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Feb 19

BORN OF FIRE AND FLAME (BLOOD CALLS TO BLOOD)

Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x niece!Reader

Synopsis: Some fires are born in dragon blood; others burn slow between duty and desire. In a legacy built on fire and flames, a restless Princess keeps chasing freedom, and the Prince—heir to the throne—who keeps watching her begins to forget where loyalty ends. | pinterest board

Smut Warnings: making out, slightly inexperienced reader, vaginal fingering, unprotected piv, dirty talk, cunnilingus, handjob, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, marriage kink, size difference, emotional sex, multiple orgasms (female receiving), overstimulation, creampie, brief aftercare.

Fic Warnings: incest (uncle/niece relationship), age gap (reader is 20, Baelor is canonically 36), canon typical misogyny, arranged marriage themes (mentioned), blood and violence, possessive behaviour, minor OC character deaths (mentioned), angst, Targaryen’s being Targaryen’s—if you know you know. (this is a slow as heck burn, as in they don’t even kiss until roughly the 12,000 word mark. you have been warned.)

Word Count: 20.8k

AN: the reader is of Targaryen blood, but I have not given any physical descriptions into hair, skin or eyes colour, or even body size, except that the reader is shorter than Baelor.

please note that this fic is set in 206 AC which is three years prior to AKOTSK so there is no show spoilers. any background world building/events takes place pre-show canon, and is specified to be book/history canon instead. the reader was born 196 AC, making her twenty in this fic.

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The castle breathes at night.

You feel it in the stone—the slow exhale of heat gathered through the day, the whisper of wind slipping through arrow slits, the distant murmur of King’s Landing below like a beast that never truly sleeps. The Red Keep is quieter after midnight, but never still. Somewhere, armour shifts; somewhere, a servant crosses a corridor with slippers that sigh against old tile. Even the torches crackle with a patience that feels watchful.

You stand at the balcony of your chambers with your hands braced against cold stone, staring down at the city. Lanterns glitter along the streets like fallen stars. The stench of the city does not reach this height, only salt and smoke and something sharp that smells like freedom—or perhaps merely the idea of it.

Behind you, your rooms stretch wide and pale in the moonlight. Silk drapes stir with every draft that slips through the cracks in old stone; tapestries whisper against the walls, heavy with stories of conquest and flame. A carved screen shields the bathing alcove, and the great bed—too large, too soft, too perfect—waits untouched, its embroidered blankets smoothed by hands that are not your own. Everything is arranged for comfort, for display, for a princess meant to remain still and beautiful within gilded walls.

And yet the balcony stone beneath your palms is rough, unyielding. Cold seeps into your skin until your fingers ache.

You think of dirt roads instead—the give of earth beneath a horse’s hooves, the jolting rhythm of a gallop that rattles through your bones and feels more alive than any courtly dance. You think of your boots in stirrups, the leather worn soft where it meets your ankles, wind tearing at your hair as fields stretch wide and open without walls or watchful eyes. Out there, the ground warms quickly beneath the sun; here, the castle never quite loses its chill.

You imagine riding until the city is nothing but smoke behind you. Riding until no one calls your name like a command.

A princess should not dream of running.

Yet you do.

The lock at your chamber door turns—not to open, but to test. A Kingsguard, likely. They rotate shifts every few hours. Your father insists on five stationed outside, as though you are a prisoner rather than his daughter.

A daughter who shames him.

You can still hear Maekar’s voice from earlier that evening, sharp as drawn steel.

“You are not a hedge knight to wander the roads! You are blood of the dragon, and you will remember it!”

You remember it all too well. That is the problem.

You glance over your shoulder. The room is dim; only one candle burns now. The bed looks untouched, though its sheets have changed twice today. The servants mutter at that—“the princess with restless sleep, the princess with strange requests”—yet none of them know how your hands shook as you folded the old linens instead of letting them be taken away.

None of them know what hides behind the bookcase.

It stands like any other piece of furniture meant to impress rather than to comfort—dark wood polished to a deep sheen, carved with curling dragons and coiling vines that catch the light when candles burn low. The lower shelves are neat, arranged by careful servant hands, scroll cases lined beside bound volumes of court histories and treatises no one truly reads. But the upper shelves gather dust. Few bother climbing high enough to disturb them; even fewer would notice the way the books are arranged just slightly wrong.

You did, many years ago.

You rise onto your toes, fingertips brushing along cracked leather spines until they find the familiar ones, histories of Valyria stacked side by side. Before the Doom texts bound in fading crimson, heavy with pride and certainty; After the Doom volumes darker, thinner, written by survivors and scholars trying to stitch meaning from ash; before and after the Dance is held by just one book, its spine too thick, a crack forming down the centre at the weight of it, and yet the leather is hardly touched. The contrast has always struck you. One shelf speaks of conquest, of dragons blotting out the sun, while the others read like mourning.

Your fingers slip between them.

Dust coats your skin as you nudge the books aside, revealing the hidden iron catch tucked behind them. The metal is cold and slightly sticky with age. You press—once, firmly—and hear the faint click that still sends a thrill of relief through you every time.

You move quietly. The stone floor is cold beneath your bare feet; your heartbeat thunders louder than the city below. Fingers press against the carved edge of the shelf—the same pressure as always, a secret learned years ago while exploring corridors your septa thought forgotten.

The shelf resists at first. It always does. The weight of it drags against the floor with a dull scrape, wood groaning softly as dust stirs into the air. You strain, shoulder pressing hard, muscles shaking with effort. Beneath it, the grooves in the stone have grown paler with time, carved by repetition—thin crescent lines catching the moonlight now, betraying your secret more each night you use it.

One day someone will notice. One day a servant’s curious eye will linger too long.

But not tonight.

The gap widens enough for you to slip through.

Behind it lies darkness, narrow and cool, smelling of dust and age. You close the passage behind you and the sound of the chamber disappears entirely, swallowed as though it never existed. Here, the air is thick with stillness. Dust clings to your skin; cobwebs brush your cheek like ghostly fingers. The corridor bends sharply, stones slick with age, mortar crumbling when you press your palm against it for balance.

No one walks here, you are certain of it. The place feels abandoned by time itself, as if the last footsteps echoed here a century ago and never returned. Every breath stirs the silence. Every movement feels like an intrusion.

Your hidden rope waits where you left it: sheets twisted and knotted with careful precision, cotton wound tight until it resembles something stronger than its beginnings, each knot tested again and again and again. Your hands knows their pattern by heart.

It hangs from a balcony cut into the wall opposite a narrow doorway—a forgotten exit used long ago by people whose names have been lost. You wonder if they felt the same thrill, the same fear.

You tug once, twice, reassuring yourself it will hold.

Outside, the moon hides behind thick cloud.

Perfect.

You ease yourself over the edge.

The cotton wraps around your hands as you descend, rough where the knots tighten, softer in the stretches between—a startling contrast to the stone wall scraping against your forearm as you lean back. Fibres bite into your palms, warming quickly beneath your grip. Your boots search for footing and sometimes catch unexpectedly, the soles tangling in loose twists so you must pause, breath held, to free yourself without sending the rope swaying too wildly.

The wind chooses that moment to rise.

It slams you sideways into the wall. Stone bites your shoulder; a sharp scrape burns along your forearm. The wall is unforgiving, cold enough to numb. You gasp, cheek pressed against cold rock that smells faintly of salt and rain, the sheets twisting beneath your weight, creaking softly. For a heartbeat you simply cling there, breathing hard, feeling the tremor in your arms.

