as the Crown Prince watched on. When Baelor looked back, Valarr too had noted his presence and stood from his chair, lifting a hand to wave in his direction.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Baelor told the lord, walking off before the man could utter a word in response, offering Valarr a pursed-lip smile as he neared.
“Father,” Valarr greeted, bowing his head a little. The men and women at the table all stood to greet the Crown Prince, a chorus of “your grace” echoing around him. He could not pick out your voice. He smiled at them all, his gentle princely smile that made him a favourite of any who met him.
Your head stayed a little bowed as Prince Baelor stood with his son, and you only looked up in quick snatches. Your entire body was hot with a blush as you remembered the way you had spoken to him, the way he had looked at you as if he could not quite make out if you were real. The more you thought about the way you had behaved in front of him, the more mortified you became.
Baelor gently clapped Valarr on the back, asking how his son fared and then directing the question at everyone around him. They were all bright-faced and starry-eyed, beaming at the chance to speak to the Crown Prince and happily responding. Your response was whispered, hidden again in the humdrum, but Baelor’s eyes were already on you, watching your lips move as you bashfully glanced between him and the table. He offered you a kind smile, and refrained from directing any more of his attention toward you.
You took to watching the Crown Prince instead as he focused on Valarr again and spoke in quiet tones with him. He had immensely straight posture, and an easy elegance to his every move. His hair was short, shorter than most men, but he kept a dignified beard over his cheeks and chin, sprinkled with white like snow on distant hilltops. His eyes were beautifully mismatched like his sons, but darker, more hidden and mysterious - perhaps a sign of age and experience. He wore black all over, but his doublet was thick and soft-looking, just begging to be touched… you bit your lip and looked down as a heat began pulsing under your skin. But your eyes caught sight of the rings adorning his thick fingers, his thumb absentmindedly twisting the one on the middle finger of the same hand, and you felt too tight in your stomach and chest.
You glanced out at the water again, hoping beyond hope that a servant would come by with wine or ale and you could quench the sudden thirst in your throat. You rubbed your palms along your dress and when you gathered the courage to look back, Prince Baelor was facing the table again, nodding in farewell.
“Goodbye,” you said quietly, and you were sure he would not hear over the other voices, but he seemed to look right at you and nod one more time, small and private, just for you, and suddenly you felt a pathetic lightness all over you…
As the evening descended on King’s Landing, the Keep was full of noise as everyone readied for another night of feasting and dancing. The festivities were to go on for a full week until the announcement of Prince Valarr’s betrothal, and all parties could not contain their excitement.
People filed into the great hall slowly, fathers daughters, mothers and brothers, and the tables began to fill up. The royals themselves only entered after a hefty crowd had gathered, walking up to their table on the raised dais and offering nods to the nobles who caught their eyes.
Baelor sat at the centre of the table, at the centre of attention. To his right was his brother, dour-faced and constantly annoyed by something or other, not even waiting until he had fully sat down to grab his cup of wine and begin gulping from it. On Baelor’s left were his two sons, his pride in human form. Sometimes he could not quite believe how much time had passed and how quickly they had grown.
Baelor watched as the platters of food were brought out and passed around, first to their table, then all down the hall, serving boys and girls running up and down with jugs of wine and ale, filling cups as loud and boisterous chatter and laughter echoed up to the ceiling. He sipped from his wine as he leaned on the arm closest to his brother, listening to the man grumble about some mischief his youngest had been up to. But Baelor’s attention was not on him.
It was not easy to pick you out of the crowd, with the constant bobbing of heads and moving pieces, but once he found you, he could not stop seeing you. You were sitting somewhere in the middle, neither highborn nor lowborn, bordered on either side by brothers and sisters, facing your parents. He was sure he had met your father or brother at some point, perhaps at a tourney or some council or other. They looked familiar, but not familiar enough to elicit a clear memory. It frustrated him more than he would ever admit.
You wore a beautiful dress coloured the orange of a sunset, layered with thin and shiny material. Drops of amber hung from your ears and though your hair was simply pulled back off your face, thin gold threads ran through and shined in the light. A small orange lily was tucked behind your ear and you were smiling and laughing as one of your younger family members attempted to clamber onto you and snatch it from your hair. He could not hear your laugh but a pang of longing hit him.
As the evening carried on, Baelor’s focus did not shift from you. Valarr did not notice his father’s silence, Baelor had always been more quiet and thoughtful than most men. Maekar noticed his brother’s silence, his distant gaze, but chose not to question it.
You were fascinating to him for reasons unknown to himself. Yes, of course you were pretty, but there was an endless train of pretty women in his life, and he had not batted an eye for a long time. Perhaps it was how much of a contradiction you appeared to be. You were thoughtful and intriguing, then cut yourself down as if whatever you said was of no value. You were willing to speak and not shy when you did, but then you held yourself back and allowed yourself to be spoken over. How could a person be both?
When the tables were pushed back to create space for dancing, and the band began playing from their place in the corner, everything became muddled. He could no longer see you, and his interest in the event dwindled. When Valarr stood to ask a maiden to dance, Baelor quietly excused himself and made his way to the door. Just as he pushed it open and slipped through, he noticed the orange fabric of a dress peeking just slightly from around a corner. His heart thudded in his chest and he followed the path to find you, back pressed to the wall, head leaned back and eyes closed. You were humming quietly to yourself, but paused and became tense when you heard his footsteps.
Baelor cleared his throat, hoping not to jolt you, and watched your eyes slowly peel open and your body go a little rigid again. But this time he smiled softly, walking a little closer with knowing eyes that made your skin feel hot and your chest rise and fall a little quicker than before.
“My apologies,” you quickly breathed out, as if you needed to jump and say the right thing first. Then you winced, bowing your head as you realised how utterly stupid you sounded.
