i’m so not ready for the final akotsk episode… and while waiting i just had to draw something simple and fluffy with baelor and maekar being small and happy…… to use as a band-aid for my devastated broken heart🪦
Notes: English is not my first language. Constructive criticism is always welcome! I do not own any pictures or characters. Guys these two are slowly but surely finding their way back to each other. But this part is very much building up to the next one ( which will be the wedding and things getting even better between them) - SJ
Warnings: Age gap relationship. Unspecified house. The readers dad is an asshole and verbally abusive. Only slight angst (things are getting better - slowly), Jealousy, Baelor gets protective( let me know if I missed any)
Word count: 4.5k
Masterlist (with previous parts)
Part 8 - Wait
It was during a gown-fitting the next day that I received the invitation to meet up Baelor later in his study. It felt like an odd place to start our courtship. My first thought was that he simply tried to fit me in his busy schedule. That his words the day before had been empty and meant nothing to him.
Therefore, when I arrive at the study I am cautious and suspicious of the whole ordeal. I had already decided in my mind that if this was how he intended to court me - then he did not need to do it.
When I enter I know that I have a sour look on my face. He, on the other hand, sits writing on parchment and when he sees me in the doorway he smiles a crooked smile and says my name - soft and gentle.
“Come in, close the door behind you” I do, and then I clasp my hands in front of me - wearing courtly politeness as a shield.
“A study is quite an unusual place to meet one's betrothed, my prince” I say, letting him meet my neutral tone. I expect his smile to falter at it - it does not. Instead he only lets out a small laugh while moving towards a cupboard.
“Yes it is, but there are two reasons for meeting you here instead of say - the gardens.” He opens the cupboard and pulls out two goblets and a bottle of wine. “The first is that this is, mayhaps, the only place in the Red keep where we can have a conversation without being surveilled ” He puts down the goblets and pours wine in each of them. “The second reason is that this is the only place the maesters would let me have this.” He says and puts down the bottle of wine to pat a dusty book that sat upon his table.
“And what is that?” I ask him while taking one of the goblets and letting myself taste the wine he had poured for me.
“This is a tale written by the same author who wrote the tale you loved as a young girl” He smiles at me while sitting back in his chair.
“That man did not write any more tales” I say this with certainty. For I had searched for many years to find any more books written by that author. Everytime we visited some lord my father wanted to impress I snuck into their library to search for the same author - and every time I was unsuccessful. “Trust me, your grace. I know”
“You may think you know” he sips the wine. “But that is because this one never got printed into more copies. It is one of a kind.” His eyes soften as they look at me.
I take a seat on the other side of the table, put down my goblet and reach for the book. There on the first page I see it - the name I had searched for in many castles. “How?” It is all I can think of to ask.
“There are a few scenes as well as themes in it that many believed were far too… improper to distribute.”
I look down at the book in front of me and then back up at him. “And what is your plan? That you drink wine and watch me read this in silence?”
“Yes and no” he gives me a crooked smile while placing his hands in his lap. “I have already read the book. Written down some notes I have on it. Which means that if you wish to discuss it - we can. Otherwise, you read it in silence while we both enjoy the wine.”
“And if I do not wish to discuss it? Will you just sit there? Drinking wine while going through trade routes or tax records? All while I read this book in complete silence?”
“Yes” He says while smiling even bigger at me. I let out a breathless laugh and picked up the book.
“Is this how princes usually court ladies?” I say while raising my eyebrow at him, all the while letting my fingers find the first chapter.
“No,” he says and shrugs while picking up his goblet. “It is how I court you.” He takes a sip and I catch the glint in both of his eyes.
I started reading. The cadence of the writing reminds me of the book I had loved in my youth - the one who still had a place in my heart. However, there were some clear differences in the themes it discussed. It critiqued both the old gods and the new. It showed the rough life of the smallfolk who worked all their life - getting calloused hands and sunburnt faces - all for the nobles and royals to take advantage of them. Then there was the discussion of female pleasure.
I wish that I was able to read it all in silence. That I did not wish to discuss it. It felt like a childish show of power. That he would only speak if I spoke. But this tale was no ordinary tale. This tale burned its words in my mind and its markings spread to my tongue.
Therefore, it was on page 73 that I finally could not resist and I looked up with my mouth agape. To which Baelor only smiled and picked up the parchment where he had written down his notes. After that page the wall was down, the power play of silence was gone. Instead the study was now filled with more discussions rather than reading. The wine flowed along with the words and opinions we shared.
The tale was almost finished when a knock was heard and Baelor needed to be elsewhere.
It had not been terrible, this courting in the study. It was a start. Yet I yearned for something more. I had been locked up behind these stone walls for far too long. I missed the woods and meadows of my childhood. The new tale had helped to still the itch but it did not kill it.
So, when Baelor said that we would meet at the same time tomorrow to finish the book, I agreed - at first. Then I turn around and look at him, he looks at me with his eyebrows raised and a stance that shows that even though he has matters to attend to - he will wait for me and my words
”After we’ve finished the book tomorrow. Is there any way we could go horse riding?”
I see something flicker behind his eyes - surprise or simply just wonder. It is then I realize, by seeing his stance and his hands moving at his sides that when I had turned around he had expected me to reject his plan. Say that I did not wish to see him again tomorrow. Say that I did not wish to see him at all.
”I am afraid that cannot be arranged. Sadly, the city does not offer the routes or milieu that suits horse riding.” When he notices how my face falls at his words, he continues. “Mayhaps we could at least visit the gardens? ”
“That sounds fine, my prince” The words coming out from my lips without making them anything more than they are - indifferent. It was better than to be cooped up in the castle all day long. It was not better than actually being out and feeling the wind in my hair while riding through meadows and in between trees. It was better than nothing, but it was not what I needed.
…
The next day is much like the day before. Wedding plans that still need to fall into place. Gown-fittings where I had started to suspect that the seamstresses simply enjoyed poking me with pins and needles. How much more fitted could this gown be? How many more adjustments would they think were necessary? Then, I arrived to the study once more. We drank the same wine and read and discussed.
I would not be truthful if I said I did not enjoy the reading. If I said it did not quench the thirst for freedom. Reading has always been my aid. It had started before I even had learned to read - I would simply admire the illustrations, the bindings and how the letters were etched onto the parchment in ink. No matter where I was, no matter how misplaced or how many whispers surrounded me - books could always spare me. They would sit there on dusty bookshelves and wait for me with their new ideas, new thoughts and new worlds - and I would always find them.
Then we reached the final chapter, the final page, the final words and our discussion came to an end. As we stood up to leave for the gardens, I thanked Baelor. For finding it and for letting me read it. I did not, however, voice all of my gratitude. That I was grateful that he let me sit there and read in silence. Sometimes I would read several chapters before wishing to discuss it - and he did not object. He did not push me to speak. He didn't rush me. He sat there and let me take my time. Each time I spoke he would simply smile and bring out his notes, as if he had not waited for me at all - but he had.
When I come out to the gardens I try to remember the gratefulness. I tried to force the feeling to dwell inside of me. Yet, my attempts were futile. The itch of running on the lands where Roman and I had spent our days of youth together, took over. To feel like one could run without having eyes and ears on oneself. To not have manmade enclosures making me feel like I was simply a weed in this garden - and one look from the gardener would meant hat I would be gone. I wished to be someplace that felt larger than manmade cities. To stand under trees that seemed to never stop growing. Who reached the top of this world. Not to stand next to a hedge that was routinely trimmed.
“How are things going with the wedding plans, my lady?” His question pulls me from the spiral being constructed in my mind.
“Smooth. Although, I never did think that I had to put so much thought into the colour of drapes.” This pulls out a laugh from him. It was not the laugh that most people heard from the prince. It was the one that I had heard that first meeting underneath the oak tree. The sound of it awoke a warm feeling in my chest. A fondness for the slight off-beat sound that was proof that he was not always practiced and composed. A fondness and warmth that was short-lived. I was reminded me of all that had transpired since that first laugh. The warmth in my chest was replaced with a sharp and cool sting - one that spread itself all over me.
“I do not envy you. For my first wedding I rememb-” He stops himself, in his words and his steps. Then his posture gets straighter, while clasping his hands behind his back. He continues to walk and begins to speak of something pointless. Something polite and something that is a perfectly decent conversation topic.
I do not follow him.
“Your grace.” I say while he stops a few steps from me. He turns to see me standing still on the path. “You can speak of Lady Jena. You and I have spoken of her before. I did not mind it then and I do not mind it now.”
One of his hands goes to scratch at the back of his neck while he looks down on the gravel beneath our feet. His hand then falls to his side as he looks up at me. “I do not wish to cause you any discomfort”
“You will not” I say and step closer to him while shrugging. “I knew of your previous marriage since before we had even met. I know you care for her. She gave you two wonderful sons.” I am standing in front of him now. His eyes are looking at me before shooting down quickly at the small distance between our feet. “ I do not wish for her name and memory to become something forbidden or hidden. She deserves to be spoken of and remembered”
At my last words he exhales a deep breath before nodding. Then we fall into our steps as he starts to speak of her and their wedding. Of how she would see something small – a bird, a stone or simply the shape of the clouds - and somehow this would give her an idea for the cake, or her hair or the seating arrangement. How Baelor had tried to help but each time she would simply raise her eyebrows and he would fall silent. He told me that even during the wedding she made last minute adjustments - but that she seemed more happy doing that than anything else. As if planning the wedding was more enjoyable than the actual wedding itself.
Our conversation gets interrupted by a familiar voice calling my name. Lyonel walks up wearing his usual care-free smile.
“Do my eyes deceive me or are you actually walking around looking happy?” He comes up to us and places a hand on my shoulder. He gives it a squeeze and then he leaves it there. It was nothing new. We had been friends for years, and the occasional touch was not something either of us thought twice about. However, I noticed how Baelor’s eyes dropped to Lyonel’s hand still on my shoulder.
“Lord Baratheon” he said, his court-tight smile making an appearance.
“Prince Baelor” Lyonel says and then flashes a wide grin. “Has her sharp tongue picked you apart yet, your grace?”
“Lyonel.” My voice matching his teasing tone. “It is odd to see you outside before midnight. Have you already emptied the wine cellar of your generous host?”
He gasps my name while moving his hand from my shoulder to his chest. “You wound me. Since when do you take any issue with my intake of wine?”
“Since I am marrying into the family whose wine cellar you are emptying, you drunkard” This pulls a laugh out of Lyonel making him give Baelor - who stood stiff and still - a pat on his back. I saw how Baelor only looked at Lyonel, his eyes clouded by something I had not seen before.
“You are marrying a good woman, your grace” And then, since Lyonel lacked the ability to read the room, he adds. “To believe in another life she could’ve been my wife” After that he bids us farewell before leaving us standing there. Unaware of how his interruption had affected Baelor.
I look at where he stands. Fingers twirling his rings, jaw clenched and eyes glued to the ground.
“My prince.” My voice comes out firm yet calm, hoping that would make him look at me - but his gaze remains on the ground. “Are you alright?” He lets out a breathless laugh while shaking his head.
“He said you could’ve been his wife”
“It was a jest.”
“His hand was on your shoulder”
“He patted you on your back” I say while shrugging
“He called you by your name - not your title”
“We are friends. I am of the opinion that one can use names instead of titles then, do you not agree?” He does not answer my question, instead he speaks with an even quieter tone.
“You called him by his name.” I am about to once again stress the fact that we are friends when he adds, in an even lower voice. “Yet you insist on titles with me”
I try to fight back the teasing smile that takes form on my lips. Yet the grin still widens over my face.
“Do not tell me you are jealous, my prince?”
A muscle in his jaw ticks at my words, he goes to say something but he remains silent and turns away from me.
“Lyonel is a good friend of mine.” My voice is still firm but carrying more softness, while I approach him.”He was…more than that to Roman.” The grin on my face is now gone entirely as I see him taking in my words. I do not wish to tell him of the nature of Roman and Lyonel’s relationship - for it is not for me to tell. “Lyonel is fond of jesting. Of provoking people. He does not actually wish that I would be his wife.
“I am aware of Lyonel Baratheon's fondness for provocation.” His eyes finally look up to meet mine. “I simply do not care for him using you as one.”