The breeze is merciless—a sharp, cold bite like teeth against every strip of exposed skin, slipping beneath your sleeves, stinging your throat when you inhale, dragging at your robes. Your hair lashes your face; your gown snaps against your legs. The wall steals warmth from you, leeching heat until your fingers ache.

You keep going—slowly, carefully; every knot is a marker, ever breath is a measure.

Below, the castle dissolves into shadow. Above, the moon appears only in fragments, silver caught between racing clouds. Its light is thin, uncertain, enough to deepen the darkness rather than banish it. Shadows pool along the walls and spill across the ground, thick and waiting. You slip into them instinctively, as though they know you, as though you belong more to night than to firelight.

An ember would glow too bright here.

You are swallowed instead.

Your boots touch ground with the softest thud. Knees bending, you sink immediately into shadow, the damp scent of earth and stone rising around you. For a moment you remain still, crouched in shadow, simply listening. No shout follows, no alarm rings. There is only the distant roar of the city carried upward on the breeze—laughter from taverns, a dog barking, the endless restless hum of lives moving without you.

A breath escapes you, almost soundless, half-laugh and half-prayer. Your fingers curl into your palms as if to contain the sudden rush of triumph; your pulse still hammers from the climb, but now it beats with something brighter. You tilt your head back just enough to glimpse the dark silhouette of the Red Keep above, all towers and stone and watchful windows, and for the first time tonight it feels smaller.

You press your back to the wall, eyes closing briefly, letting the thrill pass through you—the giddy, reckless relief of knowing you are no longer trapped behind locked doors and guarded halls. No king’s command. No watching eyes. Just you, the darkness, and the fragile miracle of freedom stolen one quiet moment at a time.

The castle looms overhead, unaware that its captive has slipped free yet again. The silent night wraps itself around your shoulders like a cloak. It feels like an accomplice, like a friend that asks no questions.

The wind cuts across the courtyard again, but now it feels less like a threat and more like applause. Still, you do not linger.

Victory in the Keep is always temporary.

And then you slip away, unseen and unheard, swallowed by the dark as though you were never there at all.

The stables smell of hay, sweat, and warm animal breath. Horses shift in their stalls, hooves striking soft rhythms against packed earth; leather creaks; somewhere a horse exhales in a low rumble that vibrates through the quiet like a familiar greeting. The scent is grounding, honest—nothing like the perfumed corridors of the Keep. Here, life is simple: breath, muscle, movement.

You reach them the way you always do: circling wide, avoiding torchlight, slipping through the gap behind stacked barrels where you once dug at the earth with bleeding fingers until there was room enough to crawl.

You remember that night.

You had been younger then—furious, reckless, more angry than afraid—scratching at the soil with a broken piece of wood stolen from the yard. At first it had only been meant as a place to hide, somewhere to vanish when the walls pressed too close. Escapes were smaller then, just leaving the Keep for an hour, breathing air that did not feel watched.

But when you turned three-and-ten, something in you shifted. The city walls began to feel like the bars of a cage rather than protection. You wanted sky, endless and merciless and wide. You imagined trees like skeletal fingers clawing into the night, imagined sleeping beneath them with no roof above you, only stars and cold wind and freedom. You dug until your nails split and your palms blistered, widening the tunnel just enough to squeeze through, dirt filling your mouth and hair, heart pounding with the thrill of imagining the day you would crawl out and ride one of your father’s horses far beyond the reach of King’s Landing.

You never stopped widening it after that—a little more each escape, a little closer to freedom.

Dirt clings to your knees as you pull yourself through. You rise, brushing soil from your trousers, pushing your hood back, and freeze.

Someone stands inside, ten feet away, still as a shadow cast by lantern light.

Baelor, your Uncle, watches you.

His arms are folded loosely across his chest, robes half-unbuttoned as though he had risen from bed to follow suspicion rather than certainty. The lantern glow catches the salt and pepper strands of his hair, turning them almost silver-white. He looks completely at ease, which somehow makes the trap feel worse. The faintest grin touches his mouth.

You curse under your breath.

“Princess,” he says quietly.

His gaze drifts over you—the commoner’s shirt, the worn boots, the hooded robe hanging loose from your shoulders. Recognition flares in his eyes.

“That robe,” he murmurs, amused. “I remember lending it to you.”

Two years ago, after a rainstorm, when he had found you soaked and laughing in the training yard and wrapped it around your shoulders with a conspiratorial smile.

You straighten. “Uncle.”

“You dig holes in royal stables now?” His tone is soft, almost impressed.

You flash him a wry smile. “I do what I must.”

He steps closer, lantern light catching silver in his hair. Baelor has always carried himself like a knight even when dressed as the Hand—calm, measured, a quiet strength that contrasts your father’s iron severity.

“You grow bold,” he says.

“I grow caged.”

The words slip free before you can stop them.

Something shifts in his expression. The faint amusement fades, replaced by something quieter, heavier. You take a half-step toward him instinctively, and he turns just slightly away, a reflex so small you almost miss it, as though closeness is dangerous. As though he already knows how easily the line between duty and something else could blur.

But his eyes stay locked on yours.

You feel restless under that gaze, suddenly aware that he could seize you now, drag you straight to his father King Daeron’s chambers. He could hand you over for punishment, for lectures about duty and blood and wildness that must be tamed. The possibility tightens your chest.

“You mean to ride tonight,” he says softly.

You do not deny it. It is plain what you meant to do.

“I mean to ride for more than a night, uncle.”

He sighs softly, glancing toward the stable doors. Outside, distant footsteps echo, guards passing somewhere beyond.

“They will search for you before dawn,” he says.

“They always do.”

“And your father…”

You lift your chin. “Will rage regardless.”

Silence stretches between you.

Then, to your surprise, Baelor laughs under his breath, a quiet and almost nostalgic sound. “You remind me of myself at your age.”

You pause your wandering eyes that had searched the stables for a way to run, flitting back to Baelor for a moment. “I thought you were always dutiful.”

“No one is born dutiful,” he replies.

His gaze shifts toward the stalls. Your sigil-less horse stamps softly, ears flicking forward, sensing you. He notices the tack already hidden, the preparations made long before tonight, and shakes his head.

“You planned well,” he murmurs. “I suppose I should sound the alarm.”

Your hand tightens at your side.

He looks back at you, the lantern light catching across the shadows dancing across his skin. “But I will not.”

Relief floods you so quickly you nearly stagger. “Why?”

“Because cages break what they hold,” he says quietly. “And I would rather you return of your own will than learn to hate these walls.”

He steps aside.

“Go, before someone else comes, dear niece.”

You hesitate. “If my father learns you helped—”

“He will not. And if he suspects, let him blame my sentimentality.” A faint smile returns. “Ride fast.”

You step forward without thought. Your hand lifts, hesitant, brushing the back of his. He bristles at first—a sharp intake of breath, shoulders stiffening, nostrils flaring—but then, almost imperceptibly if you were not his favourite niece, he softens. His fingers relax beneath yours, the tension easing just enough to feel like permission.

Your other hand slides over the fabric of the robe draped around your shoulders, fingers tracing the worn edge. His eyes follow the movement, watching the way you touch something that once belonged to him, something that smells faintly of smoke and leather and memory.

You swallow, unsurprised by the warmth blooming in your chest. “Thank you.”

Baelor inclines his head, almost formal. You lean in further, raising high up on your tiptoes, your neck arched up to press a soft kiss to his jawline.

He goes still. When you pull away, his expression is unreadable and his voice is quieter when he speaks.

“Be safe, ñuha byka jēdar.” It is more a whisper than anything, and the name feels like a secret only he knows.

You turn and move to your horse. The saddle creaks softly as you mount. You pull your hood low again, gathering reins in your gloved hands.