“Whatever for?” Baelor asked, eyes a little wide in surprise as he stopped a few feet in front of you. You looked up at him through your lashes from where your head was still bowed, and smiled apologetically.
“I do not know,” you sighed, and when Baelor chuckled, your hands tingled and you felt something clench inside you. You straightened up a little and pressed yourself harder into the wall behind you, hoping the sensation would ground you.
“I would advise not to apologise when it is not needed,” he told you sagely, and you nodded, smiling softly.
Silence fell over the two of you, and felt it like a pinch all over your body. You glanced around, twiddling your fingers behind your back, before looking at Baelor again.
“At least I am not crying this time,” you told him out of the blue, a wry smile on your lips. But when his brows only furrowed and his head tilted in confusion, you felt the hot flush of embarrassment strike you. “Uhm,” you cleared your throat, “unlike last time, when you found me,” your voice quietening as you spoke.
“Ah,” Baelor nodded, a polite smile on his lips, and you felt like slapping yourself for ruining the moment again. “I too am glad of the fact,” he finally said, “it is not pleasant to see a pretty young woman crying.”
Maybe you had actually slapped yourself and not realised. Why did you feel like you had just been struck and you could not comprehend it? Your eyes were wide, lips parted just a little, and you were looking right at his face unabashedly for the first time. A soft breath whooshed past your lips and your hands clasped together in front of you.
Baelor’s smile widened a little at that. How were you so obvious in your reactions? Maybe it was with age and experience that he was able to read people so well, but it was as if he could see your thoughts play across your face, plain as day. You smiled at him, but your lips pulsed as if you were unable to hold the expression.
“Why were you so tearful?” He asked, clasping his hands behind his back as he leaned a little to be closer to you in height. You pursed your lips and looked away from him, trying to think quickly of something better than the truth, but then you sighed, dropped your head a little and shook it before looking back up at him with that same sad smile of before.
“The same sentiments I expressed that evening,” you shrugged, moving your lips against each other a little. “It is not that the thought of marriage upsets me, or that I am against the idea of moving to a far off place to live with my husband. Every woman of course has a healthy fear of either of those things, but it is not something that haunts me. It is…” you paused as you felt the tears burn behind your eyes again and a lump began to thicken inside your throat. “It is rather stupid,” you shook your head, but Baelor took a step closer, his face contorted in a small frown.
He reached up and gently pressed under your chin with the side of his index finger until your head was lifted once more and you were forced to look him in the eye. He did not say anything, just allowed you the space to continue, and you felt the first tear trickle down your cheek.
“I am afraid that I cannot be loved,” you whispered, your face contorting a little as the pain in your heart unfurled and spread through your limbs. “A husband is meant to be the person who loves you for who you are, faults and all, whether that love is built before or during the marriage. I fear that I will be married, or I will be courted, and I will fall in love, but I will not be loved, and it will all be my own fault because I am not good enough to be loved.”
The tears streamed down your face, your eyes squinted shut, your voice going small and watery, and Baelor felt your pain within his own skin. He felt it in his chest, in his gut, filling his head. He cupped your face and wiped your tears away with his thumb as you looked up at him, your chest and lips shaking as you sucked in breaths. You were not sobbing, but you would start soon. He just continued the soothing motion and after a moment, you leaned forward and practically fell against his chest, hiding your face there. You wrapped your arms around his torso, splaying your hands over his broad back and clinging to him the way the drowning cling to air.
At first, Baelor could not move. He looked down at you, at your trembling shoulders, and allowed himself to wrap his arms loosely around you. He stared at the wall in front of him as you breathed slowly against his chest, and his eyes drifted closed, absorbing your warmth as you relaxed in his grip.
How long since he had comforted in such a way? How long since he had held someone, since someone had held him? His breaths came out as slow and shaky as yours.
The two of you stood there for a long few minutes more, and when you pulled away, you had a small pursed-lip smile on your face. Baelor unfurled his arms from you, keeping them diplomatically at his sides, and you clutched your hands tightly together in front of you.
“Heh,” you let out a small, awkward laugh, and rubbed at your cheek nervously. “That is twice now you have been witness to my tears. Far more than necessary.” He could practically see you begin to shrink in on yourself, and something wild and desperate inside him wanted it to stop at once. “Uhm,” you cleared your throat, “I apologise again, my prince,” you said quietly, “I should not have… I should not… I just should not.”
Even the embarrassed smile had dropped from your face now and you looked small and sad, like a child shamed for something done with good intentions.
“Did I not just advise you to refrain from apology when unnecessary?” He asked you quietly, one of his eyebrows raising as you pursed your lips and nodded bashfully.
“Yes, your grace,” you whispered, continuing to wring your hands. Baelor reached down and gently gripped them, stopping the movement. He could feel you tremble in his hold, but he kept on, softly rubbing his thumb over the backs of your hands until they relaxed.
“You do not find me insolent?” You asked him innocently, looking up at him through your lashes again as brightness began to return to your eyes.
“Not one bit,” he smiled, the soft and caring smile he reserved for those closest to his heart.
“Truly?” You asked, and your own smile was returned, a cheeky lilt to your words. He could see the sparks dancing in your eyes and the smooth movement returned to your body. Though he still held your hands, you gripped them back a little now, and your spine straightened just that bit further.
“Truly,” and his smile widened too, matching yours.
You felt at peace now, something that had slowly gathered within you from the moment your tears had ceased and he had continued to hold you. The inside of your skull felt smooth and soft again, without the constant pulsing tension that had been unknowingly plaguing you.
He had watched you cry, had heard your deepest fear and a truth you scarcely liked admitting to yourself, and he had stayed… Not only had he stayed, he had listened and comforted, wiped your tears and simply given you the space to be. That meant far more than anything he could say.