“Well, I do not care for you getting jealous of one of my few friends in the seven kingdoms, my prince.”
“I am not jealous” His voice is firm but he has stopped moving his fingers along his rings, his jaw is unclenched.
“Whatever you say, your grace ” I say, while my grin returns on my face. The moments has become far warmer now, the effect of Lyonel’s words being erased. In fact it is easier than any conversation we’ve had in weeks. Not carrying any of the weight of all that has happened. Baelor senses this too and doing so he gets carried away. His hand goes up and tucks away a stray hair from my face, his fingers carefully brushing my cheek.
I freeze at the touch. Although, it is barely even a touch. Still, my entire body goes stiff. It feels too much, too soon. He notices this too, quickly retrieving his hand. I know Baelor well enough to see that he is about to apologize. I see the words starting to form on his lips, but I do not let him say it.
“I believe it is time for me to return to the wedding plans, your grace” I say while taking a step back from him.
“I-” he says while one of his hands goes out to me, but he takes it back and puts both hands behind his back. “Will I see you at supper, my lady?” ‘
“Yes, your grace” I say and curtsy. The warmth of the moments is gone, leaving only a coldness against my cheek where his fingers had touched me.
...
Supper that evening was held with my family as well as Baelors - with exception for the king and queen. This was an exception that my father did not like – causing him to be in a sour mood. Through my childhood I had become an expert at my father’s mood and more importantly - how these moods would affect me and my siblings. Whenever he barely touched his wine but still laughed, it was one of the rare moments where he was happy and therefore he would praise Miria - calling her lovely and beautiful. Whenever he was silent and mostly poked at his food, he was tired. This had been when he would look at Romans plate and wave at the servants to give him more -”You’re too thin for a knight” he would mutter. Whenever his frown was more pronounced and he leaned back in his chair - he felt slighted. This was when he decided that the disappointment in his life had to be pointed out - me. This was the mood he was currently in, meaning I knew what I was in for before I had even taken my first bite.
“Sit up straight, daughter, only truly beautiful ladies can be afforded bad posture” He spits the words across to me. To me it is nothing new as I have heard them before, truth be told I had heard far worse before. Yet I see how the princes react, Maekar letting out a soft grunt, Valarr's shoulders becoming tense and Baelor’s eyes shooting toward me.
“Yes, father” I say, trying to sound polite in a way to still his annoyance toward me. It works, for a few minutes. Valarr and Miria falling into some conversation that I cannot listen to because I am trying to keep the situation from becoming worse - my efforts are, however, futile.
My father says my name, and as usual he spits it out as if it is venom on his tongue. “I have heard you’ve been spending some time with Lord Baratheon.”
“He is a friend, father. He was a friend of Roman and he-”
“I do not care what he is” he says while slamming his goblet of wine down on the table, red wine splashing on the dark wood. “He has a reputation, one that you cannot afford to be associated with.” I go to answer, but he is not finished. “I already have to suffer with hearing whispers of how you have gone fucking mad and are as ladylike as a limp horse” He stops only to drink wine. My gaze is on my plate, refusing to see how the Targaryens react. I was just grateful that Matarys had taken his supper earlier and was now in bed - far away from my father’s words. “ I cannot stand to also have you be viewed as a useless whore”
This causes a clatter of cutlery. Maekar is now standing up, Valarr is throwing daggers with his eyes at my father and Baelor sits with his hands in his lap.
“That is enough” He says in a stern voice, causing even me to shrink a little bit in my chair. “ You are speaking to my betrothed, my lord.” He tilts his head slightly. “Speak to her in that manner again, and I will have you thrown out of this keep and make sure no Lord or Lady ever associates with you again.”
My father goes to respond but Maekar interrupts him. “And I shall cut out your tongue and feed it to the hounds.”
This causes my father to stutter out some unintelligible apology before nodding and then looking down at his plate.
…
Supper is finished and I am standing up, about to retire to my chambers, when the servant comes in. Matarys had asked for me. Not for a maid. Not for his brother. Not for his father. He had asked for me.
“I’ll come with you” Baelor said and I looked at him, about to argue. “ I am his father” I nodded, because I had no argument against that. Matarys was his son, not mine. We fell into step next to each other as we walked the hallways toward the nursery. Silent at first but then he stopped, and I did as well.
“Your father had no right to speak to you that way, my lady” He said while his eyes travel across my face, never stopping too long in one spot.
“I am used to it, your grace.” I shrug, because to me this had not been the worse my father had been. He had said and done far more hurtful things in the past.
“I am sorry” He says and his voice cracks on the last word.
“It is not your fault, my prince, my fath-”
“Not for what he said” he says and walks closer to me before he steps back again. Not wanting to get carried away the way he did in the gardens. “For what I said. All those weeks ago. I had no right.” He shakes his head and drags a hand through his beard. “ I let my fear speak for me and I hurt you. Badly. You do not deserve that. You deserve so much more.”
“I do” I whisper and look at him where he is standing in front of me with glassy eyes and a trembling breath. “I also told you I am giving you time, Baelor” His name slips past my name without thinking about it. But I notice how it affects him, how his breath hitches as I say it.
“I know” he says. “I know, and I am sorry for the gardens. I -” He looks at me where I stand. His lips trembling while he speaks“I will not push again. I will not let myself get carried away. I will wait.” Despite his efforts to hide it, a tear slips from one of his eyes.
“That is good, my prince” I whisper while letting a hand go up to his cheek, my thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped past his composure. He leans into the touch and I let my hand linger before pulling it away. “Matarys is waiting for us”
When we arrive at the nursery, Matarys is sitting up in his bed holding a pillow close to his chest while tears stream down his face. When I step through the door he releases the pillow and holds out his arms for me. I embrace him at once and let my hand run through his auburn locks.
“What’s wrong, little prince?” I whisper against his head of hair. He sniffles against my chest before turning and looking at his father standing in the doorway. Baelor walks up and sits next to us on the bed.
“Are you alright?” he asks while letting his hand go to his son’s back.
“I had a dream” he mumbles against my collarbone.
“A bad one?” Both me and Baelor ask in unison.
“Yes or no. I-” He sniffles and then he speaks. “ You and father had a baby” His words land like a stone in the silent nursery. Me and Baelor’s eyes meet. Neither of us know what to say. Then Matarys speaks again. “You held the baby and talked to it and sang to it and when I talked to you… the both of you just…ignored me.”
“Dreams are just that, little prince, dreams” I put my hands on his cheeks and lift his face up to look in his eyes. “Neither me nor your father would ever ever ignore you”
“Even if you had a baby?” he says, his eyes big as they search mine for any hesitation in my answer.
“Even if we had a baby.” says Baelor and Matarys looks at his father before embracing him instead.
The three of us stayed up and talked until Matarys stopped crying and then finally fell asleep. Me and Baelor left the nursery and outside in the hallway it was quiet - in the way the castle only was in the deep hours of the night. We stood next to each other and for a fraction of a second I let my fingers brush against his. At the contact he says my name. I look up at him and he clears his throat.
“Good night” he says letting the corner of his mouth twirl upwards and I smile at him.
“Good night, Baelor” and then I walked toward my chamber.
The wounds his words had afflicted on me were not gone, they might never be and it would take more time before they even healed. But each meeting with Baelor made something clear for me - he would wait. Whether we were betrothed or married, he would not push or rush me. He would wait for my forgiveness. He would wait for me, and that made the wounds sting a little less.
Chapter Summary:
You speak to Baelor of your concerns about the relationship between you. He recovers from his head injury, but stopping milk of the poppy brings its own symptoms. Queen Myriah learns just how much you and Baelor mean to one another.
Content: slow burn, canon divergence, Baelor lives, mutual pining, crossdressing, master & servant, fear of discovery, identity reveal, injury recovery, devotion, violence, protectiveness, eventual smut, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader apart from hair length
You awaken the following morning feeling no better than you did the day before, much to your dismay.
After preparing for the day as usual, you bring Baelor his breakfast, relieving Prince Maekar of his watch.
Once Baelor has finished eating, you help him into the solar. He intends to spend some time reading the correspondence that has accumulated during his illness. At first, you object.
“I do not intend to return to work,” he sayss with a small smile. “Only to keep informed of what is happening. Valarr is carrying out my duties as Hand, as he did the last time I was ill. I should at least know what he is dealing with.”
You cannot argue with that.
He settles at his desk while you resume your place beside him with your sewing basket. Yesterday you finished hemming your new handkerchief. Now you begin embroidering a border in red thread. It is intended for Baelor.
After a time, you notice him set one of the letters aside. He closes his eyes and rubs them with a weary sigh.
“Are you feeling alright?” You ask.
“I am.” He lets out a quiet breath. “Though I am finding it rather difficult to keep the words in focus.”
You immediately set your embroidery aside and hold out your hand.
“May I?”
He passes you the letter without protest. You smooth it open and begin reading aloud. You manage only a few sentences before stumbling over your words. You try again, with the same result. You stop with a frustrated sigh.
Baelor studies you quietly. “Please tell me what is troubling you.”
“I am fine.” You keep your eyes on the page.
From the corner of your vision, you see him turn in his chair to face you.
“You are not.” His voice remains gentle. “You have not been yourself since yesterday.”
“I do not wish to burden you with my troubles while you are still recovering.”
“If something weighs upon your heart,” he says softly, “then I want to know.”
Reluctantly, you look up. His expression is patient. Concerned.
“Did something happen with Tom the other night?”
Your heart sinks. There is no point pretending otherwise. You fold the letter carefully before setting it on the desk, and lower your gaze once more, clasping your hands together in your lap.
“I told him about us.”
Baelor leans forward slightly, listening.
“Well...” You give a small smile. “He guessed there was something between us, and I told him the truth.”
“And how did he take it?”
“He does not disapprove.” You hesitate. “Not exactly.”
“What, then?”
You draw a slow breath. “He worries that… things might change.”
Baelor's brow furrows. “In what way?”
“He said that because we are not married, that if circumstances changed… there is nothing binding us together. That my place beside you depends entirely upon your feelings remaining the same.”
You cannot bring yourself to look at him. The words hurt even more spoken aloud.
You hear the scrape of his chair. When you glance up, he is already rising. He walks around the desk and lowers himself carefully to one knee before you.
“Be careful,” you say instinctively, reaching out to steady him by the arm.
Once he has settled, he gently takes your hand in both of his. His thumb brushes softly across your knuckles before he lifts your hand and presses the lightest kiss against your fingers. Only then does he look up to meet your eyes.
“Do you truly think so little of my feelings?”
“No…” Your voice trembles. “But they could change.”
His expression softens with unmistakable sadness.
“I would never have gone before my father and asked permission to marry you if I were not certain you are the woman I wish to spend my life with.”
Your eyes sting.
“I wanted to make you my wife. I still do.” He squeezes your hand gently. “My father's refusal has not altered that desire. It has only prevented it from becoming reality.”
His smile is small, but full of warmth.
“With every day that passes, I find myself growing more and more fond of you.”
You swallow against the tightness in your throat.
“Since my father refused my request, I have spent a great deal of time thinking about what still lies within my power.” He draws your joined hands a little closer. “I may never be permitted to call you my wife before the eyes of the realm, but I want you beside me… every day. I want to share meals with you, share our thoughts, our worries, our joys. If the realm will not allow us to be husband and wife in name, then let us be husband and wife in every way that truly matters.”
Tears spill over your lashes, and you quickly brush them away with the back of your hand.
“But I am still a servant,” you say, your voice unsteady. “We cannot live as husband and wife while that divide remains between us.”
“You will not need to be.” He reaches up to cup your cheek, his thumb gently catching the tears you missed. “I can give you a place of your own. Somewhere far better than a small set of rooms on the other side of King's Landing. Somewhere close to me, where you need not remain in service, yet I may still see you every day.”
You can only stare at him. The offer is so unexpected that, for a moment, your mind refuses to grasp it.
“A proper home. Somewhere safe.” he continues, his thumb stroking lightly across your cheek. “It is not what I wished to give you. I wished to give you my name. But if I cannot do that, then at least allow me to give you this.”
“Baelor...” You shake your head faintly. “Surely that is too much.”
“Nothing is too much for you.”
The warmth of his smile is enough to undo you. Fresh tears gather and spill before you can stop them. You laugh softly through them.