When you glance back, Baelor still watches, half-hidden by shadow.

“Be back before dawn,” he mutters. Your brows furrow when you feel yourself nod without thinking.

And then you ride.

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King’s Landing falls away behind you.

At first it clings—the distant glow of torches along the walls, the faint smudge of smoke hanging over the city like a veil—but the farther you ride, the smaller it becomes, until it is only a low shimmer against the horizon. The Red Keep fades into silhouette, just another jagged shape swallowed by distance, its towers no longer watching.

The road opens wide and empty before you, a ribbon of pale dirt winding through darkness. The earth is uneven beneath your horse’s hooves; stones shift and crunch, sending small sprays of dust into the air. Wind bites at your cheeks, sharp and clean; your cloak snaps behind you like a banner unseen, and your breath leaves you in pale bursts that vanish almost as quickly as they appear. The rhythm of hooves becomes a heartbeat, steady and alive.

It settles into you until your own pulse follows its pace, until the world narrows to movement and breath and the familiar sway of the saddle. Every ride feels like this — like peeling away layers of expectation until something raw and true remains.

This is why you come back to it again and again.

Not rebellion—not truly.

Breathing.

Fields roll out on either side, dark shapes stitched together by moonless night. Sleeping farms pass in silence—low cottages crouched against the cold, shutters barred, roofs silvered faintly with dew. Occasionally a watchfire burns low, little more than glowing embers beside a fence or gate, proof that someone somewhere is awake even now, keeping quiet vigil over their small piece of the world.

You ride past them unseen.

The land stretches endlessly, and for once it feels as though it belongs to you more than any throne room ever could. You are a rider beneath the expanse of open sky, under darkness unbroken by stars, guided only by instinct and memory. Far off, distant firelights flicker—villages tucked into valleys, lonely campfires dotting the edges of the road—small reminders that life goes on beyond the walls that define your own.

You think of marriage proposals.

They arrive like trade agreements, wrapped in courtesy and expectation. Lords from fertile valleys, from storm battered coasts, from cold northern holdings you have never seen. Their names blur together: sons inheriting castles, men twice your age seeking alliances, polite smiles offered across banquet tables while eyes measure what you are worth.

None of them mean anything to you.

Their titles feel hollow. Their promises sound rehearsed. You imagine riding beside them and feel nothing—no spark, no curiosity, only the dull sense of a future narrowing into obligation.

Your father grows more impatient with every refusal. You can hear it in the clipped way he speaks your name, in the way conversations fall silent when you enter the room. You know that a princess cannot remain unpromised forever.

You think of your brothers—Aemon, quiet and brilliant, forever buried in thought as if the world exists as a puzzle only he can solve; Aerion, burning bright and dangerous, a wildfire contained only by the thinnest thread of control; Aegon, inquisitive and bold, brighter than any sun that has shone.

And then, your thoughts drift back, unbidden, to the stables. To Baelor—firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, Baelor Breakspear Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, brother to your father Maekar and your Uncle.

You think of Baelor’s knowing smile in the stables.

The road stretches on beneath you, and your thoughts turn inward again, toward bloodlines and history, toward the stories whispered like warnings in candlelit halls.

The Targaryens’ were once a house set apart by fire and custom alike. The old histories speak openly of marriages between brother and sister, of blood preserved like a flame kept carefully sheltered from the wind. In Valyria it had been tradition, almost necessity; here in Westeros it had always been something else—tolerated when dragons filled the sky, feared when they did not.

Since the Dance of the Dragons, everything changed.

The realm remembered the ruin too clearly: dragons turning on dragons, kin slaying kin, the sky itself burning. The small-folk spoke of it as punishment, a curse born from a bloodline that loved itself too fiercely. Since then, the marriages grew fewer, the old ways softened or abandoned entirely in the face of murmuring lords and wary eyes. Lords preach caution now, alliances instead of purity.

And yet the whispers remain.

You have heard them in markets, disguised as jokes. Heard servants fall silent when your family passes. The common-folk bow, but their devotion is thinner than it once was. Some fear you; others simply do not understand how a house can cling to itself so tightly and not fracture.

Perhaps they are right.

The thought unsettles you as much as it comforts.

The wind sharpens as you ride, stinging your cheeks. Your horse’s breath mists in the air, each stride steady and sure. The sound of hooves beats like a second heart beneath you, grounding you even as your thoughts drift.

You think of Baelor.

There was a time when he never turned away from you, when you ran through the halls and he was always there, patient and amused, indulging questions no one else had time to answer. You had been his only niece then, bright and loud and unafraid, forever shadowing his steps with childish certainty that he belonged partly to you.

But something shifted.

When you reached eight-and-ten—when your laughter changed, when your body grew one last time into itself, when eyes lingered a moment longer than before—he began to step back. It was subtle at first—a pause where once there would have been easy closeness, a careful distance placed between you like an unseen wall—but you noticed, even if he thought you did not.

And now there is Daella—younger, sweet-faced, untouched by the sharp edges of adulthood. You wonder if she has taken your place in his affections; if she receives the smiles that once belonged to you alone. The thought twists unexpectedly inside your chest. Heat flares there, sudden and fierce. It catches you off guard, bright as wildfire licking at dry brush. Jealousy. Not the small, passing irritation you know from courtly rivalries, but something deeper and hotter, an emotion that feels almost foreign in its intensity.

You press your heels gently to your horse’s sides, riding faster, as if motion might burn it away, but the feeling lingers. You tell yourself it is not about him. It is about change, about growing older and watching the world rearrange itself without asking your permission, about losing a certainty you once relied on.

And still, that low-lit fire burns.

The road ahead stretches like a wound across the earth—dark, quiet, and seemingly endless, vanishing into a horizon marked only by the faintest flicker of distant villages. Their lights tremble like dying stars, fragile against the weight of the night. The wind cuts across the open plains in restless gusts, tearing at your uncle’s cloak and tugging at loose strands of hair, its cold fingers finding every gap in your armour and cloth alike. You ride through it without slowing, letting the chill bite at your skin until the fire inside you dims—until the sharp, consuming heat becomes something quieter, heavier, settling low in your chest as an ache instead of a blaze.

Behind you, King’s Landing has long since dissolved into memory. No towers clawing at the sky, no golden windows glowing with excess, no distant roar of crowds or clatter of courtly life. Only darkness now, and the rhythmic thud of hooves against packed earth. Ahead lies nothing certain — only the open road and the uneasy sense that each mile carries you farther from who you were, toward something unfamiliar, unnamed. You wonder whether you are fleeing or transforming; whether there is even a difference anymore.

The villages you pass are small enough to miss if you blink—four or five squat buildings huddled close as though for warmth, smoke curling thinly from crooked chimneys. Rough wooden fences penned in tired cattle and restless sheep, their shapes pale in the dark moonless night. A single lantern burns in a window here and there, casting soft gold onto dirt paths worn by bare feet and labour. These places are scarcely large enough to be called homes, yet they are full of life—a quiet, stubborn, enduring life.

You watch figures moving even at this late hour: a woman carrying water, shoulders hunched against the cold; a man mending something by lamplight; children asleep in spaces too small for dreams to stretch. These are the people your grandparents speak of as small-folk, spoken of in dismissive tones, numbers to be taxed or managed from a distance. Yet as you ride past, you see only people surviving. People who work until their bodies bend, who measure their days by harvests and weather, not feasts or titles. They scrape a living from unforgiving land while you were born into silk sheets and tables heavy with roasted meats, exotic fruits offered at the slightest whim.

The contrast settles uncomfortably beneath your ribs.