And now you felt light, like the weight was lifted and the good parts of you that others always appreciated were allowed to be appreciated by you as well. You felt like the girl who laughed freely at family dinners and giggled with her friends, who spoke her thoughts with care and wanted them to be expressed precisely the way she wanted. You felt whole, and all because of something so simple…
You smiled up at the prince and then unfurled your hands from his grip, feeling a little shy at the way he continuously watched you. You reached up and plucked the lily that had managed to keep its place at your ear. It had been a little squished and wilted when you had pressed your face to his chest, but you carefully placed it in his palm and curled his fingers around it. You lifted his hand until it rested over his heart, then at the last moment, leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the back of his hand.
“Thank you, your grace,” you whispered, then you slipped out from between him and the wall and swiftly went around the corner and back into the Great Hall.
“Father,” Valarr nodded, closing the door behind him as he ventured into Baelor’s study at the top of the Hand’s tower. Baelor had been sequestered all morning, reading through petitions and letters and something that was both a petition and a congratulatory letter. Though he had managed to focus on occasion, there were moments where his eyes stayed on one word far too long simply because his mind had gone back to the previous evening to recreate the feeling of you kissing the back of his hand. Baelor smiled at the sight of his son, watching Valarr fall into the seat across from the desk with a long sigh.
“How do you fare?” He asked, and Valarr blew a breath upward to force the hair from his eyes. He shrugged, looking again like the child he had once been, before straightening up and nodding.
“As well as can be,” he told Baelor, “spoilt for choice yet without passion.” He clasped his hands together between his knees then leaned forward, his back curling, before looking up at his father. “I fear I have met a hundred women, but do not know any well enough to propose marriage.”
Baelor smiled sympathetically at his son and nodded in understanding. It had once been that way for him too, but he had been lucky to find Jena. He was sure Valarr would find someone too, and he did not mind if it took him some time.
They conversed a little on some of the maidens, a Lannister lady with pretty golden hair and a Hightower girl with a quick wit, but nothing further than that. It was then that a name hit Baelor, completely out of the blue from the recesses of his mind. He continued looking at the papers in front of him, though he did not read a word, and casually asked Valarr, “what do you know of Lord Blanetree’s daughter?” Valar’s brow furrowed as he racked his brain, tilting his head a little.
“Uh,” he dragged out in thought, ignoring the raised eyebrow look his father shot at him as he did. It was undignified. “I believe he has many children, with four daughters at least, but with a large gap between. The eldest is twenty and something but her first younger sister is only just ten and three. I believe you met the Lady Y/n at my table a day past,” his eyes lit up then as the memory cleared. “Yes, she sat across from me in the emerald dress. She is rather well spoken, if a little reserved.”
Baelor lifted his eyes to Valarr, your name running in his head again and again. So that was who you were, the eldest daughter of a minor house, reached marriageable age yet unmarried, burdened by your position and your mind. Your name sounded soft and sweet in his head.
“Do you wish me to focus my attentions on her?” Valarr asked, looking quizzically at his father, but Baelor almost jumped in his seat.
“No, my son,” he answered soothingly, “I will not influence your decision in any way. It is your right to choose, and you shall have it.” And Valarr smiled gratefully, nodding in thanks. He soon stood and made his way back to the door, citing the possibility of finally being able to train in peace, and left.
Baelor leaned back in his seat, parchment forgotten on his desk. He spun his ring around his finger, over and over and over. He knew your name…
You were wearing a yellow dress. The beautiful soft yellow of sunshine and daffodils, a simpler dress than any other he had seen you in, with minimal embroidery and embellishment, cut off just at the ankles to expose your matching silk slippers.
Baelor could see you in the distance as he walked down the hall, keeping a leisurely pace as he prolonged his return to the tower after a meeting with the King. You leaned on the stone railing and looked down over the inner courtyard, draped not in sunlight but the pale indirect shine from the sky.
The dress you wore was thinner than others, made for summers, and he could see the outline of your body where you bent to lean, where your curves naturally pushed out and created your silhouette. He averted his eyes to your face.
As he came closer, you turned your head in his direction, chin resting in your hand. You straightened up when you noticed him, but you were no longer rigid. Something softer had taken you over, the energy he had seen in you when you had interacted with your younger siblings at the feast. You were smiling, and he could not help himself but to offer it back to you.
“Your grace,” you greeted, curtseying and then lifting your chin to ensure you met his eye.
“Lady Y/n,” and you felt your skin heat. You had never heard him say your name before, and his silky voice wrapping around the letters made your spine tingle. Your smile widened unabashedly before you could contain it once more, and it only made his eyes dance.
“Will you accompany me on my journey back to the Hand’s tower?” He asked, gesturing ahead of himself with a flat palm. You nodded enthusiastically, twirling to face forward and falling into step beside him.
“Have you had a busy morning?” You asked him, clasping your hands behind your back as you walked at his side, matching his leisurely pace. You could tell that he slowed his stride to ensure your shorter legs would not disadvantage you, and your chest filled with warmth.
“Nothing more than the usual,” he answered simply, and you nodded, letting out a little ‘ah’. “How has your morning fared?”
“As well as could be,” you said, mimicking his tone of simplicity, but when he raised an eyebrow and smirked at you a little, you giggled and bumped his shoulder with yours. You went rigid, realising what you had done, your face falling and your steps faltering, but when Baelor continued smiling at you, you simply laughed breathily and regained the straightness to your shoulders. “One of my gowns gained a tear while my sister played dress-up with my things, so I spent the morning teaching her how to sew it up.”
Baelor’s eyes softened as he gazed upon you, and he could not tear himself away. Some of your hair fell forward onto your face, and his hand flexed with the need to push it back for you. He was sure you would make a wonderful mother some day, if the way you handled your younger siblings was anything to go by. He could imagine you with a babe in your arms, a child that was your spitting image, but perhaps inherited his own hair or his eyes. He could see a toddler running between you two, clutching to your skirts then toddling to his father… Baelor looked away and cleared his throat a little.