“Please… get off your knees.”
“As you command.”
You rise at the same time, offering him your arm. He accepts it, using it only lightly as he pushes himself carefully to his feet. He seems steadier than he did yesterday.
Once upright, however, he makes no move to let go. One hand remains around your forearm, while the other lifts to cradle your cheek once more. You lean instinctively into his touch.
“You need not answer me now,” he says quietly. “I only want you to know that what I feel for you is no passing fancy.” His fingers stroke gently through a loose strand of your hair. “I want you in my life.”
Your throat tightens. You can only nod. No words seem equal to what fills your heart.
He draws you gently into his embrace. You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat while one of his hands settles protectively against the back of your head.
For the first time since Tom planted those doubts in your mind, you allow yourself to believe that perhaps your future is not quite as uncertain as it had seemed.
After a quiet moment, you lift your head. Baelor is already looking down at you. His eyes drift briefly to your lips before returning to yours, silently asking. You answer by leaning the final fraction of the distance. His lips meet yours in a gentle, tender kiss.
The last of the tension you've been carrying melts away. You close your eyes, sighing softly against him as, at last, you allow yourself to let go of your fears.
~
You bring Baelor his midday meal, and for the first time since his injury, he eats at the dining table instead of in bed.
Once he has finished, he expresses a desire for some fresh air, so you accompany him into the courtyard.
You settle together on a bench beneath the shade of a broad tree. Baelor sits close enough that your thighs brush, his arm resting lightly against yours. You resume your embroidery in the warm afternoon sunlight while he watches in comfortable silence.
After a time, you glance sideways at him.
“You're very quiet. Are you feeling alright?”
“I am.” He smiles. “I was merely admiring your skill.”
A faint smile tugs at your lips.
Moments later, he shifts a little closer and gently rests his head against your shoulder. Your needle stills for only a moment before you continue your stitching.
Each small movement sends the soft ends of his hair brushing against your cheek. You feel the steady warmth of him beside you, the comforting weight of his head resting against your shoulder.
It is such a simple thing. Yet it feels impossibly precious. For these few quiet moments, it is as though there is no distance between you at all.
-
Valarr had heard the rumours.
His wife, Kiera, had repeated the whispers her maid had overheard below stairs – that Baelor's cupbearer scarcely left his chambers during his illness, tending him herself instead of allowing a nurse to take her place. That Baelor had personally seen to the punishment of the servant who had assaulted her. That he had been seen visiting her in the servants' quarters late one evening. Some had even begun whispering that Prince Baelor had taken his cupbearer as his mistress.
Valarr had dismissed the gossip. His father was a kind and compassionate man. Servants often mistook such kindness for favour, while others delighted in inventing scandal where none existed.
Valarr arrives at his father’s chambers that afternoon, and knocks upon the chamber door. Receiving no answer, he lets himself inside.
The outer rooms stand empty. He crosses the solar and steps beneath the archway leading into the courtyard. There he stops.
His father sits upon a shaded bench, his head resting against his cupbearer's shoulder while she quietly sews. No words pass between them, yet Baelor looks… peaceful. More peaceful than Valarr can remember seeing him in years.
-
“You're making another handkerchief?” Baelor asks.
“Yes.” You smile. “This one is for you.”
“Ah.” He leans forward to inspect it more closely, pointing towards the small embroidered dragon beginning to emerge along one edge. “That explains the dragon.”
“I hope you'll like it.”
“I shall treasure it.” He smiles. “Though I suspect I would be reluctant to use it.”
“Why?”
“I should hate to spoil something you made.”
You laugh softly. “It can be washed.”
As you lift your head, your smile falters. Prince Valarr stands beneath the courtyard arch, watching the two of you. Your breath catches, and you gently nudge Baelor with your elbow.
“You have a visitor,” you murmur.
He straightens immediately and turns.
“Valarr.” A smile crosses his face.
“Father.” The young prince inclines his head, though there is a brief pause before he speaks again. “Uncle Maekar said you wished to see me.”
“Yes.”
Baelor rises carefully from the bench. You stand with him, your hand hovering instinctively near his arm in case he loses his balance.
“Come into the solar,” Baelor says. “We shall speak there.”
Valarr's gaze flicks briefly towards you before returning to his father. Then the two of them disappear inside together. Left alone in the courtyard, you slowly lower yourself back onto the bench.
Prince Valarr had seen. A knot tightens in your stomach. Does he think less of you? Or worse: does he think less of his father?
~
Queen Myriah comes to Baelor's chambers the following afternoon, finding the two of you in the courtyard. Unlike Valarr, she does not discover you sitting together beneath the tree, but walking slowly along the courtyard's perimeter. You remain close at Baelor's side, though careful not to support him, allowing him to regain confidence walking unaided.
"Mother." Baelor smiles as soon as he notices her. "It is good to see you."
"And you." She steps into the sunlit courtyard to join him. "I am glad to find you on your feet again. How is your head?"
"Much better."
"And the dizziness?"
"It has almost entirely passed."
"Excellent."
Her gaze turns to you. "My dear, would you be so kind as to fetch us some wine?"
"Of course, Your Grace."
You dip into a quick curtsy before crossing the courtyard, disappearing back through the archway.
-
Queen Myriah waits until the outer door clicks softly shut before slipping her arm through Baelor's.
"Some days ago," she begins, "your father told me that you came to him with a rather unusual request."
Baelor's steps falter for the briefest moment before he continues walking.
"He said you wished him to grant your cupbearer's brother a lordship... so that you might marry her."
"I did."
There is no hesitation in his answer.
“Your father wondered whether your feelings might simply be akin to those of a wounded soldier falling in love with the nurse who tended him.”
Baelor stops walking altogether.
"It is nothing like that." He turns to face her. "Yes, she has cared for me when I have been ill. But that is not why I feel the way I do."
His mother's eyes soften, though she says nothing.
"She is kind." He continues, a faint smile touching his face. "She makes the world feel… lighter. When she is absent, I find myself searching for her. Whenever something happens – good or bad – she is the first person I want to tell. She sees me." His voice grows quieter. "Not as the heir. Not as a prince. But as a man. She has seen me uncertain, exhausted, frightened, in pain… and none of it has ever caused her to turn away. When I am with her, I do not feel that I must be anything other than myself."
"A rare gift," Myriah murmurs.
"I know." He lowers his eyes. "I understand why Father refused me. But I did not ask lightly. Do you think I would have gone before him if I were not certain?"
"No," Myriah says gently. "You would not."
Baelor gives the smallest nod.
"I wanted one thing that belonged to me alone, as selfish as that may be.”
"It is not selfish." She rests a hand upon his arm, studying him for a long moment. "You love her."
Baelor does not answer immediately. Instead, his thoughts drift to you. To the way your face brightens whenever you see him. To your laughter. To the quiet reassurance of your hand finding his whenever dizziness threatens to steal his footing. To the long hours you spent faithfully beside his bed. To the peace of simply sitting together in companionable silence, never needing words to fill it.
Somewhere along the way, you had become woven into every corner of his life. When he imagined tomorrow, you were there. When he imagined the years ahead, you were there too. He could no longer picture a future that did not include you.
He looks back at his mother.
"I do." A quiet smile spreads across his face. "I love her."
Myriah reaches up to cup his cheek.
"My darling."
Footsteps echo across the solar. Mother and son both turn as you emerge into the courtyard carrying a tray with a pitcher of wine and two goblets.
"Would you like the wine out here, Your Grace?" you ask.
"Oh." She smiles to herself. "I have just remembered a prior engagement." She gives you an apologetic look. "I'm terribly sorry to have troubled you, my dear."
"Not at all, Your Grace."
"Please, enjoy the wine between yourselves. I must be off."
She looks at Baelor one last time, giving his arm a gentle squeeze before departing.
You watch her disappear through the archway before carrying the tray to the shaded bench. Baelor joins you, pours a goblet for each of you, and passes one into your hands.
As he lifts his own cup, he catches himself simply watching you.
"What?" you ask with a smile.
He smiles back.
"Nothing." He raises his goblet. "I am simply glad you are here."
You laugh softly. "Where else would I be?"
~-~
The remainder of the afternoon passes peacefully. You work on your embroidery in the courtyard while Baelor watches contentedly beside you. The warmth of the sun and the gentle breeze seem to do him good.
About an hour after the sun disappears behind the courtyard walls, you return inside and bring up his supper.
He eats at the table before Arnol comes to help him wash and change. Once Arnol has left, you join Baelor in the bedchamber.
“How has your head been today?” You sit on the edge of the mattress beside him and run a gentle hand through his hair.
He closes his eyes at your touch, the sight warming something in your chest.
“It has ached very little today,” he says, turning to look at you. “Which is why I think I should forgo the milk of the poppy tonight.”
You take his hand in yours. “You're sure?”
“I am.” He strokes your knuckles lightly with his thumb. “Though I confess I am not looking forward to it.”
“Because of last time?”
“Yes.” He exhales quietly. “The Grand Maester assures me it will not be as severe this time, but I cannot help dreading it.”
“Of course.” You smile gently. “Would you like me to stay with you tonight?”
“No, you must rest.” He gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “Maekar will look after me.” He smiles. “But thank you for offering.”
A short time later, Maekar arrives to take over. You wish him and Baelor goodnight before heading downstairs.
~
“Ser Duncan?” you greet the knight with surprise as you come across him while preparing Baelor’s breakfast. “What are you doing down here at this hour?”
“Prince Maekar sent me to fetch some water.”
You frown, confused.
“There’s no need. I always bring water with Baelor’s breakfast.” You tap the side of the pitcher resting on the tray before you.
“Not for drinking,” Ser Duncan clarifies, lowering his voice. “It’s started – the ill-effects of stopping milk of the poppy.”
“Oh.” Your heart sinks. “Is there anything I can do? Anything I could bring to make him more comfortable?”
“I think just your presence will bring him some ease. You go to him. I’ll be there shortly.”
You make your way up to the Tower of the Hand more quickly than usual, the breakfast tray balanced carefully in your hands.
You push the door open with your hip and begin crossing the dining room as Prince Maekar steps out from the bedchamber, his gaze finding you instantly.
“How is he?” you ask.
“He slept little,” Maekar replies. “And could not settle. Every few moments he would shift position, throw the covers off while sweating profusely, then ask for them back again because he was cold.”
You frown. “Has the Grand Maester come to see him?”
“He was here a short time ago. He says this is to be expected. We just need to keep him as comfortable as we are able while he gets through it.”
You take in the sight of the prince before you. His usually neat hair is askew, and the skin beneath his eyes has taken on a purplish hue.
“I will take over now, Your Grace. You should get some rest.”
He hesitates a moment, then nods before heading for the outer door and stepping out.
You carry the breakfast tray into the bedchamber, where Baelor lies in bed, the blanket twisted around his feet while his upper body is exposed.
You set the tray down on the bedside table with a quiet click, and Baelor opens his eyes.
“You’re here,” he says weakly.
Beads of sweat have formed across his brow, damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead.
“I am,” you say softly, reaching into your pocket for your handkerchief.
You fold it and dab the sweat from his brow before moving to the dampness at the neckline of his shirt, gently blotting the sweat gathered across his chest.
Footsteps approach, and you glance towards the door as Ser Duncan steps inside, carrying a basin with a cloth draped over its side. You move the breakfast tray aside to make room, and he sets the basin beside it.
“It’s cold water,” he says. “I thought it might bring some relief.”
“Thank you, Ser Duncan,” you reply gratefully.
You reach for the cloth and dip it into the water. After wringing it out, you bring the cool linen to Baelor’s face, gently wiping away the sheen of perspiration.
“I’ll be just outside if you need anything else,” Ser Duncan says.
You nod your thanks before he steps back out.
“Do you feel well enough to eat?” you ask as you move the cloth down to his neck.
His legs shift restlessly beneath the blanket, never seeming to find a comfortable position.
“I believe so.”
He leans forward, propping himself up on his elbows. You rearrange the pillows behind him, and he settles back against them.
You fill his goblet with water and place the breakfast tray on his lap, passing him the cup. He takes a long drink, as though only now realising how thirsty he is. You notice his fingers trembling faintly against the silver.
“How is your head today?” you ask.