You wonder, not for the first time, if you could survive like this, if the softness bred into you by privilege would crack under a life where comfort must be earned each day. Could your hands harden? Could your hunger be patient? Could you live without servants, without certainty, without the invisible net that catches you every time you fall?

Hours pass unnoticed, marked only by the shifting weight of exhaustion and the slow lightening of the sky. The darkness softens first to grey, then to pale blue that spills across the horizon. Shapes emerge where shadows once ruled. When you finally turn your horse toward home, dawn is breaking, and the world feels newly exposed, as if it has seen too much of you in the night and now refuses to look away.

When you return, the sky has begun to pale.

The night has thinned into that strange hour between secrecy and morning, when the world feels caught holding its breath. Your fingers ache as you grip the cotton rope again; the climb burns through your arms and shoulders, muscles trembling with the effort. Dust clings to your skin, sweat dampens your brow, and your lungs pull air in sharp, quiet breaths as you drag yourself back toward the hidden doorway.

The stones scrape your palms as you crawl inside. The passage smells of cold mortar and age; your heartbeat echoes loud enough to feel dangerous. You shove the bookcase shut behind you with a muted thud and straighten—

—and freeze.

Baelor turns at the sound of the hidden door closing.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. His gaze flicks to your clothes—dirt-streaked, wind-tossed—then to your flushed face.

“You climb out of your chambers,” he says evenly, “like a thief.”

You straighten, caught but unwilling to appear ashamed. “And you enter without invitation, kēpus.”

His mouth twitches slightly, almost a smile. “The Kingsguard believed you sleeping.”

“They believe many things.” The words come out breathless; you are suddenly aware of how close the air feels, how warm the room has grown despite the lingering chill from outside.

He steps nearer.

Not enough to touch, but close enough that you feel the shift in the space between you. His presence fills the room, steady and controlled, the scent of leather and cool morning air clinging to him. You have dreamed of moments like this, waking from restless sleep with your pulse racing, your skin overheated, the memory of his voice lingering in your ears like a secret you cannot shake. Dreams you never name aloud, that leave you disoriented in the half-light.

He steps even closer, lowering his voice. “Do you know how dangerous it is out there?”

You scoff softly, leaning back to rest against your chest if drawers. “Everyone always says that.”

“And they are correct.”

“I am more alive out there than in here.”

The words fall between you like a confession.

Baelor studies you in silence, long enough that you feel suddenly aware of the dirt on your hands, the loose strands of hair sticking to your face, the racing beat of your pulse.

“You should change before anyone sees,” he says at last.

“You will not tell?”

“No.”

Relief flickers, though smaller this time, edged with curiosity.

“Why?” You enquire.

Baelor pauses, struck frozen by your question, before he states: “Because I understand wanting the sky.”

You blink.

For a breathless moment, neither of you moves. The air itself seems to hold its breath, the world narrowing to the space where his voice lingers, warm and low, like the first hint of a storm building on the horizon. You feel it in your chest, a slow, insistent tug, as if his words have reached inside you and pulled something taut. Something that has been waiting, coiled and restless, for far too long.

Byka jēdar… you remember him calling you little sky earlier this eve in the stables. Surely you are not the sky he speaks of—he must be speaking about wanting to ride like your ancestors in the sky upon dragons and flames.

He takes a step closer, and this time, it’s deliberate. Not the cautious, measured approach of an heir, of an uncle, but something else entirely. His presence fills the room, solid and unyielding, yet his eyes are soft, almost tender, as they sweep over your face. You can see the conflict there—duty warring with something deeper, something raw and unchecked. It mirrors the battle raging inside you, the push and pull of propriety and desire, of who you are supposed to be and who you ache to become.

The shift is subtle, almost imperceptible, but you feel it like a sudden chill in the air. His body stiffens; the tension in his shoulders pulls taut as if he’s wrestled something back into place. His hand, which had hung in the space between you, stills and then slowly retreats, returning to his side as if it had never dared to reach out at all. His jaw tightens, his eyes hardening into the disciplined mask of the knight he is—the heir he must be.

You can see the struggle in him, the way his breath catches and steadies, the way his gaze flickers away from yours for the briefest of moments before returning, steady but distant. There’s a conflict there, raw and unspoken, and it mirrors the one raging inside you. Closer, your heart whispers, even as your mind screams no further. The air between you feels charged, heavy with everything unsaid, everything that could have been.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You’re caught in the gravity of that suspended moment, the world narrowing to the space where his presence lingers like a promise he won’t allow himself to make. His eyes bore into yours, searching, asking questions you don’t dare answer. You wonder if he can feel it too, this pull, this ache that seems to grow stronger every time you’re near him. But then he exhales, a slow, deliberate breath, and the spell breaks.

He takes a step back, the movement precise and controlled, as if he’s drawing a line neither of you can cross. The warmth of his presence recedes, leaving you feeling strangely hollow in its absence. His voice, when he speaks next, is measured, deliberate—a shield, you think, to keep the words safe from the truths they might reveal.

“Get some rest, tala. Dawn has passed, and your father expects you soon.”

As he leaves, you catch a faint trace of cold air and steel, the scent of training yards, of open spaces.

The door closes softly behind him.

You stand alone in the quiet room, heart still racing.

Outside, King’s Landing wakes, and the castle breathes again.

For the first time in many weeks, your restlessness feels less like a prison and more like the beginning of something you cannot yet name.

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The days that follow are different.

You notice Baelor watching sometimes—from across a hall, from the edge of a council gathering, from the training yard where sparks fly from clashing steel. His gaze is never intrusive; it lingers only long enough to remind you that he knows your secret.

And he keeps it.

You ride again—not every night, but often enough that the walls begin to feel less suffocating. The rope of linens grows worn from use. Each time you descend, you half-expect to find him waiting.

Sometimes you almost wish he would be.

The Red Keep looms beautiful and terrible around you, towers catching sunlight like flame, banners snapping above stone that has outlived kings. From the highest balconies, the view of King’s Landing stretches endless: the winding Blackwater, ships like toys upon the water, smoke rising from thousands of hearths.

You wonder what it would feel like to never return. And yet you always do, because somewhere within its walls walks a man who looks at you not as duty, not as problem, but as something wild yet worthy of understanding.

One evening, as twilight stains the sky purple and gold, you find him waiting near the balcony.

“You will leave again tonight,” Baelor says without greeting.

You lean against the stone, smiling faintly. “Perhaps.”

“You are predictable.”

“Then why do you keep watching?”

He considers the question.

“Because,” he says quietly, “I would rather know where you fly than wonder if you have fallen.”

The words settle between you like a vow unspoken.

Below, King’s Landing glitters as the sun sinks—restless, alive, endless—and you feel the pull again: the road, the wind, the freedom waiting beyond the walls.

But, for the first time, you do not feel entirely alone within them.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You sit through a meeting with your father, Maekar, his voice a low, relentless drumbeat. Proposals. Alliances. The necessity of a match. He does not look at you when he speaks of it, but you feel the weight of each word settle on your shoulders, pressing down like the heavy stone walls of the Red Keep itself. The room is too warm, the air thick with the scent of parchment, ink, and the faint tang of wine. You imagine lords around the table murmuring their agreements, their eyes darting to you only briefly before shifting away, as if you are a ghost already, not a living person to be heard. You imagine them as the lords they are: men beyond your years that stare and gawk at you as you grow more, as you grew into the woman you are now; you see their beaded eyes delight in the idea of your hand and the alliance with House Targaryen, not even a thought of your own wishes and prayers to the Mother to be considered.