“I do not wish to bore you with talk of dresses though,” you added, sighing a little.
“You do not bore me,” he told you quietly, “you could not.”
You felt the heat building in your chest, burning in your cheeks and at the tips of your ears. You looked up at him, lips parting a little, but it was too late for anything else as you had arrived at the door to the tower of the hand.
Baelor stopped just outside, turning to face you fully. He reached up and tucked the strand of hair behind your ear, nodding in satisfaction, then bid you a quiet goodbye and left you standing there on uneven footing.
The Crown Prince did not attend the dinner that evening. You felt the disappointment in your core. You waited and waited for the seat to be occupied, for the moment you could look up and watch him walk through, his long steps measured and his broad shoulders passing easily. But Valarr and his younger brother, and even Prince Maekar and his sons appeared, and the feasting and revelry began, but there was no sign of your Crown Prince.
Your family could tell there was something that had subdued you. You poked at your food and barely smiled at anyone, huffing sadly every few moments, but not telling anyone why. You felt a little stupid being so upset over something like this. He did not owe you his presence, and he was a prince of the realm, hand of the king, he was far busier than you could ever comprehend being. But… you still wanted to see him, still wanted him to look at you the way he did…
When the revelry began, you slipped away like clockwork. You did not want to stay in that room when you knew he was not there. An agitation you had never felt before seemed to be awakening in your skin, slowly and without naming itself. You walked slowly through the halls, savouring the cool air, on your hot skin. The lit fires shivered a little, casting long shadows on the walls, and after a few turns, you could not quite recognise where you had ended up.
The smallest spark of fear was lit in your heart at the unfamiliar tapestries and the doors that all looked the same. You had never ventured too far from the Great Hall, and now that you had somehow taken leave of your senses, you could not quite remember what path you had taken to end up here.
You rounded another corner, and instantly your heart lifted again at the sight of two Kingsguard posted outside a large door at the end of the hallway. You let out a sigh of relief, beginning to walk in their direction, but just as you reached the halfway point of the hallway, a voice stopped you.
“My Lady?” A low question from your left, and you turned your head to look out onto a large balcony. The Crown Prince sat at a small table, his body facing out to the view but his head turned to look at you. He must have heard you coming. A jug of wine sat on the table in front of him and he clutched a cup in his right hand.
Your lips parted, your body stopping short in surprise, and a little choked sound left you. You turned between him and the distant Kingsguard, and then took quick steps to reach the balcony. You paused just in front of him, not realising that your gown brushed his hand on the armrest.
Baelor was mesmerised by you, there was no other way to put it. You seemed to appear out of thin air, but it was only the colour of your gown hiding you until you hit the light. He had first thought you were dressed in black, something thick that almost absorbed light, like his own clothes. But when you had stepped closer, he realised it was indigo, a dark indigo like that of a midnight sky during a thunderstorm, the lightning flashing. It lacked embellishment, relying on its colour shining in the lights of the fires.
“Your grace,” you greeted breathily, your eyes still wide, and before he could ask what you were doing near the private Targaryen chambers, you continued on quickly. “I lost myself in thought, then I lost my way, I-” you dropped your head, your chin hitting your chest. “I did not mean to intrude on you.”
Your relief was palpable, but Baelor could also see the apprehension, the worry that you had made your way to somewhere you were not supposed to be, intruded on something that you were not supposed to intrude upon.
You were happy to see him, there was no doubt of that fact, but he had clearly avoided the feast and stayed himself here because he wanted to be alone. You would never forgive yourself if you had forced yourself in his company when you were not wanted, even if inadvertently.
“It is alright,” he responded, smiling softly at you, and your shoulders loosened a little. He gestured to the seat next to him, the one that stood to your other side, and you hesitated for a moment, before ultimately deciding to sit down anyway. “You lost your way?” He prompted, and you nodded.
Though Baelor did not mind company, and he did not mind solitude, he had required it that evening. It had been a long time since his mind had felt so jumbled about something, and it had nothing to do with the grain production of the realm, nor the new bridge being requested for a river just outside of King’s Landing. It was you.
He had known that if attended the feast, he would have spent his night watching after you, would not have thought a single thought that was not about you. But he could not allow that, not when so many other things began to crowd his mind and he found no peace in his bed at night.
He had taken his jug of wine, his single cup, ordered the kingsguard to stay at his door, made his way to this quiet haven overlooking the gardens and the sea beyond, and simply allowed himself to think freely.
Baelor thought about the way he had disregarded his own cautions and touched your hair anyway, had allowed himself to be swayed by the unexplainable desires of his that seemed to appear out of thin air when you were around. But then… then his thoughts had darkened.
You were young, far too young still, and you had no business spending your time with a widowed old man like himself. You should have been dancing with the boys in the hall like you had done the other night. You should have been sitting with Valarr and flirting and smiling bashfully, all the things young people did and believed they were the first to do. It was Baelor’s own fault for encouraging you, for allowing you to behave in such a way with him. He should have been stopping you, not falling to his own weaknesses.
And he felt rather selfish too, a sickening feeling that he had no business feeling as hand of the king. But he did. You were here for Valarr, or at the very least, to be betrothed to some young man who still had his own life ahead of him to live with you. It was selfish of him to be taking up so much of your time, to be enjoying it so and wishing that you spent all of your moments, waking or in sleep, with him.
There was something else there too, a kind of betrayal of Jena. Though it was true, they had not been married for love, and perhaps he had never fallen for her the way they spoke of in tales, but he had loved her in a way. They had shared a life together, shared children together, would it be a disservice to her to feel so for you? Because now when he looked upon you, when he saw you smile softly and look out at the distant night sky, as your hair draped tantalisingly over your neck and the sleeve of your dress dipped a little low over your shoulder, he understood what the old bards said of falling in love inexplicably.