“Mostly fine,” he says. “It is everything else that feels wrong. I cannot seem to get comfortable, no matter what I do.”
“I’m sorry,” you say sadly. “I wish I could do more.”
“You’re already doing more than enough.”
Once he has finished with breakfast – having managed barely half of it – you accompany him into the courtyard.
He sits beside you for only a minute or two before rising to pace slowly along the path. After several restless circuits, he returns to the bench, only to stand again a short while later.
“Did you bring your embroidery?” he asks.
You nod and fetch it from inside before settling beside him once more.
“Show me what you're working on.”
You know he only asks to distract himself from his discomfort, and you are more than happy to oblige. As you sew, you explain the different stitches, demonstrating each one as you speak. He watches your hands with quiet concentration, asking the occasional question, grateful for anything that draws his mind away from the unease his body refuses to let him escape.
~
When midday comes, Baelor only picks at his food, saying his stomach feels too unsettled to eat properly.
Throughout the rest of the afternoon, exhaustion finally catches up with him. He drifts into short, fitful sleeps, waking often with a start before drifting off again. Each time he wakes, you quietly dab the sweat from his brow.
He eats a little at dinner before Arnol comes to help him wash and change.
“I am sorry,” Baelor says once he is dressed in fresh clothes and sitting up in bed.
“Whatever for?” you ask from your chair.
“I have been terrible company today.”
“I’m not here to be entertained. I’m here to look after you.”
“Nevertheless, I hope this will not last much longer. I look forward to the day we may spend time together without speaking of medicines, meals, or whether I have rested enough.”
“The unpleasantness will be over soon.” You reach over and rest your hand on his. “Then we can spend our days however we please.”
A faint smile touches his lips.
“I should like that.”
A short while later, Maekar comes to relieve you, and you update him on Baelor's condition before turning in for the night.
~
Prince Maekar meets you when you arrive the following morning, looking no more rested than he had the previous day – perhaps even less so.
“He was sick in the night,” he says.
Your heart sinks.
“The Grand Maester says it is to be expected.” He rubs wearily at his brow. “He also said Baelor's wound is healing well, and the stitches can be removed once he is settled enough to sit through the procedure.”
“Well, that's something,” you say. “I will take over now, Your Grace.”
He gives you a grateful look before departing.
When you step into the bedchamber, Baelor is already sitting up, awake. His face looks pale and clammy, and the shadows beneath his eyes have returned. The sight brings a sharp pang of sympathy to your chest.
“Prince Maekar told me you had a difficult night,” you say softly as you set the breakfast tray down beside the water basin and cloth already waiting there.
Baelor gives a small nod.
“I fear my stomach began to protest as well.”
“How are you feeling now?”
“As though I have spent the night at sea.”
You offer him a sympathetic look before wetting the cloth and bringing it to his brow, brushing his hair aside with your other hand.
“Do you think you could manage some breakfast?”
He sighs. “I ought to at least try.”
You pour him some water and pass him the goblet before settling the breakfast tray across his lap.
He manages only a few spoonfuls of porridge before his expression changes. His complexion drains further, and he hastily sets the spoon down.
“Baelor?”
“I’m terribly sorry…”
You reach over at once and lift the tray from his lap. Baelor throws the blanket aside and rises, hurrying across the room to the chamberpot in the corner before dropping to his knees beside it. The sound of him retching makes your chest tighten painfully.
When it finally subsides, the room falls quiet. He remains there for a long moment, one hand braced against the wall, before slowly pushing himself upright and making his way back to the bed.
“My apologies,” he says quietly as he sinks onto the mattress.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“You should not have to deal with this.”
You lean forward, resting your hand gently on his forearm.
“Look at me.”
He does so reluctantly, plainly embarrassed.
“There is nothing shameful about being ill.”
“I wish you would not have to see me like this.”
“If it were me in your place,” you ask gently, “would you think I ought to apologise? To feel ashamed?”
He exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly.
“No.”
“There you have it.” You smile warmly.
~
Baelor manages to get a little rest between breakfast and midday. When you bring him a simple meal, you can tell as soon as you place the tray on his lap that he is reluctant.
“I cannot promise I shall keep it down,” he says, looking apprehensively at the plate before him.
“Then we’ll simply try,” you reply. “Take it slowly.”
He manages a few spoonfuls before stopping when the nausea begins to return. Thankfully, this time he does not bring anything up.
After about half an hour, when the little he has eaten stays down, he cautiously takes a few more bites.
Throughout the afternoon, Baelor cannot settle. He lies down, only to rise again a few minutes later. He walks to the window, stands there for a time, then returns to the bed. Soon after, he decides to sit in the solar instead. Barely five minutes pass before he is on his feet once more, wandering out into the courtyard, only to come back inside again.
“I feel absurd,” he says with a quiet huff, though there is little humour in it.
~
You sit beside the bed, working on your embroidery while Baelor drifts between waking and sleep, when the silence is broken by his quiet voice.
“There were a few moments today… when I wished I had not stopped taking milk of the poppy.”
You set your needle aside and look up.
“Only because I wanted… this feeling to stop.”
You reach for his hand.
“Yet you endured,” you say softly. “You have shown great strength in seeing it through. And tomorrow will be better.”
He brings your hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss against your fingers.
“I hope so.”
At last, Baelor's restlessness gives way to exhaustion, and he sleeps almost without interruption until suppertime, when he manages to eat a little more.
When Maekar arrives to take over, you quietly update him on Baelor's condition before wishing them both goodnight and heading downstairs.
~
When you arrive with breakfast the following morning, Maekar is sitting at the desk in the solar.
“His attendant is with him,” he explains when you approach.
You nod, setting the breakfast tray on the table.
“How is he?” you ask.
“He slept through most of the night.”
The words bring visible relief to Maekar. You feel your own shoulders loosen, releasing tension you hadn't realised you were carrying.
“I’m so glad. And he hasn't been sick again?”
“He has not.”
You smile just as Arnol steps out of the bedchamber, his arms full of bed linens.
“His Grace is ready for you now,” he says before leaving the chambers.
Maekar rises with a quiet groan.
“The Grand Maester should be here within the hour to remove Baelor's stitches.”
“That's good,” you reply. “I'll see to him now, Your Grace.”
He nods his thanks before heading for the outer door.
You pick up the tray and step into the bedchamber, where Baelor is sitting in the chair you usually occupy. He looks up with a smile as you enter.
“The sweating has mostly stopped, so I had Arnol change the bed. I did not like the thought of sleeping on damp sheets another night.”
His complexion has improved considerably. The pallor has left his face, and the shadows beneath his eyes have faded.
“You look much better,” you say with a smile. “It seems the worst is over.”
“It would seem so.” His gaze drops to the tray in your hands. “I think I'd like to take my breakfast at the table today, if you don't mind.”
“Of course.”
You step back into the solar, setting the tray on the table and laying out the dishes and goblet.
Baelor follows a moment later, pulling out his usual chair and easing himself into it.
He finishes most of the meal before taking a long drink of water and leaning back with a contented sigh.
“I think this is the longest I've seen you sit still in the past two days,” you remark.
He chuckles quietly just as a knock sounds at the outer door.
“Enter,” Baelor calls.
The Grand Maester steps inside, his satchel slung over one shoulder.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” he says as he approaches, then glances at the plate before Baelor. “My apologies for interrupting your breakfast.”
“Not at all,” Baelor replies, nudging the plate away. “I have eaten all I can for now.”
“You have been keeping food down?” the Grand Maester asks as he sets his satchel upon the table.
“I have not been sick since yesterday morning.”
“Excellent.” The Grand Maester smiles. “I have come to remove your stitches, if you are ready, Your Grace.”
“I am. Where would be best?”
“Here is perfectly suitable. If you would turn your chair to face the light.”
Baelor does so, and you quietly move the remaining dishes aside to give the Grand Maester room to work.
He lays out his instruments and begins the procedure. You remain close by, ready should either man require anything.
It is over much sooner than you expect. Before long, the Grand Maester is packing away his instruments.
“I am very pleased with how the wound has healed, Your Grace. There will be a scar, but not an unsightly one.”
Baelor glances your way with the faintest smile.
“I am glad to hear it.”
“My only advice now is not to push yourself. Do not return to your duties until you are truly recovered. Rest when you need to, and avoid any vigorous exercise.”
“And no more blows to the head,” Baelor adds.
“Quite.” The Grand Maester's lips twitch with amusement. “Is there anything else you require?”
“No. That will be all. Thank you, Grand Maester.”
The old man bows.
“Good day, Your Grace.”
He slips the satchel back over his shoulder and departs.
Baelor raises his fingers to the fresh scar on his forehead before turning towards you, his mouth already opening to speak.
“I still find you very handsome,” you say before he has the chance.
He laughs – a proper laugh this time, warm and unrestrained. You cannot help smiling in return.
You spend some time together in the courtyard before Baelor sends for Valarr to discuss matters of the Hand in the solar.
Later that afternoon, the king and queen come to visit, both expressing their relief to find Baelor so clearly on the mend.
~
“Father wants to hold a family dinner, now that I am feeling better,” Baelor says at suppertime.
“So soon? But you are still in need of rest.”
“He is planning it for two days hence.” Baelor smiles. “And it shall be here in my chambers, so I needn't go to too much trouble.”
“Well, there's something to look forward to – proper food.”
Baelor chuckles. “Yes, there will not be a bowl of broth in sight.”
You stay with Baelor for a while after Arnol has tended to him, working on the now nearly finished handkerchief while Baelor goes through some letters.
“You should get some rest,” you say, looking up when you hear him yawn.
“I should.” He sighs. “I look forward to the day I no longer tire so easily.”
“It shouldn't be long,” you say reassuringly. “Your body is still adjusting.”
“I certainly hope so.”
He folds the letter he has been reading and sets it on the desk.
“I am certain Maekar will be glad to have his nights to himself. Though I imagine it will take some time for him to grow accustomed to keeping normal hours again.”
“Yes. He has been living rather like a bat – sleeping through the day and awake through the night.”
“Though without the hanging upside down,” Baelor adds.
“As far as you know,” you reply, arching an eyebrow.
He laughs softly and rises from his chair, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I confess, my eyes do feel rather heavy.”
“Off to bed with you, then,” you say with mock sternness.
He crosses to you, lifting his hands to cup your face.
“Goodnight.”
He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. You close your eyes, savouring the gentle touch.
“Goodnight, Baelor,” you say with a smile as he draws back.
~
You and Baelor are in the courtyard the following day when Queen Myriah arrives.
She steps into the sunlit space, approaching her son with a smile.
“You are looking better by the day, darling.” She raises a hand to stroke his cheek.
“And I feel better by the day.”
“I am so glad.” She smiles, then turns to you. “Thank you for tending to my son with such… devotion.”
“It was my pleasure, Your Grace.” You bow your head.
“Would you join me for a walk in the gardens?”
You blink, taken aback.
“If you do not mind me borrowing her for a little while.” She looks back at Baelor.
“I do not mind.” His gaze finds you, as though making sure you are comfortable with it.
“I've never seen the gardens before.” You smile.
“Then you must allow me to show you. I think you will enjoy them.”
You fall into step beside her as she leads you from the Tower of the Hand and into the castle grounds.
The bustle of servants and guards gradually fades behind you, replaced by birdsong and the gentle rustle of leaves stirred by the afternoon breeze.
You cannot help slowing your pace to take in your surroundings. Flowers and plants you've never seen before bloom in every colour imaginable, their fragrances mingling in the warm afternoon air. It is unlike anywhere you have ever been.
“It's beautiful here,” you murmur.
Queen Myriah smiles. “It is my favourite place in the Red Keep. Whenever court grows overwhelming, I come here for a little while.”
The two of you continue walking at an easy pace. For a time, little is said beyond the queen pointing out particular flowers, especially those native to her homeland of Dorne.
Although you are enjoying this beautiful place, a quiet anxiety lingers beneath your wonder. You know she would not have brought you here simply for a pleasant stroll.
Your answer comes as she slows beside a softly trickling fountain.
“Baelor speaks very highly of you,” she says.
Your heart gives a small, startled leap.
“He is generous,” you reply quietly, clasping your hands before you.
“No… he is fond of you. Very much so.”
Heat creeps into your cheeks, and for a moment you cannot think what to say. Your mouth opens, then closes again without a word.