Your father’s tone is methodical, almost detached, as he outlines the potential alliances. “House Baratheon’s fleet is unmatched,” he says, his fingers tapping idly on the polished wood of the table. “A union would strengthen our position in the Narrow Sea. Their son is young, yes, but well-mannered and… tractable.” The word hangs in the air like a sentence. Tractable. Easily controlled. Easily managed. You clench your hands beneath the table, your nails digging into your palms, as the image of Lord Baratheon’s nephew flashes in your mind—his soft hands, his hesitant laugh, the way he always seems to be searching for someone else’s approval. The thought of sharing a life with him, of lying beside him in a cold marriage bed, makes your stomach churn.

“The Tyrells are too ambitious to consider,” your father interrupts your thoughts sharply, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade. “They would seek to influence rather than align. The Baratheon boy is the safer choice.” His tone brooks no argument, and the room falls silent again. You feel the weight of his gaze flicker to you once more, brief and assessing, before he turns back to his papers.

A princess is not a person—she is a tool, a pawn, a thing to be traded.

Your father remains seated, his gaze fixed on the ledger before him. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, until he finally speaks.

“You cannot climb walls forever,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “A princess is a piece on a board. A valuable one. You will be moved where you are needed.” He looks up then, his grey eyes unyielding, and you feel the sting of those words like a slap. His gaze is not unkind, but it is weary, carved from years of compromise.

“I am not a piece to be played, kepa,” you hiss, though the defiance sounds hollow even to your ears. Your throat feels tight, your chest aching with the pressure of unshed tears.

He exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. “You are my daughter,” he says finally. “That is both a privilege and a chain. You have until the moon’s turn to consider Lord Baratheon’s nephew. After that, I will consider the matter for you.”

The dismissal is clear, his tone leaving no room for further discussion. You rise from your seat, your legs trembling slightly beneath your skirts, and leave the chamber without another word. The stone corridors feel narrower than before, the walls closing in as you walk, your footsteps echoing like a dirge in the silence.

The Baratheon boy is two years your junior, with a laugh that sounds like a hiccup and hands that are always slightly damp. The thought of his touch makes your skin prickle unpleasantly.

Your steps carry you instinctively toward the outer walls, toward the place where the air is clean and the world feels vast, but you stop yourself. The memory of Baelor’s quiet presence in your room is a brand on your thoughts. Instead, you retreat to the library, a vast, dusty cavern of knowledge that offers a different kind of escape. You lose yourself in maps of distant lands, in accounts of dragons that once darkened the skies. For a few hours, you can almost forget the pressure building inside your chest.

It is there that he finds you again.

You do not hear him approach. You’re bent over a massive tome detailing the flight patterns of raptors in the Dornish Marches, your finger tracing a line on the vellum when a shadow falls across the page.

You know it is him before you look up. The air in the library shifts; the dust motes seem to slow in their dance.

“Ñuha dōna jēdar.”

You lift your head. Baelor stands a respectful distance away, his black velvet cloak melting against the dark wood of the shelves. His expression is neutral, the perfect picture of an heir to the throne, but his eyes hold a faint, questioning light.

“Kēpus.” You close the book softly. “Have I summoned you without knowing?”

“Your father requested an escort for your evening walk in the godswood. He is… concerned for your safety after yesterday’s… fatigue.”

The pause is slight, but you hear it. Fatigue. A polite fiction for whatever he suspects, for whatever he has not reported.

“I see.” You stand, smoothing the skirts of your dress. The gown is a layered black silk, heavy and rich, the fabric catching the light like smoke. Gold threaded dragons wind their way subtly along the cuffs and bodice, their scales glinting with each movement, and the high collar frames your throat like armour fit for a Princess if old Valyria, high-necked and modest, yet under his observant gaze you feel strangely exposed. “And are you to be my jailer, or my escort?”

“Here I am a merely your kēpus. I am only here to protect you.”

“From what, Prince Baelor?” You gasp mockingly, placing a hand upon your breasts. “The falling leaves?”

“From anything that would harm you.” His tone is even, but there’s an edge to it, a seriousness that makes your stomach tighten. “Including your own impulses.”

The challenge hangs between you. You want to argue, to tell him your impulses are the only things that make you feel real. But you don’t. You simply nod and move past him toward the library’s great doors.

He falls into step beside you, a half-pace behind. You are acutely aware of the rhythm of his footsteps, the soft clink of his sword belt, the solid, quiet bulk of him at your periphery.

The godswood is quiet in the dusk. The heart tree’s carved face seems to weep crimson tears in the fading light. You walk the winding paths in silence for a time, the only sounds the crunch of gravel underfoot and the distant call of a night bird.

The tension from the morning is still there, a live wire humming just beneath the surface of the quiet. It gathers in the spaces between your words, in the glances you don’t quite allow yourself to take.

“Why did you cover for me, kēpus?” You ask finally, the question bursting out of you. You stop walking, turning to face him beside a small, dark pool.

He stops as well, his profile etched against the deep green of the dark oak leaves. “I gave you my reason.”

“Wanting the sky is not a reason. It is a feeling. Heirs to the throne do not act on feeling.”

He turns his head, his pale eyes meeting yours. In the dim light, they look almost grey. “No,” he agrees. “They do not.”

“So?”

“So perhaps I am tired of watching cages.” The words are so soft they are almost lost in the rustle of the leaves. “Even gilded ones.”

Your breath catches in your throat. It feels like a confession far greater than your own. You think of his life: firstborn son son of the King, heir to the Iron Throne, a boy with his life carved out for him long before his birth, every moment since belonging to someone else. Does he, too, stare at the stars and feel a hunger that has no name?

“Se nyke daor gryves urnēbagon ñuha byka jēdar sagon ruarza.” The words fall from his lips like poetry, not spoken so much as breathed, shaped carefully in the space between you.

Baelor does not speak as other men do. There is no blunt edge to his words, no careless weight. Each syllable leaves his mouth with deliberate care—as though he has measured it first, turned it over in thought, and only then allowed it into the air. The cadence catches you before the meaning ever does; a slow, lilting rhythm that feels less like conversation and more like something recited from memory.

High Valyrian was meant to be elegant—every tutor ever told you so—but hearing it from Baelor is something else entirely. It is not the clipped instruction of lessons half-ignored, nor the stern repetition of grammar you used to slip away from as a girl. In his voice it becomes music.

You are ashamed, suddenly, of all the hours you shirked; all the afternoons spent climbing towers or fleeing your tutors instead of learning the tongue properly. The words brush past your understanding like wings, familiar yet unreachable. You chase them instinctively, trying to grasp meaning from fragments alone.

Cannot bear. The word lands clearly, sharp enough to catch your breath.

Then softer, almost fond: little sky.

Your heart stumbles at that, though you cannot say why. The phrase feels impossibly gentle, something meant to be held close rather than spoken aloud.

And another, nearly lost in the hush between syllables.

Hidden.

The rest slips away from you; beautiful, frustrating, and entirely beyond reach. For a fleeting instant you imagine finding the words written in some ancient book tucked away in the Red Keep’s library; ink faded with time, a love sonnet penned by a long-dead poet who understood longing too well. That same hush lives in Baelor’s voice now—an ache disguised as gentleness, restraint wrapped around something brighter and far more dangerous beneath.

You feel a slickness between your thighs, emanating from your petals, your bud alight with a heat you have hardly experienced. Only one boy has ever touched you, from when you were six-and-ten until nearly two springs ago—a stable boy from an inn far from here, one who did not know your name or your reason for staying there for near a week. That boy had passed of sickness nearly two springs before, but you remember the last time he had touched you: you had whispered kēpus when he inserted a finger inside of you, moaned my Prince when his cock bullied its way into you, and when your body shook and vision became clean as snow, you called out Bae— before you choked back your words.