“...rather hot, is it not?” You asked, turning your head to look at him, big eyes blinking. The pause was too long, and when he focused back on your face, he cleared his throat a little.
“I drifted, my lady, and for that I apologise. What was it you asked, dearest?” And you flushed hot then, your insides clenching and your mind suddenly running far too fast for your liking.
“I… um…” your mouth opened and closed, “uh, I simply said that the Great Hall gets far too hot once the dancing begins.”
“Indeed, it does,” he responded, smiling kindly, though there was still that preoccupied quality to his eyes. “Would you like some wine?” He asked then, glancing between you and the jug. “There is only one cup, I fear, but there is no harm in sharing.” He poured more wine into it then placed it on the table in front of you. You gulped, nodding in thanks and picking up the cup. You placed it to your lips and took a long slow sip. The wine was sweet and without any tang, smooth like nothing else you had tasted. You were sure this was the kind of wine that made drunkards of men, the kind that you would only have the opportunity to taste in a place like the Red Keep.
Baelor watched you sip from the place where his mouth had been only moments before, and he turned away, closing his eyes tight. It was a form of torture this, he was sure of it.
When you placed the mug down again, you looked at him, at the way he was gazing out at the water again, and you frowned a little. You were not sure if it was appropriate to ask, but you could bite your tongue no longer.
“My Prince,” you said quietly, and he turned to look at you, his eyes soft, as they always were when he looked upon you. It made you feel warm inside. “Do you wish me to leave you be? I do not pretend to know what weighs on your mind, but I am aware something does. I would not want you to hate me because I could not tell I was unwanted somewhere.”
Your voice was earnest, not the small and self-depricating thing he had once heard. You were sincere, saying such things out of care for him rather than woe for yourself. He felt his heart clench and loosen in his chest. He truly looked at you, allowed himself to get lost in the moment.
Baelor reached up and gently pressed his thumb up where your lower lip pouted. The droplet of wine that had dangled there splayed onto this thumb, and he slowly rubbed it along your bottom lip until it had disappeared.
Your breath stuttered over his hand, a soft fluttering thing like a bird’s wings. You stared at him with wide eyes, frozen, mesmerised, incapable of anything but breathing. You felt the liquid heat in your veins. The urge to press your lips to his thumb, to perhaps even bite it a little, flashed through you, and you blinked slowly, as if truly contemplating it. Baelor brought his hand back down and gently tapped your cup as if to tell you to drink more, returning his eyes to the dark patch where the sea called out. You sipped eagerly, your breath heavy.
“I could not hate you, even if you tried,” he finally said, smiling at you again as if he had said something simple, something of no consequence. “You are right, something does weigh on my mind, but it is good for a mind to remain heavy. Sometimes it is good to simply hold what weighs the mind down, but do it in the company of someone else.”
You almost felt tears prick at your eyes at the way he spoke, so soft and wistful, as if he had learned this from experience, as if there had been a time where he had been forced to carry burdens alone. You wished to take the weight from him, even if for a moment, but his words had touched something in your soul, had called to mind the moments where he had found you and made the weight bearable. So you nodded, smiled a watery smile, and poured more wine into the cup before passing it back to him.
Something had shifted after that evening. A new part of you had been woken up and refused to be quieted. You felt antsy before the feast. All day you had spent sequestered in your room, pacing back and forth until your feet hurt and your only choice was to throw yourself on your bed and scream into your pillow. You had felt a nagging sense of guilt since the evening before, something deep in your gut that battled the light and fluttery feeling in your heart.
You could not stop thinking about Prince Baelor. From the moment you had first encountered him, from the moment he had allowed you to hug him and had wiped your tears with such care… he would not leave your head. If you closed your eyes, you could picture him perfectly. His dignified expression and the warmth of his eyes… oh you were lost.
When there was even the merest mention of his name in your vicinity, your heart began to thud and your palms became covered in a light sweat. You felt lightheaded and desperate. You felt pathetic.
Though you only had smiles to offer when you thought of him, only had warm feelings in your heart at the idea of him, there was also this toxic mix of guilt and anger. A nagging guilt that you were betraying someone by loving him, whether that be his son or his dead wife. He was not the reason for your stay at the Keep, and yet he was the only reason you cared about.
But you were angry too, the irrational kind of anger that you knew was unjustified but you clung to because it was easier to feel. You were angry at him. You were angry at him for being so kind and gentle, for being so handsome and honourable, for making you fall in love with him…
You stood in front of the mirror as a maid laced the back of your dress. You waited for the pull, the tightening, and then leaned forward and said “tighter”. If you were to look your best in any dress, it was to be this one. The gown was made of dark red velvet, with long bell sleeves that draped down to your thighs when you stood straight. The hem was rather long too, covering your feet, and you bedecked yourself in gold to match it. You looked dipped in blood. You looked almost Targaryen…
You walked into the Great Hall surrounded by your family, but your eyes first went to the raised dais. The royals had already arrived, sitting in their various positions, sipping from goblets of wine. You could see Valarr smiling and joking with his younger brother, saying something in his ear that made the younger boy almost spit his drink. Though it was not likely, if Valarr were to choose you, you thought you could be happy with him.
When your eyes landed on Baelor, purposefully taking your time to reach him, to savour the moment you would finally lay your gaze on him, you felt your breath hitch in your chest. He was already looking at you, as if he had been waiting for the moment you walked through the door. His eyes dragged down your body, and it felt as if with each inch he covered, another part of your body left your control. It took everything in you just to keep walking to your seat. His face did not betray much, and you hated that he was so good at remaining stoic, but for a singular moment, you could see the fire burn in his eyes, and it made you hot under the collar.