“You are not in any trouble, dear.” She smiles kindly. “I simply wish to know the woman who has captured my son's heart.”
A shy smile steals across your lips.
“What would you like to know, Your Grace?”
“He has already told me that you are kind, and that you bring him peace. But what is it you see in him? What is it you hope for with him?”
“Baelor is…” You falter.
How can one describe him in mere words? A nervous laugh escapes you, and Queen Myriah smiles encouragingly.
“I knew from the first day I served him that he is kind and thoughtful. He addresses his servants by name and thanks them. He made sure that after my brother was injured, we would not lose our home while he was unable to work. He never made me feel foolish when I made mistakes – and I did make them.” You smile sheepishly.
“But I think I truly understood what sort of man he was after I was attacked by another servant.” Your gaze drifts away, the memory still uncomfortable. “Baelor came all the way to my home, on the opposite side of King's Landing, to see me. He offered one of the Keep's maesters to tend my wounds… and he made certain the man responsible was punished.
“Most men in his position would never involve themselves in servants' affairs – in whatever happened below stairs. But Baelor showed nothing but compassion. During one of the most frightening times of my life, he was there. And when I returned to the Keep, I no longer had anything to fear because he had seen to it. He made me feel like I mattered.”
Myriah steps a little closer and places a gentle hand upon your arm.
“I am sorry you went through such a thing.”
You notice her gaze briefly linger on your cheek, where the scars, though much faded, still remain.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I think without the support of Baelor, and my dear brother Tom, I would be a much changed person.”
“Is Tom your elder?”
“Yes, Your Grace, by two years.”
“There is a special bond between an elder brother and his younger sister.” She smiles. “He will always be your fiercest protector.”
You chuckle. “I believe you’re right, Your Grace.”
Your gaze settles on the sparkling water of the fountain.
“As for your other question... my dearest wish is for Baelor to be happy.” You look back at her. “If I can bring him some measure of happiness and peace, give him a place where he can simply be himself, and lighten his days, even a little… that would mean more to me than I can say.”
“Even if you cannot marry?”
“Even then.” You smile. “Baelor never told me he intended to speak to the king about us. I only learned of it when he told me the king had refused.”
The queen laughs softly.
“From all you have told me, I have come to realise my son is quite the romantic. I never knew.”
Her eyes sparkle with amusement before growing thoughtful.
“He has always carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders. Even as a boy. If one of his brothers scraped a knee, Baelor somehow believed it was his responsibility to make everything right again.” She lets out a fond chuckle. “Especially Maekar. Oh, how Baelor doted upon him from the moment he was born. There were times I would go to the nursery and find Maekar gone. I would be beside myself with worry, only to discover Baelor sitting quietly with little Maekar in his lap, reading a story.”
You smile warmly at the image.
“It's difficult to imagine Prince Maekar as a baby.”
“Not for me.” Myriah's smile becomes wistful. “I do not think there shall ever be a day when I look upon my boys – my men – and not still see the children they once were.”
For a few moments she gazes into the distance, lost in memories, before looking back at you.
“Come. We should return before Baelor begins to wonder whether I have spirited you away forever.”
You both laugh, then begin the walk back towards the castle.
You part ways in one of the Keep's lower corridors and take the familiar route back to the Tower of the Hand.
As you climb the final flight of stairs, you find yourself smiling.
You step into Baelor's chambers. He looks up from the letter in his hands the moment you enter, his face brightening immediately.
“There you are at last.” He smiles. “I was beginning to think Mother had decided to keep you for herself.”
“You have nothing to fear.” You cross the room to him, smiling all the while. “I am still yours.”
~
The remainder of the afternoon passes peacefully, with you embroidering while Baelor tends to his letters.
When suppertime comes, you fetch Baelor's meal, and at his request, a second plate for yourself.
It feels wonderful to share a meal with him again.
After you clear the dishes, Arnol arrives to help Baelor wash and dress for the night. Once he has left, you join Baelor in the solar.
It begins with him reading while you embroider, but the book does not hold his attention for long. Before long, his gaze drifts instead to your hands, and he watches you work.
At last, you fasten off the final thread and remove the handkerchief from the embroidery frame.
“It is finished,” you say with a smile, smoothing the square of linen across your lap. “And now it is yours.”
Baelor sets his book aside and reaches for the handkerchief, handling it as though it were something precious. He unfolds it with great care, studying the delicate red embroidery that borders the linen. His thumb traces the stitching until it reaches the small three-headed dragon worked into one corner.
“It is beautiful.” He looks up at you with gentle eyes before holding it lightly against his heart. “It truly feels too fine to use.”
“If you are determined not to use it, then perhaps you could display it somewhere. But please do not stuff it into a drawer to be forgotten. I spent a great deal of time on it, as you well know,” you say with mock sternness.
“I think I shall keep it in my pocket, so I may take it out and admire it whenever I please. Would that satisfy you?”
“It would.” You smile, pleased.
He folds it carefully and places it upon the desk before stifling a yawn.
“Forgive me,” he says. “I am still not quite back to my full strength.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. Besides, you have come a long way in only a few days.”
“Thanks to you.” He smiles.
“I think the Grand Maester deserves rather more credit than that. And your dear brother.”
“Yes.” He smiles. “I shall make sure to thank them properly.”
“But in the meantime, you should rest. I shall leave you to sleep.” You rise from your chair.
“Before you go…” he says gently, taking your wrist.
You turn back.
“What is it?”
“I've been meaning to thank you properly.”
“There is no need, Baelor,” you protest softly.
“There is every need.” He takes your hand in both of his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You stayed beside me through every difficult day. When everything felt like a struggle, the one thing I could always count on was finding you there. You were with me through it all.” He rises, releasing your hand only to lift one to your cheek. “I cannot express how grateful I am.”
“I wanted to do it,” you reply with a smile.
“I know.” He returns the smile. “And I shall never forget it.”
He holds your gaze for a long moment before leaning forward, his lips meeting yours in a slow, lingering kiss.
When you part, he rests his forehead lightly against yours. Your hand drifts to the back of his neck, your fingers slipping gently into his hair. He closes his eyes with a contented sigh.
A moment later, your fingers catch upon a tangle near the nape of his neck.
“I think illness has made you neglect your hair,” you say.
“It would not tangle so if you had not made me to keep it longer.”
“Made you?” You pull back with an incredulous laugh. “I did no such thing. You may do whatever you please with your own hair.”
He hums thoughtfully.
“I think I shall keep it longer… for a time, at least. It reminds me of when I was young.”
“You speak as though you are an old man.”
“I feel like one of late,” he says with a wry smile.
You laugh softly.
“Well, you certainly don't look like one. Come into the bedchamber. I shall comb your hair.”
He follows you into the bedchamber, where you retrieve a carved bone comb from the washstand. You gesture for him to sit on the edge of the bed, and take your place beside him. Slowly, you begin working the comb through his hair, taking care not to tug at the knots.
As you do, you notice a scar hidden amongst the strands at the back of his head – his injury from the Trial of Seven.
You take extra care around it, patiently working through each tangle until the comb glides smoothly from root to tip.
“There.” You say, setting the comb down beside you.
Baelor sighs contentedly.
“That was nice.”
You lean in and press a gentle kiss just below his ear, where his hair curls softly against his neck. His eyes close, and he draws a quiet breath. Then his expression shifts, a faint flush rising to his cheeks.
“My apologies,” he says, clearing his throat.
“What for?”
You notice him shift his hands in his lap. Glancing down, you catch sight of the bulge beneath his breeches.
“Oh,” you murmur.
Emboldened by the sight of him like this – because of you – you guide his chin toward you with a fingertip and kiss him again. This time his mouth opens against yours, warm and hesitant at first. Your hand trails down his neck, over the steady thrum of his pulse, then lower, until your palm settles over the hard length of him. Even through the fabric, he feels incredibly warm. Your heart hammers so fiercely you’re certain he can hear it. You meet his eyes, searching. There is no reluctance there – only dark, hungry want.
Slowly, you close your fingers around the shape of him. Baelor’s breath catches sharply. He leans in, kissing you harder now, more desperate, as you stroke upward along his length. His hips twitch once, involuntarily, and the low sound that escapes him sends a thrill straight through you.
You press your free hand to his chest and gently push. He yields easily, letting you guide him back onto the mattress. You follow, settling beside him, your leg hooking over his as his arm wraps around your waist and pulls you flush against his body.
The fabric between your hand and his arousal suddenly feels unbearable. You slide your fingers beneath the waistband of his breeches, seeking skin. Understanding immediately, Baelor reaches down to loosen the laces with trembling fingers. He tugs the breeches down just enough, and his cock springs free – flushed dark, hard, and glistening at the tip. For a moment you simply look at him, awed. All this because of your touch.
You wrap your fingers around his bare length. He’s velvet-smooth and hot, pulsing against your palm. A small, involuntary noise slips from your throat at the feel of him. Before it can fully escape, Baelor’s mouth claims yours again, as if he means to drink the sound straight from your lips.
You begin to stroke him properly now – slow, steady drags from base to tip, learning the weight and shape of him. His breath stutters every time your thumb brushes over the sensitive head, spreading the slick bead of moisture that gathers there. His hips roll up into your fist in small, helpless motions, and the arm around your waist tightens.
His free hand slips beneath the front of your blouse, fingers fumbling at the edge of your bodice. When the laces prove too stubborn, you help him, tugging the knot free. His palm immediately slides inside, cupping the soft weight of your breast. The pad of his thumb circles your nipple and you let out a shuddered breath as warmth floods between your legs.
He buries his face in the curve of your neck, lips and breath hot against your skin. His groans grow deeper, more broken, as your hand moves faster. You feel every twitch, every throb, the way his cock swells even harder in your grip.
Then his whole body tenses. His arm locks around you, pulling you impossibly closer as he shudders violently. Warmth spills over your fingers and onto your wrist in several strong spurts as his cock pulses in your hand. He groans and gasps against your throat while his hips jerk through the last waves of pleasure.
When the trembling finally eases, he sags against you with a long, shaky exhale, face tucked against your chest.
“I… did not mean to spend so quickly. But… it has been some time since…”
“You needn’t explain.” You say, planting a soft kiss on the top of his head. “I’m glad I could make you feel good.”
He looks up, his hand finding your waist.
“Allow me to do the same for you.” he says, his eyes dark, face flushed.
You shake your head, though the sight of him sends another rush of warmth through you.
“Is something the matter?” His expression softens with concern as he props himself up on one elbow.
“Nothing at all.” You smile. “Tonight was for you.”
“But–”
You silence him with a kiss.
“You’ve spent the last week in pain and discomfort,” you say as you draw back. “If I could give you one night of pleasure, then I’m happy.”
You sit up and retrieve your handkerchief from your pocket, quietly cleaning your hand of Baelor’s arousal.
He reaches for one of his own rom the bedside drawer to tend to himself, before pulling up and lacing his breeches. Then he turns back to face you.
“Are you certain?”
“I am.” You place your hand over his.
He studies your face for a long moment, his thumb absently brushing over your knuckles.
“It is not because… you do not wish for me to touch you in that way?”
“That isn't it at all.” You lean forward until your forehead rests lightly against his. “I want you, Baelor. Believe me.”
A quiet smile spreads across his face, and he lets out a slow breath, as though he had not realised he had been holding it.
“But you are still recovering,” you continue, brushing a loose strand of hair back from his forehead. “You've only just begun to feel like yourself again. I would not want you to overtax yourself on my account.”
He hums thoughtfully.
“Then allow me to repay your kindness another time.”
The warmth in his voice sends a pleasant shiver through you.
“I shall look forward to it very much.” You laugh softly before stealing one last kiss. “Now, get some sleep. You must be well-rested for your family dinner tomorrow evening.”
“I shall try,” he says with a smile. “Though I suspect sleep may prove difficult.”
“Oh?”
“I expect I shall spend the night thinking of you.”
Warmth spreads through your chest.
“Then dream of me instead.”
You rise from the bed, smoothing your skirts.
“Goodnight, Baelor.”
“Goodnight…” He smiles softly. “And thank you.”
Your core is still throbbing with need as you hurry back through the dimly lit corridors to your own small bedchamber. Every step makes you achingly aware of the slick heat between your thighs, the evidence of what you just did to Baelor still lingering on your skin and in your mind.