This memory rises unbidden, and you take a step closer without meaning to. The space between you dwindles again. This time, you notice the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint scar that bisects his left eyebrow, the way his lower lip is slightly fuller than the upper. Details you have seen a thousand times and never truly seen.

“My father will force a marriage,” you whisper, the truth of it sharp and bitter on your tongue. “Before the moon’s turn. To some lordling whose only merit is his uncle’s fleet.”

Baelor’s jaw tightens. A muscle feathers along its edge. He says nothing, but his silence is louder than any objection.

“I cannot breathe when I think of it,” you continue, the words pouring out in a rush now that the dam has broken. “I feel it here.” You press a hand to your chest, just below your collarbone, a contrast to the mocking you used before. A strange, swollen ache has been growing there all day, a tightness that has nothing to do with the fabric of your dress. “It feels like… like I am being stuffed into a box that is too small.”

His gaze drops to your hand, then swiftly back to your face. But not before you see something flicker in his eyes—not pity, but a sharp, sudden recognition.

“I know that feeling all too well, byka jēdar,” he says, his own voice low.

“Do you?”

He doesn’t answer with words. He simply looks at you, and in that look, you see a reflection of your own trapped spirit. It is a mirror, a understanding so profound it steals the air from your lungs.

The ache in your chest pulses, a warm, heavy sensation that spreads outward. You become hyper aware of your body in a new way—the gentle weight of your breasts against the silk of your dress feels more pronounced, the bodice seeming to fit more snugly than it did this morning. It is not pain, but a deep, visceral fullness, as if the frustration and yearning inside you is manifesting physically, pushing against its confines.

You drop your hand, suddenly self-conscious. The sensation is confusing, intimate. You wonder if he can see it, this strange swelling of your own flesh.

“What do you do?” Your voice is barely audible. “When you feel the walls closing in?”

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he lifts his own hand, holding it in the space between you, palm up, as if offering you something invisible. “I remember the sky,” he says simply. “I remember that it is still there, even when I cannot see it.”

You stare at his open hand. You imagine placing yours in it, the heat that would bloom from that contact, the sheer, shocking reality of it. The thought sends a jolt through you, straight to your core, and the heavy warmth in your chest tightens again, a sweet, insistent pressure.

You want to. Gods, you want to.

Your fingers twitch at your side.

A loud crack of a branch echoes from the other side of the grove, a guard on his rounds.

The moment shatters.

Baelor’s hand closes into a fist and falls back to his side. The shutters come down over his expression, the Prince's mask settling back into place. “It grows dark, Princess. We should return.”

The dismissal is a physical blow. The warmth in your body cools rapidly, leaving you feeling hollow and shaken. The strange, full sensation in your chest remains, a lingering, tender echo of the moment passed.

You nod, unable to speak, and turn back toward the castle. He walks beside you, the silence now a chasm filled with everything unsaid, everything almost done.

At the door to your chambers, he stops. You hesitate, your hand on the iron ring of the door.

“Will you be there?” You ask, not looking at him. “Tomorrow morning, when I wake to the same walls?”

You hear the soft intake of his breath. When he speaks, his voice is rough, scraped raw by something you dare not name. “I am always here, ñuha jorrāelagon. You may always come to me when you need.”

You push the door open and slip inside without another word.

Alone, you lean back against the cold wood. Your heart hammers against your ribs. You bring your hands up, pressing them against the swell of your breasts beneath your dress. They feel fuller, heavier, sensitive in a way that makes your breath shorten. It is a secret, physical testament to the tension that coils between you and the knight in the white cloak. A slow, aching burn that has found a home in your very flesh.

You know, with a certainty that terrifies and exhilarates you, that this is only the beginning. The walls are the same. The cage is the same. But you are not. And neither, you suspect, is he.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The days grow louder after that, as though the Red Keep senses change before you do. Servants hurry with purpose; banners are unfurled; the training yards ring from dawn until dusk with steel and shouted orders. Even the air tastes sharper, filled with the scent of oiled armour and anticipation.

Your father moves through the castle like a storm given shape.

A tourney, your grandfather announces. A grand one—knights summoned from across the realm; lords invited to witness strength and loyalty alike. The halls fill with rumours, and you need not ask why.

Marriage.

It clings to every conversation you overhear. Every glance cast your way feels weighted; measured. You are Maekar Targaryen’s daughter—too long unwed, too restless, too wild for comfort.

A tourney gives him opportunity.

From your chambers windows, the world beyond the walls changes by degrees. At first there are only wagons—small dots crawling across the dusty fields outside the city, then stakes driven into earth, lines marked in chalk, men shouting measurements to one another. Day by day the shape grows clearer. Pavilions rise like bright mushrooms after rain; long lists of coloured canvas stretching toward the horizon. Wooden stands climb higher each morning, skeletons of beams becoming grand galleries draped in cloth the colour of noble houses.

You watch the lists take form as though they are building a cage around you.

By afternoon, the wind carries the clang of hammers all the way to your balcony; by evening you can hear laughter drifting faintly upward, the sound of merchants already selling sweet wine and roasted meats to early arrivals. Fires prick the dark like fallen stars. The tourney swells—alive, hungry, and inevitable.

The city hums with excitement. You feel nothing but tension tightening beneath your skin.

Footsteps sound behind you.

“You have been avoiding the court,” Baelor says softly.

You do not turn immediately. “It has been avoiding me first.”

He comes to stand beside you, hands resting lightly on the stone. His presence is steady — grounding in a way you dislike admitting.

“Your father means well,” he says after a moment.

You laugh quietly. “That is a dangerous phrase.”

His mouth twitches, though his gaze remains on the city below. “He fears for your future.”

“I fear being traded like a horse.”

The words slip out sharper than intended.

Baelor falls silent. When you finally glance at him, something tight moves across his features—sympathy, perhaps; perhaps something more complicated.

“Not all matches are prisons,” he says quietly.

“No,” you murmur. “Only most.”

The silence stretches, heavy with things unsaid.

You have grown accustomed to this, the quiet understanding between you. Stolen moments in corridors; conversations that skirt edges neither of you name. Sometimes his gaze lingers too long. Sometimes yours does the same.

Neither of you speaks of it, yet it lives there, a spark beneath ash.

As the days pass, the view from your window becomes unbearable—too bright, too alive. You begin to linger there at night instead, watching torchlight move through the tents like veins of fire. Music reaches you sometimes; the low thrum of drums, the shrill rise of pipes. The small-folk laugh freely in a way the court never allows itself.

One night, when the Keep settles into silence and the corridors grow soft with sleep, you wrap yourself in a plain cloak, silver hair tucked neatly into a hat, and slip through servant passages you learned as a child. The night air tastes different beyond the gates—thicker, freer, heavy with smoke and spilled ale.

The tourney grounds are nothing like the orderly spectacle seen from above. Up close they are chaos—mud churned by boots, children darting between tables, dogs barking beneath benches. Lantern light paints everything gold. You are jostled immediately; no one looks twice at you. It thrills you more than it should.

Someone presses a cup into your hand. Strong wine burns your throat; laughter catches in your chest. You dance because someone pulls you into it, spinning in circles to the rhythm of fiddles and clapping hands. The earth beneath your feet is uneven, the air warm with bodies and breath. For a few precious hours you are nameless—just another girl laughing beneath the lanterns.

You drink more than you intend.

Music swells while skirts whirl around you. The world blurs pleasantly at the edges. Dawn feels impossibly far away.

Then, mid-turn, you pause.