You tore your eyes away as you reached your seat, and made a promise to yourself that you would avoid looking his way. He already haunted your dreams, you need not let him haunt your waking moments too.
You kept your eyes on the table, or on your plate, and happily on your siblings when they bothered you for attention. Though it was slow, eventually it did become easier not to keep taking peeks at the royal table, at the man who had not torn his eyes from you for even a moment.
When the dancing began, you allowed yourself to stay for a little while. You stood to the side and clapped to the beat, and even danced one song with the elder brother of one of the ladies from the Reach. But after the twirling and stepping, your feet hurt and the music was far too loud, and the heat in the Great Hall had settled too much.
You carefully picked your way through the crowd, discretely making your way to the door. Just before you reached it, you turned over your shoulder and looked back through the room and up to the Royal dais. You saw Baelor, met his eyes for a long moment, then turned and slipped through the door. You were not sure if you were posing an invitation, but you hoped he would come anyway.
The cold air outside was fresh, and you made quick work of finding your way to the balcony where you had spent the first night of the festivities pondering all the great sadnesses of life. How far removed that seemed from the person you were now. You resumed your position at the railing, and closed your eyes to listen to the water. You could hear the distant whoosh of the waves and it instantly set you right once more.
It was not long before footsteps echoed behind you, and though your body tensed, it was not unpleasant. When you turned around, it was as you had hoped, Prince Baelor making his way to you, his eyes gleaming even in the darkness, the barest upturn to his lips. You pursed your own to hide the smile that constantly threatened you in his presence.
“Your grace,” you curtseyed. Your eyes were bright and something in him felt sharp and hot when you looked up at him from under your lashes.
“My Lady,” he responded, but you felt like you were hearing his voice for the first time again, that silky softness that wrapped around your mind and made you feel like closing your eyes and shivering unabashedly. If only he would whisper in your ear like that all the time…
“You have found me again,” you said quietly, hands behind your back, clenching tight together as if that might keep your sanity, might keep your thoughts poor and your decisions good.
“So it seems,” and his voice was low too, slow and drawling, almost taunting.
He had walked closer to you, standing so the toes of his shoes touched the toes of yours. Though there were hints of the food and wine from the hall still clinging to his clothes, you could also smell the deep scent of a cool perfume on him, an interesting mix to the tinge of smoke that always seemed to cling to a Targaryen. You tried to inhale long and discreetly.
His incessant gaze was unsettling to you. How could he not tire of looking at you? How did he manage to interest himself enough with you, that not only did he look for so long, but his focus never wavered, and neither did his intensity?
“Why do you gaze upon me in such a way?” You asked quietly, biting your lip a little and bringing your hands around to fiddle with them just in front of you, in the small space that was left between your bodies.
“In what way is that, my lady?” But his tone suggested he knew the answer, that his confusion was feigned and he did it only to provoke you.
“In that way,” you answered a little petulantly, nudging your head in his direction as if to indicate his own face to him. A small smile made its way onto his face, and you felt your chest and stomach clench with it.
“You will have to be more specific my lady,” he responded teasingly, and your entire body flushed with heat. You had not realised that your feet had shuffled you closer, that your head was tilted even further back to meet his eyes and your hands were hovering just over his chest, waiting to be placed there.
“You tease me,” you breathed out as he leant his head down close to yours, his eyes filling your vision, his nose grazing yours. “But you know well what I say.” You felt the hairs of his beard tickle your chin, felt the lightest graze of his cupids bow against your own. His breaths fanned warmly over your mouth.
“I do,” he agreed, and then you were not sure how, but his mouth was on yours. Did he bend or did you lift? It did not matter, because his lips were warm and soft and he tasted of the sweet wine from Dorne, like bright red summer fruits. You felt hungry for him.
You steadied yourself against his body, your hands splayed over his ribs, pressed into the plush fabric there. One of his hands gripped your waist, tight over the line of your corset, and the other cupped your cheek, pulling you tight into him. You could feel the line of his body, and you were sure he felt yours in return, your breasts pressing into his chest. You were pushed up onto your toes, and though you trembled a little, he kept you tight against him. His neck was craned a little awkwardly, but he was sure he would endure a lifetime of pain far worse if it meant you kept kissing him like that.
Every thought he had carried in his brain before slipping out of his seat and making his way to you, was muddled and tossed about, some forgotten and some incoherent. He remembered your red dress, dark and provocative, begging him to follow you as you slipped through the door, but he could not remember the nagging feeling that had eaten at the back of his brain when he had seen you first.
It was only when breath became a necessity that you pulled your mouths away. You did not stray far. Your lips brushed together, breaths heaving against each other. His beard still rubbed at your cheeks a little. Your chest filled. Your eyes were closed, and you swallowed, the inside of your skull still feeling like it was full of bees. You exhaled just over his chin. You tilted your head up a little, brushing against his mouth again, but when you leant in to kiss him once more, he spoke.
“Stop.”
You paused, eyes flashing open. Baelor’s were still closed, and though he still held you, it felt like his grip was loosening, as if reality itself was loosening its hold on you with it.
“What?” You breathed out, and when Baelor finally opened his eyes, he could see yours, looking up at him, an incredulous sort of panic colouring you. Your hands trembled at his sides, and he clenched his eyes shut again for a moment as a flash of pain ran through him.
He wanted to shake his head, to tell you that it was nothing, that he had only had a moment of weakness but everything was alright, and you should simply kiss him again. But… this was wrong. This should not have been done. And that was the truth of it: this had been wrong from the beginning. He should not have intruded on you, he should not have watched you, should not have seeked you out. You were not meant for him, and there were a million reasons for it. He was the elder in this situation, he was supposed to know better, to guide you. And he could not be responsible for guiding you into a life that you may one day resent. He would not survive it.