The moment the door closes behind you, you lean back against the wood for a second, breathing hard. Then you cross to the bed and lie down, not even bothering to undress fully. You simply hitch your skirts and petticoats up around your waist, parting your legs as your hand slides down.
Your fingers slip easily between your folds. You’re soaked, wetter than you have ever been. The first touch to your sensitive pearl makes you gasp softly. You close your eyes and let the memories wash over you.
The way Baelor had shuddered against you. The broken sounds he made into your neck as he came. The heavy, velvet-hard feel of his cock pulsing in your hand. The warmth of his spend against your fingers. The way he had looked at you afterward – flushed and grateful.
This time, touching yourself feels entirely different from the hopeless longing after his name day feast. Now he is yours, and you are his. Soon you will have all of him.
Your fingers move faster, circling and stroking with growing urgency. You imagine it’s his hand instead – those long fingers that had cupped your breast so reverently. You imagine his mouth on your neck again, his breath hot against your skin. A soft moan escapes you as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your belly.
It doesn’t take long. With a sharp cry you tip over the edge, thighs trembling as waves of release crash through you. Your core pulses hard around nothing, wishing desperately that he was filling you instead.
You lie there afterward, chest heaving, staring up at the ceiling as your heartbeat slowly steadies and the aftershocks fade. A small, secret smile tugs at your lips.
I'm mashing the tiniest bit of something else, but it has no relevance to the actual story. Maybe, I haven't decided. But witchers will not be a part of the series. That I can promise you because that would be way too complicated for me to figure out and I frankly do not want to go through the witcher lore, I just thought it would be funny to throw this line in.
The ride to King's Landing is long as you sit behind Ser Roland. You watch the scenery as you trot forward. Much has changed in the years that you'd left the land, homes have been built, others destroyed.
You're watching the birds in the sky, they fly in groups and it brings you back. Back to the age of dragons. When they were plentiful and soared high above in the heavens. You let a small smile take over your face.
You can imagine it clear as if it were yesterday. Rhaenyra, young, in her early teens and in her eagerness to gain a friend had brought you to Syrax. She was a beautiful dragon, fussy in her temperament. She reminded you more of a large cat than a dragon that could kill you if she so desired.
"You know, two thousand years ago dragons would have filled these skies."
Ser Roland glances at you from where he sits in front, following the weight of his horse as he turns back forward.
"Somehow, I find that hard to believe. How would they have eaten?"
Your face falls flat at his words. Humans. You'd forgotten how easily they dismissed words.
"There used to be many types before your kind killed them off. The Dance of the Dragons wasn't the only time that dragons went into extinction."
At this, the other knights gain interest at your words. Listening intently, though they don't turn to you, their ears are hanging onto your every word.
"It was believed that the source of magic was within dragons themselves, despite the existence of blood magic, it was the same belief for elves. It's why they and my kind were hunted. After five hundred years, the hunting ceased and by then the dragons that were left were the ones the Targaryens and Old Valyria were famous for."
"Would it not be reasonable to assume that you hold contempt for humans for what they did?"
"It would be," your gaze falls on the growing homes that dot the land.
"I've met many humans, however, and not all are the same. Why should I live my long life with hatred, I only reserve that for those who wrong me."
Your eyes fall on a small tablet erected by the side of the road and you tap Ser Roland’s shoulder. He moves his head toward you, indicating he’s listening.
“May we stop here for a moment.”
You lean down and raise your right hand to the stone, feeling the grooves and reading the mana signature in it. It’s yours.
“As I thought. We’re close.”
“Close to where, Slayer?”
“An old friend of mine. His grave is not long from where we stand.”
You stand, brushing the dirt off your knees as you look out at the trees. Yes, it has been a long time since you’ve seen these woods. His grave has been grown over no doubt, there are not many who would recall his name so why keep his grave clean.
“We must get going to King’s Landing.”
You sigh to yourself and gaze out into the woods, past the stone. Some other time then.
“Very well. I shall visit him again some other time.”
Ser Roland helps you back onto his horse as he saddles himself in front yet again.
“Who was this friend of yours?”
You watch the woods as you leave, memories of your long departed friend passing through like hands through the mist.
“A warrior and slayer in his own right.”
“So, he was a murderer.”
You hum, the scenery changes to more homes. You’re getting closer to the courts. The thought does not bring you any peace.
“Not necessarily. He was hard-headed and cynical, but he had a moral code. This was during the age where there were more dangers in the world. The same likes that are hidden behind the Wall.”
At those words, Ser Roland’s eyebrows rise, though he doesn't turn to you.
"Hidden behind the Wall?"
"You think the Wall was built to keep only the wildlings out? Humans really are foolish if you think there aren't monsters out there."
He doesn't know whether he should take offense to the comment or not, so he chooses to stay silent. Instead, he grows more curious about that friend of yours.
"This friend of yours seems interesting."
Your lips quirk up into a small smile. That he was.
"He was very interesting. He tried to never have debts, though it did backfire on him tremendously at one point. He ended up with a daughter."
Ser Roland's eyebrows come together. You are closer to the Red Keep now, passing through the gates into King's Landing as the people gawk at the knights, no, they're gawking at you. The feeling of so many eyes on you makes your skin crawl.
"How does one end up with a daughter due to a debt?"
You hum, your eyes flit across the various people coming and going in King's Landing. Reading their mana signatures. It's a shame that there are so few humans who tap into it, they could really better their lives if they did.
"He saved a man-beast from certain death. The man was claiming which was rightfully his, in doing so the man felt he had a debt to be paid so my friend, in all his wisdom, claimed the same law the man had. 'Give me that which you already have, but do not know.'"
You laugh to yourself. The knights around you flitting their eyes to you in confusion. What in the world kind of law is that?
"He was then saddled with a child until his last days, he was a brute, but he wasn't evil. He cared for the child and she lived her days well."
"What is the law?"
"An ancient one, long before the era of you current humans. I won’t speak it, as far as I’m aware it’s died and I’d rather keep it that way. It’s easier politically.”
Finally, you arrive at the steps of the Red Keep. It hasn't changed in the time you've been gone, not really. Seventy-eight years is nothing when comparing it to your long life. The knights ride forward, taking their horses to their stables as you wait to be brought forth to the King. King Daeron the Good, you certainly hope he lives up the name given to him. These last few decades have not been kind to the Kings.
Ser Roland comes back with one hand on the hilt of his blade as he nods his head to you. It seems it’s now or never. You follow him on the steps to the throne room, suitcase in hand. Your eyes wandering the same halls you had once lived in. You always did prefer Dragonstone to the heavy walls of the Red Keep.
Not long does your mind wander and you’re brought to the doors before the Iron Throne. Ser Roland takes a glance at you and sees no hint of nervousness on your face, your face is flat actually. The only thing about you he can read are your ears that twitch lightly.
You’re listening and watching. Footsteps from down the corridor and muffled voices beyond the doors. That and you can see the mana taking form of the King and whoever else is with him. You glance at Ser Roland expectantly. He nods before opening the doors with another Kingsguard. They open as you boredly stand.
As soon as the doors open you’re met with the King, presumably the Queen and four other men beside them both. You walk forward before stopping before the King.
King Daeron stares at you before his lips quirk up.
“Is this her?”
You don’t look at him, you simply look around. The decor, the lighting behind the throne before your eyes finally settle on him.
“If I’m not?”
The short, white-haired man to the left of the Queen scowls. He looks to the King with the same scowl aimed at you before Daeron raises his hand and he resumes his stiff posture. You don’t miss the pointed glare aimed at you as you merely ignore it.
The smile on Daeron’s face falls slightly into a more serious expression.
“Are you the same elf who served King Viserys I?”
You think for a moment. Lying could let you out of here quickly and you could resume your normal day to day, but if it were discovered you lied to the King that would not bode well.
You inhale before looking at the King, “yes, I am. That old fool,” you mutter that last bit to yourself though Ser Roland can hear it clearly from your side.
His eyes shift to you in shock before resuming their front facing position. To insult a Targaryen and to the Kings own face must be suicide!
King Daeron resumes the slight upturn of his lips.
“Then we welcome you back to the Red Keep, elf.”
“May I ask why I was summoned? It has been seventy-eight years since I was last here. I can’t imagine that I’m needed after the Dance of the Dragons.”
This time it is the man to the right of the King who turns to you, first looking at his father for permission to speak, before looking back.
“We recently found some records of an elf that had served the courts and were interested.”
‘Yeah, right,’ you think as you look to the rest of the men beside the King and Queen. There’s one long, white-haired man who looks utterly bored and another dark haired man who looks around, lost in thought. Though there is a smile on his face. He’s not all there, that much you can tell.
"I’ve met no man who did not ask something of me, so I ask this as politely as I can: what is it that you want, King Daeron the Good?”
He looks to you with that same slight upturn of his lips.
"It seems what was written about you is true, you do not care to have tact when speaking to the King."
You don't sense any malice coming from him, the same could not be said for the same man who scowled at you, his temper flares as you can see in his mana.
"I was the same with King Viserys I and Queen Rhaenyra."
"Not with King Aegon II?"
Your lip unintentionally curls at his name. An amused look takes over Daeron's face.
"You did not like him?"
You smooth your dress in an effort to retain your composure.
"I did not like Alicent, there is a difference."
King Daeron rises from the throne, clasping his hands behind his back.
"It seems we have much to discuss then. Please, join us for a meal."
'Do I have a choice?'
You look at the numerous Kingsguard around the room, the Queen, who smiles at you, and assumingly their children around you.
"It would be my honor."
You bow your head to him as he steps down and comes closer to you.
"We may set up a room for you, if you'd like? We would like to show our hospitality to our most esteemed guest."
Your eyes search his face. He doesn't seem to be harboring any ill intent, not that they could kill you even if they tried.
"All I ask is that I may see your grimoires until our meal, I assume they are in the library?"
He nods his head, and gestures to Ser Roland. Only for the same man who spoke before to come forward, bowing lightly to King Daeron.
"Father, if I may, I can show her to the library."
You stay silent, choosing to instead watch the interaction between the two. With his fathers approval the man walks forward and extends an elbow to you. You stare at it before putting your arm in hand with it as he leads you out of the room with the Kingsguard following.
"I'm aware where the library is, it was not long ago that I roamed these very halls."
He hums as he continues to lead you down the hall and up the stairs to the extensive library that the family has at their disposal.
"I had a feeling you did. Though, I would be remiss if I did not offer a helping hand to one of the most important guests we could have."
You glance at him from the corner of your eye.
"I'm assuming you're the heir? It seems unlikely for any of your kin to extend such a hand to a stranger."
Baelor merely stays silent as you finally arrive at the library. Little has changed except for how many candles light the room, it seems they finally heeded your advice in getting some proper lighting in here. You retract your arm as you walk and begin skimming the litany of books, tomes, and scrolls.
"I may help you if you'd like?"
Baelor stands a little away from you as you pick a book from one of the shelves, thumbing through it before tucking it under your arm.
"I've no need unless you would like to hear stories of your ancestors from an old relic like me."
You reach for a tome from a high shelf, just barely reaching it with the tips of your fingers before Baelor's larger form grabs it and extends it to you.
"It would be an honor to hear of them from you."
You take the scroll wordlessly as you take a seat at a table by the windows. You extend a hand for him to sit across from you as you open the book tucked under your arm to the last page you remember leaving off on.
He sits across from you as your eyes roll across the page. He sits quietly, waiting for you to speak first. You do glance up from your book after finishing the chapter and close it, keeping your thumb in the page to not lose your place.
"Should we start with introductions?"
His mismatched eyes match gazes with you as he smiles.
"I am Prince Baelor, Hand of the King."
You nod before brushing your hair back with your free hand.
"(Y/n)."
He raises his eyebrows at that as he leans back in his chair.
"They call you The Slayer, yet you do not use the title. Why is that?"
You sigh before opening your book once more, eyes lazily dancing across the page.
"I'm afraid the answer is more boring than you would think."
"Humor me, please."
You glance up before flipping the page.
"You know of the Wall, yes?"
He nods as you continue to read.