Across the tent, half-lost in shadow near one of the support poles, stands a figure. Cloaked, hood drawn low; plain wool where silk should be. The posture is familiar nevertheless—too still amid the revelry, watching rather than joining.

Your breath catches. For one heartbeat you are certain it is him.

Baelor.

You stumble, missing a step. Your dance partner laughs, steadying you by the elbow. The moment breaks. You blink, heart hammering, and look back toward the corner to see nothing there. There is only shadows and shifting bodies, a wine barrel where the figure had stood. The space is empty, as though it had never held anyone at all.

You tell yourself it was the wine or the music, perhaps just wishful imagining. Still, a strange heat lingers at the back of your neck.

You dance again, but your gaze keeps drifting toward that corner, half-expecting the hooded stranger to reappear. He never does.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The morning of the tourney dawns bright.

Trumpets sound across the grounds; banners snap in the wind—red dragons, crowned stags, sigils painted so vividly they seem almost alive against the pale sky. From the royal approach, the tourney field spreads wide and gleaming, the lists carved clean into packed earth, rails polished smooth by careful hands. Everything smells of trampled grass, leather, and anticipation. The stands are filled with nobles draped in silk, their voices rising in eager chatter, and below the common-folk and entertainers (some you recognise, some you do not) cheer and chant.

You sit beside your family in the royal box.

The structure rises high above the field, built to impress. Thick wooden beams frame the pavilion, each one carved with twisting dragons whose bodies coil around tongues of flame; the craftsmanship is so intricate the scales catch the sunlight, shadows settling deep within the grooves so it looks as though the creatures truly move. Red silk hangs between the pillars, shifting in the breeze like living fire. Beneath your fingers, the railing is warm from the sun—smooth where countless hands have sanded it down, rough where the engravings bite into the grain.

Maekar’s expression is carved from stone, pride and purpose radiating from him. On your other side sit your brothers — Aerion restless, Aegon grinning with careless delight. Daeron is absent, drinking himself into a stupor, most likely. Baelor sits at the right-hand side if your grandfather, his cloak stirring in the breeze. His own sons are absent, with Valarr with his betrothed and Matarys at training.

You feel his presence before you look.

Your hands rest still in your lap, posture flawless; a proper Princess placed on display like a jewel meant to catch the light.

The first knights ride forth, armour gleaming, horses stamping and snorting as names echo across the field. The crowd answers in waves—cheers cresting and breaking, laughter rising from the stands. Lances shatter; the sound cracks through the air like thunder, vibrating through your ribs.

And then you hear it—the nephew of Lord Baratheon.

The roar that follows is louder than the others, a tide of approval rolling through nobles and small-folk alike. He rides forward—broad-shouldered, steady beneath heavy armour, the stag crest gleaming gold upon his breastplate. There is nothing flamboyant about him. He sits his horse like a man born to discipline; no flourish, no grin for the crowd—solid and predictable.

The thought makes something cold settle in your stomach.

You study him in this daylight, the sun shining and cutting sharp shadows below his brows and cheekbones. He is not ugly, and not unkind looking either. He is simply… contained. A man more comfortable with sword than speech.

Your father leans slightly toward you. “A strong match,” he murmurs.

You keep your expression smooth, though distaste curls quietly beneath it. The Baratheon looks every inch the sort of man a father would choose—reliable, practical, unquestioning. A man who would place you carefully into a life already arranged, where duty comes first and desire is politely ignored. You imagine years of measured conversation, steady silence; a life built on obligation.

You feel suffocated just thinking of it.

The Baratheon rider turns his horse toward the royal box, reins tightening as the animal tosses its head and stamps its hooves below you.

His dark, steady eyes find yours.

“My lady,” he calls, voice deep and steady, “would you grant me a favour?”

The crowd hushes, eager and watching. Your smile forms slowly, practised and polite, though it feels brittle beneath the weight of expectation.

In your peripheral vision, you sense movement.

Baelor.

You glance, only briefly, and the breath catches in your throat.

His jaw is clenched so tightly that the muscles jump. Nostrils flare once, controlled; his hands curl into the engraved wood arms of his seat. Nothing else gives him away. To anyone else he appears composed, princely. But you know him well by now—you know the simmering anger barely leashed, the stillness of a man restraining himself. Possessive.

The realisation sends a heat racing unexpectedly through you.

You turn back to the knight below before anyone notices. Without speaking, you untie a narrow ribbon from the sleeve of your dress—gold threaded with black and red—and toss it down. The fabric catches the sunlight as it falls.

The Baratheon man catches it neatly.

“I pray you ride safely,” you call.

Nothing more.

The crowd applauds; your father nods approvingly. The Baratheon bows his head before fastening your ribbon to his arm before riding away.

You lean back slowly, and when you do, you meet Baelor’s eyes.

Everything else fades.

The lists continue; lances crash, shields splinter with sharp metallic crunches, horses scream and men shout. Steel rings against steel again and again. The air grows thick with dust and sunlight; heat gathers beneath your collar, turning every breath warm.

You do not watch the tourney—you watch him.

His gaze does not leave yours.

There is something fierce there—restrained, smouldering. Not open anger; something deeper, quieter, more dangerous. The air between you tightens like a drawn bowstring, invisible and taut. The noise around you becomes distant, muffled, as though you sit inside a world separated from everyone else.

Another knight falls. The crowd erupts.

You do not blink. Neither does he.

The Baratheon nephew rides well; you hear the cheers grow louder each time he unhorses another opponent with relentless precision. Your father’s satisfaction becomes increasingly visible. The trap closes, thread by thread, yet all you feel is the heat building between you and Baelor. There is an inferno that grows each time his eyes darken, each time his expression tightens when your ribbon flashes on another man’s arm. You feel it like fire licking at your skin. Even the roar of the crowd cannot drown the silence stretching between you.

The Baratheon nephew rides well.

At one point Aerion leans toward you, whispering something mocking about the knight’s stiff posture; the biting words stem from a jealousy at the man’s skills, no doubt. You barely hear him. Aegon laughs at something else entirely. The world has narrowed to a single point.

Baelor’s eyes. His gaze holds frustration, hunger, something almost protective—something that feels dangerously close to ownership.

It should frighten you. Instead, your pulse quickens.

The sun dips lower as the final tilt begins. Your ribbon flashes on the Baratheon’s arm as he charges, dust rising in a plume as his lance strikes true. His opponent falls; the crowd erupts.

The knight is declared victor.

Cheers thunder across the grounds. Your father stands, applauding. Nobles follow suit in a rustle of silk and approval.

You choose to remain seated, gaze still locked with Baelor’s.

He does not clap. His expression is carefully neutral again, but his two-times eyes betray him, dark and burning.

When the Baratheon man rides toward the royal box for acknowledgement, you barely notice. He lifts his helm, breathing hard, sweat darkening his hair.

Your grandfather gestures for him to approach closer.

“This is the princess,” Daeron speaks loud enough for those nearby to clasp at their ears, and for the common-folk in the stands to hear. “Her favour brought you luck.”

The knight looks up at you, respectful and almost shy. “My thanks for your protection, my lady.”

You incline your head.

The words stick in your throat.

Behind you, Baelor’s presence feels almost tangible — like heat against your back.

The knight lingers a moment too long, as if hoping for something more. You give him nothing beyond a distant smile.

“I am glad you ride unhurt.”

You offer nothing else.

His gaze lingers a moment, then he bows and withdraws.

The crowd begins to disperse, excitement spilling into talk of feasts and celebration. You rise with the others, skirts whispering across the wooden floor. As you turn, your shoulder brushes Baelor’s.

The contact is fleeting, accidental to anyone watching, yet you know this was by design.