He had not meant to get so caught up. When he had followed you, he had vowed to himself that it would be like before, without the touching, without the incessant desire. He had not meant to lose control.
“Enough,” he whispered, and when he opened his eyes, they were hard like stone. You felt something cold curl deep in your stomach. You had never seen his eyes like that before, the eyes he used in council, on the battlefield, but never with you.
Baelor pulled back, uncurling his arms from around you and pressing them at his sides. The air around him was far too chilly now. He took a deep breath in and shook his head.
“Return to the Great Hall at once,” he told you, and your body went rigid.
“My-”
“Return to the Great Hall, at once,” and it was an order.
You stepped back, hands pressing tight to your stomach. Your eyes filled with tears as you looked up at him, your lower lip trembling and your face contorted with anguish. Why was he doing this? Why did he kiss you then order you away? You opened your mouth, readying to ask him, but Baelor simply turned his back to you. You gulped, pressing your lips tight together to hold the sobs back. How had everything turned so quickly?
Tears slipped down your cheeks and you nodded though he could not see you. Your steps were hurried, slightly unsteady as you practically ran away, and Baelor clenched his eyes shut. He could not watch you leave.
Your dress was far brighter than you felt. Of course it was not the maid’s fault, how should she know your heart had been broken beyond repair and you felt like staying in your bed wearing mourning clothes? But you had been forced up and out of bed, told to leave behind whatever so saddened you and make merry with the other maidens, or perhaps find a moment in Prince Valarr’s company to endear him to you. You felt like doing neither, but you did put on the dress.
It was late after lunch when you dared to venture out into the gardens for a walk and some fresh air. It was just before evening, a time when everyone had sickened of the sun and wanted rest before the revelry so retired to their rooms and shut their eyes. You chose it on purpose, hoping to avoid interacting with anyone.
You still felt that sickening feeling of having the carpet ripped out from under you. When Baelor had kissed you, it was everything you had ever wanted, only for him to rip it away before you could get your fill. Your night had been spent sobbing, your entire body shaking as you curled up in bed and thought about the way he had dismissed you. He had not spoken otherwise, had not given you a single reason, simply expected you to leave.
You wiped at your eyes as you looked out at the gardens, your feet carrying you slowly, happy there was no one around to witness your weakness. You reached a secluded spot, a bench between bushes with a view out to sea. You allowed yourself to stand there, staring out at the water and feeling the pain in your heart stretch though each limb.
There were footsteps approaching, and you hoped they would bypass you entirely. If the person came your way, maybe you would be lucky enough that they would not ask any questions, would not realise you were standing there. It seemed luck was never on your side.
Baelor had taken to the gardens for the same reason you had. He should not have been surprised to find you there. But when he strolled along the path and spotted you standing just in front of the bench, his breath had left him, and he was forced to come to a stop near you.
You wore a beautiful pale violet dress, like lavenders or bell flowers. Your hair was loose down your back, the front strands simply pinned back to keep your face clear and nothing else. And your face… your beautiful face, with puffy red-rimmed eyes and a shine to your nose that made him ache. You should not have to look like that, full of such agony, and all because of him.
Baelor stepped closer to you, and you clenched your eyes shut, as if you could blink him away, but when you reopened them, he remained there. He looked tired, suddenly more wrinkled around the eyes than the night before. You could tell he had not slept well.
Your hands shook and sharp, shooting, pains wracked through you, reminding you constantly of what you had faced the evening before. You wanted to speak, to ask him why he had abandoned you so, but you could not bare to look at him. You began turning away, eyes clenched shut and mouth quivering with barely restrained whimpers and sobs, but he stepped closer again, gently reaching out and gripping your elbows to bring you to him.
You shook your head, pressing your lips together, keeping your eyes shut, hoping he would leave you be the way he did before, ceasing to cause you pain. But Baelor’s own eyes were wet with tears seeing the state of you, and he could not leave again. He dragged a hand up your arm, over your shoulder, caressing your neck then cupping your face softly.
“My lady,” he whispered, and his voice was hoarse, clogged, and you hiccupped a little, the sob staying caught in your throat. You wanted to pull away, and even moved back to do so, but he simply followed you.
“What do you want from me?” You asked quietly, your voice a torn thing, as you finally opened your eyes and looked up into his piercing blue ones. “Why do you keep me here?”
Baelor rolled his lips, blinking and looking away for a second as his thumb caressed the bone of your cheek. You could not decide whether you wanted him to continue or you wanted to thrash away.
“I told you my fears,” you whispered, “and it felt as if they had come true last night.” Baelor clenched his eyes shut and nodded, pulling his lower lip back and biting it. He knew what he had done, knew how he had made you feel, and he hated himself for it. “Why?”
He was quiet for a few moments, listening to you breathe shakily, feeling it over his chin and neck, savouring the feeling of holding you again, something he had tossed away the evening before without thinking about how he would long for it every moment after. His fingers threaded through your hair behind your ear.
“You are beautiful,” he began, and the smile on his face was sweet, genuine, pained. “You are young and beautiful and so full of life. Though I may not be on my deathbed, I am old, widowed, a father of two sons, and weighed down by what is expected of me from the realm. How could I justify to myself that a beautiful girl such as yourself could ever be happy being forced into such a situation? You may kiss me and have your fun, I will allow it for I am weak, but it cannot go further than that.”
Baelor’s face was as sad as you had ever seen it. His eyes shined, the hand cupping your face trembling a little, and he seemed to become even more tired in your presence. You listened to his words with a frown, your lips parted, tears staining your cheeks, and your hands limp at your sides.
“Did you think to ask me?” You responded, your body beginning to tremble as a white hot anger filled you. Your hands clenched into fists and you brought them up, resting them harshly against his chest.