"There used to be other creatures besides the one being held back by it. Two thousand years ago I exterminated them, that is where I got my title. As for why I do not use it, there are few who know how I gained the title. Most assume I am a man-slayer."
Baelor's eyes widen at your words as you yawn, before flipping to the next page. Two thousand years, how old could you possibly be if you say two thousand years with such ease?
"What creatures were they?"
"Demons. Though, if my memories are anything to go from they are now considered myth to you humans. I suppose there is a hope in it to not remember what terrible creatures they were."
Baelor hums in thought. In all his years, what resides behind the Wall was considered myth, a story told to keep children good. He'd heard of demons, but as stories told by his Septa to sway him from misbehaving as a young boy. Mere fairy tales. He chances a look at you, you look as unimpressed as ever.
"I cannot say I believe in them, then again an elf sits across from me."
You continue to read until the doors to the library open and your eyes glance up to see a dark haired boy with a silver streak in his hair.
"Father."
Baelor turns to him with a smile, "Valarr."
"Grandsire said you would be here," the boy glances at you, notably your ears before they go back to his father who sits with his hand clasped in his lap.
"That I am, I am simply sitting with our guest."
He lifts a hand to you as you finally close the book and set it aside.
"Your heir, I presume?"
You say as you open your luggace and rummage around through your haphazardly stored items. You take out bottles, books, scrolls, clothing, before finally holding up a worn book.
Baelor and Valarr look to you as you walk to a shelf, fingertips lightly grazing the books before finding an empty spot and placing the book there.
"Yes, he is my eldest son. What book was that, that you placed?"
You take seat once more, smoothing your dress as you look at Baelor.
"A grimoire that Rhaenyra gave to me, I'd been meaning to return it."
The two men watch as you grab another book, reading the contents before shutting it with a soured look on your face.
“So that’s where my book went, little thief.”
The two exchange a glance as you place the book back. No sense in you taking it back if it’s been this long without it. You look at Valarr for a moment, then at Baelor, then back at Valarr.
You shake your head before placing your items back in your luggage. Valarr looks to his father curiously before speaking.
“Grand sire says the meal is ready.”
Baelor rises as he turns to you with his hands clasped behind his back. He begins to lead his son out as he looks at you.
“We may speak more as we eat. I have many questions for you.”
You sigh as you grab your luggage once more only for a Kingsguard to take it from you and walk away. Your eyes follow before they land on Baelor.
“We have a room made for you.”
You follow after Baelor and Valarr by extent, you should have expected this. The Targaryens always were pushy even a century ago. The three of you, followed by more Kingsguard, walk to the dining hall where presumably the rest of the family will be. It’s quiet as you walk, until you stop in front of a portrait of King Viserys I.
Baelor and Valarr walk ahead before realizing you’ve stopped, they walk back to see you analyzing the painting.
“That’s King Viserys I, you served under him correct?”
You don’t answer, not at first, still gazing at his portrait. Contempt in your eyes as you look at his face. This portrait was done before his illness took over.
“I did.”
Your gaze narrows.
“He was a deeply flawed man. Even if he did care for Rhaenyra, his actions ultimately lead to the Dance of the Dragons.”
You scowl at his face before turning away from it.
“He should have never married Alicent. Damn Hightowers.”
You walk past the two princes as they watch you walk ahead in surprise. To hold such disdain for him. What must your time in court have been like? Especially for you to hate the Hightowers, even if understandable, usually those feelings would be hidden. Not for you it seems.
They follow after you as you walk the halls easily until you hit the doors of the dining hall. With a flick of your finger the doors open themselves as the men behind you gape. Viserys truly hit your temper, that old fool.
You step into the room, followed by Baelor and Valarr to see the rest of the family already there. Maekar sits with who you assume to be his children. Baelor walks forward and extends a hand for you as a servant pulls out the seat for you.
You’re sat in between Baelor and Valarr, who both take their own seats. Next to Valarr is a younger boy who looks to you in interest.
“Who is she?”
The younger boy across from him shares the same look as you sit at the table. There are quite a few of their children that give you strange looks. One of them with shorter, cropped silver hair plays with a knife as he eyes you. You ignore his gaze in favor of looking at the others at the table.
“King Daeron.”
He looks at you as the food is plated.
“My apologies but I do not know with who I sit, aside from your heir and his heir.”
He takes a sip of his poured wine and nods his head.
“Of course, my apologies. In my eagerness to invite you, it seems my manners have been lost on me.”
He stands as his children move to stand as well only for him to raise a hand for them to stop.
“My eldest, Baelor.”
He nods his head to you. The King gestures to the man with the longer silver hair who reads a scroll at the table.
“My second-born, Aerys.”
He briefly glances at you before resuming his reading.
“My third-born, Rhaegal.”
The man looks at you with a large smile before his attention is brought elsewhere.
“My last, Maekar.”
He gives you a stern look as he eats his bread, near grunting as he does so. Your lips quirk up, you can see that some of Daemon’s personality still remains.
“You know Valarr, Baelor’s eldest. The one to your right is his youngest, Matarys.”
The younger boy gives you a smile. You give him a slight upturn of your lips, he’s sweet, you can tell. Rhaenyra would have liked him.
"Maekar's children from eldest to youngest. Daeron," he gestures to the man who has his face in his cups, he spares you a glance before resuming his drinking.
"Aerion," the one with the short, cropped hair. He stares at you the way a dragon would stare at a potential meal.
"Aemon has been sent to the Citadel, he is to become a maester."
You hum in thought before giving an upturn of your lips and eyeing King Daeron and Maekar, "a noble profession, may he study well."
King Daeron smiles at you while Maekar frowns, displeased at his sons leaving. The king continues.
"Daella," she smiles at you, tipping her head as she looks to you in interest. She seems polite.
"Aegon," the young boy looks to you with wide eyes. His interest solely on your ears. They twitch and he watches with rapt attention, you have a feeling he and Matarys are going to be hounding you with questions.
"And Rhae," the youngest child of Maekar, she looks at you with pursed lips before looking away. Though she seems meek you can see her glancing at Aegon. You watch her eyes flit from him back to her plate.
You nod to King Daeron, "thank you, I suppose proper introductions are due on my part as well."
You rise from your seat as the Targaryens look to you. You brush your hair back and stand tall as you look across every face.
"My name is (Y/n), though some would call me Slayer, I prefer to not use the title. I once served King Viserys I and Queen Rhaenyra. I am honored to be invited to dine with you today."
You can see that there are some who have questions and some who only watch with interest.
"If you have any questions, do feel free to ask."
You sit back down as you take a sip from your own cup, glancing at the first meal placed in front of you. King Daeron smiles as he begins to eat, everyone else follows in his stead as they start to eat their own meals.
Matarys looks to you first, “What were the dragons like?”
You stop your spoon from entering your mouth as you think back. There were so many dragons you've interacted with.
“That depends on which dragon you’re asking about," you blow on your soup before eating the contents and swallowing.
"Syrax was spoiled like her rider and like a large, fat house cat. She never wanted to fight, and she was very particular about when she flew.”
Matarys' mouth drops as does Aegon's, they look to each other with awe as their father's try to hide their interested gaze.
“Spoiled like her rider? Queen Rhaenyra was spoiled?”
You glance at Baelor who asks the question after wiping at his mouth.
“Terribly. She wasn’t a brat, though she did have her moments.”
You think back to when she was younger, before she claimed Syrax. She had thrown a fit the year before because she wasn't allowed to try and claim a dragon. You laugh at the thought now, but back then you were quite annoyed.
"She was his only surviving child, until Alicent came. Of course she was spoiled."
You swirl your cup of wine. Alicent, the Hightowers in general. What a thorn in your side.
"Hightowers, what a bunch of roaches. The only good one was Ser Gwayne."
They can feel your animosity towards the Hightowers even through your flat voice and even flatter face. Though you don't portray much emotion, it is quite clear of your distaste.
“It was a joyous day when Otto Hightower’s head came off.”
You pop a grape into your mouth as the atmosphere surrounding the table dips considerably. Wide eyes all around the table look to you as you speak.
“I told Viserys he wasn’t to be trusted,” you hold a grape between two fingers before you crunch down on it, causing Prince Daeron and Valarr to flinch while Aerion just watches with glee. Everyone else at the table has wide eyes as they look to you, even Aerys glances up from his scrolls.
“He was a fool to listen to him in marrying his daughter.”
King Daeron continues to cut into his meal as if you aren’t speaking out of turn about his great uncle. He turns to Queen Myriah, “this is quite good.”
She gives him a strained smile as you take a sip of wine.
“My apologies, I know how you humans feel on speaking ill of the dead.”
You bring a hand to your head massaging your temple, thinking too much about them always brings a strain to your mind. Even back then.
"I imagine you have many more questions for me as someone who lived through that time," you say as you glance at King Daeron who watches you with rapt attention, wiping his mouth with a cloth.
He nods with a small upturn of his lips, "of course. While we have our tomes and books detailing the events, it is another matter entirely to have a living book."
"By all means, please ask away," you say before thanking the servant who takes your empty bowl away from you.
“How did you find yourself in court? From what we know, elves are solitary creatures.”
You hum at the question. A grimace finds its way to your face, you remember all too well how you were found.
“More so how the courts found me. I was with the dragons. Elves have long been tied to magic, we were more plentiful long before the Doom of Valyria.”
Baelor looks up at that, turning his head towards yours.
“More plentiful? You mean there are not many of you now?”
You take a large bite of your meat, swallowing harshly.
“We were hunted by your kind. Demons didn’t help either. On all fronts we were pushed to the brink of extinction, now…”
You trail off and sigh, it has been five hundred years since you last saw one of your kind. It’ll likely be longer if you’re going to be stuck here with the Targaryens. Rhae looks to you in interest at the mention of magic.
"Magic? You can use magic?"
You look to her as she watches you with wide eyes, though Maekar gives her a look that has her trying to calm down. You give a slight smile.
"I can."
"Show us!"
Maekar looks to her with a stern look, hand gripping his fork.
"Rhae. Enough."
The little one still has a glimmer in her eye even at her father's words as Daella looks to her with that same whimsical look.
You only blink as you take another bite out of your meal, swallowing before looking at the young girl.
"Maybe when we are done here I can, if your father is okay with it."
You look to Maekar who's face pinches in a manner that cannot be comfortable. A scowl on his face as he avoids looking at his daughter's hopeful faces and now avoid looking at his father's face. King Daeron for his part has his hands clasped together on the table, behind his plate.
"I think we all would like to see what exactly it is that you can do."
'If they saw exactly what it was I could do, I would be ordered to be killed,' you think as you look from each persons face to the next.
"I have no objections, if it's what you would like, who am I to refuse?"
King Daeron nods as Maekar frowns before grumbling into his meal. Baelor nods his own head as he resumes with cutting into his meal. Matarys turns back to you from over Valarr with a gleam in his eye.
“When I asked about the dragons, you said it depended on which one for their personality,” Matarys takes a deep breath as Valarr gives him a look for speaking so fast.
“What were the other dragons like? Like Jacaerys’s? Or Prince Daemon’s?”
You hum as you think about them.
“Vermax, Jacaery’s dragon, was fiercely protective of him. He hatched in his cradle, their bond was inseparable.”
You pop another grape in your mouth as you rest your cheek in your hand.
“He also hated the cold. Threw terrible fits whenever he was exposed to it. Had a nasty temper when it came to it. I remember on his trip to the North, Jace had told me how differently he acted.”
You laugh lightly remembering the two. You really did miss them, they were very sweet.
“They were the sweetest. As for Caraxes.”
You make a face before eating another grape, inhaling deeply.
“He and Daemon were perfect for each other. He had a deep bloodlust and was never content with peace. He was very aggressive, the only times I’d seen him even somewhat at peace was with Syrax.”
Matarys looks to have stars in his eyes as Aerion looks on in interest. You try to ignore the look he gives you, his eyes have a shine to them that you’re not sure has any good behind it. The other children and their fathers listen with quiet intrigue.
“The both of them were the sole cause of many headaches,” you rub your temples with one hand as your ears twitch. You can hear Daemons complaints and Caraxes screams even after all these years.
"On the topic of headaches, there was one dragon that held my interest most.”
You take a sip of your wine as King Daeron looks at you with a relaxed expression, “of course, which one?”
The others at the table look to you in interest as well. Which dragon could have gained your interest especially? Maybe Meleys, Vhagar, Dreamfyre?
“Cannibal.”
The air in the room freezes, the very name causing a chill to run down the spines of every person in the room. You merely sit calmly as you reminisce on him. He was the most peculiar of the dragons.
“He was odd, avoided everyone and fed on the other dragons. He was one of the sole reasons why I was kept in court even when I would speak out. I was the only one strong enough to keep him from eating some of the dragons.”
“Of course, I couldn't protect every dragon. He still had to eat. He did not like me very much,” you take a bite out of the meat in front of you, juice running down the side of your mouth. The image of the juice running down the side of your mouth and the mention of Cannibal has stomachs turning.
“We had respect for each other, however. Him as the oldest dragon and me as the oldest creature.”
You wipe the side of your mouth with your napkin, setting the cloth back on your lap.
“Do not mistake my words. He never allowed me to touch him, but he never went out of his way to harm me either. Actually, he largely left humans alone, only attacking when one tried to claim him.”
You lick your teeth, making a small squelching noise that has Prince Daeron flinching and Aerion leaning forward.
“He was also the cause of many headaches. He came and went as he pleased, did whatever he wanted, killed any man or beast that neared him. A large brat is what he is.”
Aerys looks up at you, frown slightly on his face and eyes narrowed, “Was. You said is.”
You glance at Aerys, face flat. You don’t truly believe Cannibal is dead. He left during the Dance and with no one claiming him and you didn’t believe anyone would be crazy enough to search for him, he very well could have gone back to the Fourteen Flames. Not that they need to know.
“Of course, my apologies. Well, that said, the dragons all had unique personalities and their own quirks. They were fun, even the most misbehaved ones.”
Finally finishing your meal, you down the last of your wine and wave off the servant who came forward to fill it with a smile. You fold your hands on your lap as everyone else finishes their meal.
"Once everyone has finished I can show my magic in the lower courtyard," you glance at King Daeron who nods.
"That would be fine, as soon as we all finish we would be honored to witness your magic."
You nod as you patiently wait for everyone to finish their meals. During the time that it takes for everyone to finish, you focus on the mana signatures of everyone in the room. Rhae it seems has a minuscule increase in hers, likely her interest in magic has lead to her wanting to study some form of it.
Everyone else has the same low register. You close your eyes and read out further. You can find the maester beneath the rookery. It seems he's busy writing. You can feel the movement of some septas and some ladies of the courts. The setting down of forks brings your attention back to the table and your eyes open.
King Daeron gives you a small smile as he moves to rise.
"We’d all be honored to witness your magic.”
With those words he rises, followed by the rest of the table as they file out with the Kingsguard surrounding them as you all navigate to the lower courtyard.
content: Dragonstone was suppose to wash away your problems.
words: 2.2k
cw: MDNI 18+ mentions of sexual activities, infidelity, they all would have done wonders with some therapy, not proofread, lmk if I missed any
more of the do I wanna know? universe
Dragonstone was cold in a way King's Landing was not. The winds were ever changing in a way no one could quite predict them. The sea roared against the rocks slamming against them constantly letting their presence be known through violence.
You could not help, but constantly compare Dragonstone to Maekar. You did not know mean too. You did not even always notice that was what you were doing, and yet your mind constantly made the connections.
This was suppose to be a fresh start, a way to mend your marriage to Baelor, and yet it felt anything, but that.
You had wondered if it would be easier to go into the sea and to float away, mayhaps the boys could come with you and you could live your life in peace. Away from the heavy burden of the crown pressing down into you.
"Mum, did you hear me?" your eldest asked causing you to turn from the crashing washes you hoped would eat you hole to him.
Valarr, six and ten stared at you, blinking awaiting your answer to whatever he had just asked.
"What?" you asked.
"When can we go home?"
You could feel your shoulders tense. Home. Valarr wanted to go back to the only home he had ever truly known, having lived in the capital since his father was named Hand of the King when he was only seven.
You moved toward him cupping his cheek, and he allowed you. Despite almost being a man grown himself he was still your son, and he knew that. You smiled at him though it did not quite reach your eyes, "I will talk to your father."
It was never hard to find Baelor throughout the day. He would always be in his chambers, perched over a desk reading through the ravens and different accounts he had been sent that day.
He looked tired. He looked as tired as you felt, and were sure that his emotions mirrored your own.
Dragonstone had not been in at all what you were expecting. There was conversation, but that often led to harsh words being exchanged. That the wounds inside you kept feeling as if they were being pressed on deeper rather than healing like they should have started to at this time.
The true problem was the Hand of the King never truly get a day off. Even being in an entire different castle. Even if he had promised his wife once more to allow them time to work on themselves.
"Valarr wishes to go home," you told him, finally causing him to look up from his work.
His face did something you could not name or mayhaps you just did not wish too tired of the same constant look. He pushed his lips together as his gaze trailed over you searching you for a lie that he would not find.
"Valarr or you?" he countered leaning back in his chair arms crossing over his chest.
You let out a scoff before you could stop yourself, "If I wished to go home I would tell you I wished to go home," you made your moved to leave thinking the conversation was over. That it would not progress any further from that point.
You were wrong.
"Maekar said it was more than sex."
You paused, slowly turning from the exit to your husband, "We're having this conversation again."
"It has been a month and you still will not give me a real answer."
It was the same thing over and over again. Beating the dead horse, despite how it never made a move to rise. You were suppose to be working past this, but instead it felt like you continued to go in circles.
Talking about Maekar ended no where, but a screaming match with doors slamming and sleeping in a cold bed alone for another night.
You swallowed. You did not want to lie. You would not lie to him, and instead you said, "Think about going back home…For your sons at least."
You left him with his thoughts, and that was not the smartest move, but you could not have known that then. Though you would figure it out soon enough.
The bruises on Baelor's face had begun to heal, but the ones deeper inside had not faded in the slightest.
He had conjured a story in his head. One that he would have been able to look past. That you sought Maekar out for company, that he was a warm body to fill the place of himself. That Maekar used you to numb some of the pain of being alone after Dyanna.
It was more than just fucking. It was more than any excuse he had made in his mind, and his brother had sent that idea crumbling straight into the ground with what he had told him that day in the courtyard.
'There…There is something that I cannot explain between the pair of us.'
He was not sure why he could del with the fact that you had slept with his brother, but not the fact you had feelings for him.
It felt different. More intimate. It hurt more this way.
And he knew. He knew, he knew, he knew that he was the one that had out the thought there. That he had give his blessing, but he was wrong. He was so very wrong, and thought you knew that.
You did know that, but you had also made your promise. You were a woman of your word, but he thought for once you were bluffing. And maybe you were at least at first.
He could put the pieces together. He could picture his brother slowly slipping into his place with you and even his sons. Even now they stull looked as if there were waiting for the boot to drop.
Maekar was for once what he was not.
Matarys and Valarr wanted their uncle.
You preferred his brother. Now every time he looked at you he wondered if you were thinking of him. If you stared out at the moon wishing he was by your side. If you ate meals missing Maekar's dry since of humor.
He was driving insane.
Baelor wanted you to feel something close to what he had. What he still felt. He wanted the pain inside him to stop. He wanted. He wanted. He wanted.
He was not truly sure what he wanted.
For the first time in his life he felt like he was at a loss. That he was not the perfect prince and Heir he was depicted as.
'That you have neglected your wife for moons and she finally had enough of it…came running to me and it kills you for once that someone choose me over you! The perfect prince wasn't fucking perfect for once.'
"Do you need something, m'lord?"
Baelor's eyes lifted up to the maid standing in front of him. She was younger, with big brown eyes and a bright smile. She was pretty. She was very, very pretty.
"Come here," he beckoned her forward. She did so with an eager grin moving across the floor quickly, "What is your name?"
You were tired, night after night with little sleep and you thought it had finally gotten to you.
Neither had turned to notice you and the irony in the situation was almost to funny. Two moons ago Baelor had walked in on his brother and yourself. Now you had walked in on him balls deep in a woman you could not identify even if you tried.
Whether it was the sleep deprivation or the simple fact you did not know how to react you laughed, loudly, finally catching their attention, "This really appears to be working on our marriage."
Within a flash Baelor was on his feet, the evidence of his hard cock staring at you. The unknown woman scrambled fixing her dress as they both gawked at you.
She opened her mouth, now realizing just who had caught them. Not just some random woman, but his o
"I do not want to hear your excuses. Leave before I change my mind," you told her, not sparing her a glance keeping your eyes on your husband.
The door shut and neither of you acknowledged it staring at the other. Despite laughing only a moment ago your face lacked at humor. Your eyes bore into him it was a wonder he had not dropped to the ground.
"Are you going to put pants on or should we fight with your cock out…because if it stares at me a moment longer I cannot promise I won't attempt to cut it off."
He blinked at you once before collecting his trousers from the floor pulling them to cover himself. "Was she all you imagined?"
"Was Maekar?"
"You want to know about how your brother is in bed, because I will tell you if that's what you want to hear."
You moved forward slowly, and it caused a chill to crawl up his spine. He awaited your next move in terror, "You want to hear about how nice his cock feels moving in and out of me or about how I scream his name?"
His jaw locked as you circled him. He felt like he was being hunted. He did not feel like the strong warrior, but instead as if he was mouth awaiting the trap you were setting for him."Did you picture me?" you asked, your nail dragging against his back muscles pain following your trail as you moved to now stand in front of him.
"Did you?" he countered.
"No," you replied honestly.
You watched his face do the thing from earlier, the same thing it had been doing for the last month. He shook his head, looking away from you, but you moved gripping his beard chin forcing his mismatched eyes on you, "You spent months neglecting me and I went to your brother for companionship. Can you really blame me?" you questioned.
You let go of him stepping backward, putting the distance between you as if it would dull the anger, but it did the opposite."Call it what it is," his voice was rising by the minute, the calm demeanor he typically wore back in King's Landing waiting for its prince.
"And what is it, oh wise, Baelor?" you asked, your arms crossing over you chest. Your voice remained even but your began to shake with the pent up rage.
"You love him!"
You stared at him for a second, the realization settling deep in your bones like a dull ache that never quite faded. He had spoken it into the world. Something that you had been ignoring for weeks, because it was more than sex.
But if you ignored it would go away
Baelor apparently did not share that same thought, "So you thought sticking your cock into some random maid would dull that? If anything you made it worse you idiot!"
"You slept with my brother!"
"And now I am going to do it again as soon as we get back to King's Landing," you declared.
He opened his mouth to say something, but there was nothing more you wanted to hear, "We are returning to King's Landing. I expect you to make the preparation on the morrow or I will write to your brother to handle, because I can aat least trust him to make good on his word."
Spinning on your heels the door feeling as it had rattled the castle. The waves crashing outside, angry and violet felt dull in comparison to the rage of storm he had just created.
"Oh, fuck," Baelor cried out crumbling to his knees just like his marriage just had.
Maekar Targaryen had seen battle. He was the Anvil for Sevens sake, and here he was staring at your letter as if he was four and ten trying to court a woman for the first time.
You made his heart race. You made a warmth spread through him that he thought had been buried alongside his wife.
"This is so fucking stupid," he muttered staring at the letter, and yet he still did not open it.
He moved toward the widow staring out at the night sky. He on several occasions had debated taking his children back to Summerhall. To his proper seat, but some deep part of him still held out hope you would return soon. For his children of course, and definitely not because he missed you.
He closed his eyes and let your face filled his sight instead of the back of his eyelids, and if he focused hard enough he could hear your laugh,"This is ridiculous," he muttered once more, but his voice was already softer.
His eyes opened slowly as he looked to the moon, wondering if you were staring out at it like you did when sleep evaded you. Or perhaps you were already deep asleep in his elder brother's arms.
Finally with shaky hands and one last glance at the moon he opened the letter. He treated the parchment with such delicacy you would swear this was not the same man who had earned the title of the Anvil.
Dearest Maekar,
On the morrow my boys and I will set out making our way back to Dragonstone. With or without your brother's permission.
I will see you soon.
His fingers ran over every word, tracing the letters that you had written with him in mind, "She's coming home," he breathed out, and there was too much emotion threaded through his words for a man who was suppose to be treating you like only a good-sister.