“What?” He asked, voice a little breathy as his frown turned form anguished to confused.
“Did you think to ask me how I felt? If I simply wanted to play with a prince’s feelings or if I- if I loved you?” You stuttered a little as the truth fell from your mouth, your body tightening. Baelor stared down at you, eyes unreadable.
A moment passed and your face crumpled again, the tears anew and your mouth turning down at the corners. Your hands splayed over his chest then clenched into his doublet again.
“I do not think you old or weighed down. I find you… I find you handsome,” you reached up and rubbed a hand over his beard as his eyes shined down at you. “Unbearably so. And kind, a man with a heart too good for this realm. You have comforted me like no other, have soothed me and made me happy, and all without trying.You are the first person who has truly listened to what I have had to say, and not tossed it asied. You make me feel… you make me feel real. You may be widowed, you may be a father, but those are not links on a chain. Those are things that make you the man you are, that endear you to me beyond what words can express. I could think nothing better than spending the rest of my life in your company. You would not be chaining me but freeing me.”
Baelor cupped your face with both hands as you looked up at him, breathing heavily. It was the most honest you had ever been in your entire life. Your body thrummed with the truth of it, and you felt a little better simply for having said it. You dropped your head onto his chest, and allowed him to wrap his arms around you and hug you close. The two of you stood there for a long few moments, trembling in each others arms, eyes closed, absorbing what the other person had said. Finally, Baelor leaned back, cupping your face again and tilting your head up just so.
“My love,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your forehead and leaving a long kiss. You felt light and airy, like a caterpillar turned butterfly, and you hoped he would lean down and kiss you on the mouth, rectify what he had done the evening before. But Baelor just pulled away, tightening his grip on your face a little, nodding at you, and then walking off down the path. You were too stunned to even call out.
You had been left confused the rest of the day. After your moment with the prince, you had returned to your room, laying flat on your back on the bed and staring at the ceiling. You could not comprehend him, could not possibly gauge what went on in his mind. How could he possibly think himself burdening you by loving you? Perhaps he was mad. It would not be out of the ordinary for a Targaryen.
When the evening had rolled around, and you were laced into your dress, you were still dazed. You floated through everything, not realising that you had been guided into the Great Hall, that you were sat at a table and there was food in front of you. You had not even bothered to check if the Crown Prince had made an appearance. The only time even a modicum of consciousness had found you was when you excused yourself and slipped from the room.
It was purely on instinct, your feet finding their way to the fateful balcony. This would likely be one of your final nights here. It had become obvious that Prince Valarr had no interest in you, and you had done nothing to curry his favour either. But you would miss this balcony, this view, this softness that the world had in this particular place.
You sighed long and low as you leaned over the railing, just managing to catch the shine of moonlight on the sea in the distance. Sometimes you wondered what it would be like to fly off the balcony and simply fall into the sea, never to be seen again.
There were footsteps behind you, not loud but not someone trying to remain hidden. You had a suspicion of who it was, because who else would be in this place at this time other than Baelor? You could not quite decide if you wanted to see him.
When Baelor stepped onto the balcony, he almost felt as if he had been transported back in time to the night he had first met you. You were standing almost as you had been before, looking out. You wore a dark blue velvet dress, a similar style to the one of before, with off the shoulder straps and bell sleeves. But where that one was embellished with gold, this one was stitched with silver, almost like the moon over the sea just behind you.
You turned to look at him, and your face did not betray anything. He could not tell if you were happy to see him or upset. He did feel some guilt at the way he had left you, so quick and fluid, but he had needed to get away, to think for a long moment about the action that had entered his brain, and to speak with his son about the possibility. It had felt far too right.
You opened your mouth, readying to speak, but Baelor just stepped closer until he was right in front of you, then got down onto one knee. He braced his forearms on his thigh, looking up at you with determined eyes and a small smile. Your breath left you, your hands coming up to press against your mouth as you stared at him. Your eyes blinked rapidly, your heart ran faster than a prize horse, but you were frozen to your spot, unable to comprehend what was happening.
“My Lady,” he began quietly, the way almost all your conversations had gone since the day you had met. “Forgive me for causing you the distress I have done, it was not meant. Though I have known love, and marriage, I have never felt for someone the way I have felt for you. You are beautiful, and kind, and soulful. You do not love yourself the way you should, but allow me to do it for you.” Baelor twisted a ring off of his finger, the one he always fiddled with when in thought, and proferred it up to you. “I love you,” he finally said, and his voice lightened, like a bird flying from the ground and disappearing into the sky. “I love you with all the heart I possess. And if you love me the way you have expressed. If even a modicum of that affection stille exists in you, then all I ask of you is that you marry me.”
Your entire torso shook as you sobbed into your hands, your eyes never leaving Baelor, not for one moment. You could not believe it. You could not. But there he was, the most powerful man in the seven kingdoms, kneeling for you. You nodded. You hoped you did.
“I will never allow you to doubt my love again, not even for a moment. I will speak with your father on the morrow, announce the wedding as soon after if you wish it.” And then all you could do was nod, your vision blurring and neck aching. You laughed, loud and ecstatic and a little manic. Your tears, though hot and wet on your cheeks, for the first time carried only pure joy. You offered Baelor your hand, allowed him to slip the ring onto your finger, the band far too big, and then fell to your knees in front of him. He gripped you around the waist, hauling you into his arms as you trembled and giggled.
“My prince,” you whispered, cupping his face in your hands as he beamed down at you. He pressed his forehead to yours, and you nuzzled your nose to his. You ran your thumbs over his cheeks, over his beard and let your hands rest against the sides of his neck. He clutched you tightly, keeping handfuls of the thick velvet of your dress.
“My love,” he whispered, and then he kissed you until breath was no longer a concern.