He leans slightly closer, voice low enough that only you hear but sharp enough to cut through the noise.

“You should not have given him your ribbon.” The words come almost as a hiss, stripped of his usual gentleness. You pause, surprised by the raw edge of it.

“He asked,” you whisper.

“He is being presented for your hand.”

“I know.”

You turn to him fully.

His eyes hold yours—curious, burning, threaded with something that looks dangerously like rage; not loud, not wild, but contained, focused. The sort of jealousy that does not shout because it does not need to.

“And you dislike it,” he says quietly.

“Do you?” The question escapes before you can stop yourself.

For a moment something unguarded flashes across his face—something hungry, aching, fiercely possessive.

“Yes,” he says. “Iksā ñuha vēzos se jēdar. Ñuhon mērī, dōna run.”

Heat flares between you again, sudden and consuming. You do not need to know these words to understand it is a claiming. For one breath you imagine what it would feel like if he stopped holding himself back—if that restrained fire finally burned free.

Your father calls your name.

The moment shatters.

Baelor steps away at once, expression smoothing into princely calm as though nothing passed between you at all. But as you walk from the royal box, the carved dragons twisting above your head, you feel his gaze on you still—steady, consuming, like a flame that refuses to go out.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The corridors near his chambers are quieter than the rest of the Keep; most of the court has drifted down toward the great hall, drawn by food, wine, and retellings of the day’s victories. Laughter echoes faintly upward through the stone like something distant and hollow.

You slip from your own apartments with your cloak pulled close, heart hammering so loudly you are certain it will betray you. The passageways twist narrower here—older stone, less adorned. Torchlight gutters in iron sconces, casting restless shadows that stretch and recoil as you pass. Every footstep feels thunderous against the worn floor; every turning corner sends a spike of heat through your veins.

You know these corridors well enough. You learned them as a child, racing your brothers, hiding from tutors. Tonight they feel different—charged. Dangerous.

A pair of servants pass at the far end of a hall; you press yourself into an alcove until they disappear, breath shallow, pulse racing not from fear of discovery but from the anger still blazing beneath your ribs. The Baratheon’s ribbon. Your father’s satisfied nod. Baelor’s eyes.

By the time you reach his door, your restraint is threadbare.

It stands slightly ajar. You push it open without knocking.

He is near the window, half-turned toward the dying light, as though he sensed you long before he heard you. The sunset paints him in gold and shadow; the line of his shoulders rigid beneath dark robes. His armour rests on a stand nearby, the faint smell of freshly oiled leather and steel thick in the room.

“You should not be here,” he says quietly.

“And yet here I am, kēpus.”

The door shuts behind you with a soft, final sound.

For a moment neither of you moves. The air feels heavier here; warmer. The noise of the feast below does not reach this high. There is only the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint whisper of wind against the glass.

“You heard him,” you say. “He means to bind me.”

Baelor exhales slowly, exhibiting a control you wish to break. “Your father believes it best, as does the King himself.”

“You do not.”

His gaze flicks sharply to yours, not quick enough to hide. “That is not for me to decide.”

The calm in his voice makes your anger flare hotter.

“You watched him barter me like a prize!”

His jaw tightens. “Do not think it easy for me.”

“Then why say nothing?”

Silence stretches, tight and unbearable. You step closer; he does not retreat. The space between you grows charged, humming like a drawn blade.

“If you hate this match,” you whisper, voice trembling now with something more than mere frustration, “then do something.”

His eyes darken—one shade lighter than the other, both burning. You can see the war in him; duty strangling desire, loyalty battling something far more dangerous.

You barely think before the words spill out, reckless and raw.

“Take my hand yourself, ñuha dārilaros.”

The Valyrian falls from your tongue imperfectly but unmistakably.

Shock flashes across his features—true, unguarded surprise. It softens him for half a heartbeat, strips him of princely composure. Beneath it something else rises—something fierce and deeply wanted. His breath catches; his gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes with new intensity.

Hidden want.

You do not wait for reason to reclaim him.

You close the distance.

The first press of your lips is charged with everything unsaid—anger, longing, years of stolen glances and swallowed words. It is not gentle. It is desperate.

For a single heartbeat he is still, then the restraint shatters.

His hand finds your waist, fingers tightening, drawing you flush against him. The kiss deepens—hungry, urgent; the taste of him warm and unfamiliar and dizzying. Your fingers tangle into the folds of his robe, clutching as though the ground might vanish beneath you. Heat surges between you, swift and consuming. All the tension from the lists, from the royal box, from the carved dragons and cheering crowds, burns away in this single reckless act.

His other hand rises, threading into your braided hair, fingers spreading along your scalp as though to anchor you there. The touch sends a shiver through you; sharp, electric. You tilt into him instinctively, mouths moving together with a wildness that feels long restrained.

The world narrows to breath and warmth and the faint sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears.

You taste wine and salt and something entirely his. The kiss turns deeper still—less anger now, more want; something molten and aching that has lived too long beneath silence. Your hands slide higher, gripping at his shoulders beneath the heavy fabric, feeling the strength coiled there.

The kiss breaks only because you need air, and even then you refuse to part more than a breath. You clutch at his tunic, the taste of him unfamiliar and overwhelming. It feels like fire, like stepping off a cliff and refusing to fall back. His hands remain at your waist and in your hair, as though he fears you might disappear if he lets go. His forehead rests against yours; his exhale is a ragged, warm thing against your damp lips. The hand at your waist moves, splaying wide across the small of your back, pressing you closer until you feel the solid, unyielding length of him—the undeniable proof that his control is as fractured as yours.

“This is madness,” he murmurs, the words a rough vibration against your skin.

“I do not care.”

His eyes—one a shifting blend of blue and green like shallow sea over stone, the other a steady, burnished brown—search yours, striking in their quiet, mismatched intensity. You see the war—duty, honour, the ghost of your grandfather’s command. But beneath it, a current of raw need runs darker, deeper. It’s the same current that has pulled his gaze to you over the years, after his late wife Jena passed, all the way to today in the lists, that tightened his jaw when the Baratheon ribbon was offered.

He moves without another word.

A sudden, fluid shift of his body turns you, his arm a firm band around your waist as he guides you back. Your shoulder blades meet cold, rough-hewn stone beside the tall, arched window. The shock of the chill against your overheated skin makes you gasp. Moonlight, pale and silver, spills through the leaded glass, painting a stark, luminous stripe across the floor and up the wall, bathing you both in its ghostly glow.

From far below, a distant roar of laughter rises from the tourney grounds—a world away, a life away. Here, there is only his scent—leather, clean sweat, the faint, smoky trace of the hearth—and the overwhelming heat of him caging you against the wall.

His mouth finds yours again.

This kiss is different. The initial desperate hunger is still there, but it’s been joined by a fierce, focused intensity. It’s a claiming. His lips are insistent, demanding your surrender. You give it willingly, opening for him with a soft, yielding sound that is swallowed by his kiss. His tongue slides against yours—a slick, hot glide that steals the strength from your knees. Your whimper is muffled, lost in the wet, consuming rhythm he sets. One of his hands comes up, fingers tangling once more in the intricate braids at your temple, holding you still for his exploration. He tastes of the deep, dry Dornish red served at the high table and something inherently, uniquely him—a flavour you realize you have yearned for without name.

You break for air, panting, your lips tingling and swollen. “Baelor,” you breathe, the name a plea and a prayer.

“You should not be here,” he repeats, but his voice is a low, guttural thing that belies the words. His mouth leaves yours to trail fire down the line of your jaw. “You should be in your chambers. You should be thinking of your future lord husband.”

The words are a goad, meant to punish you or himself, you cannot tell. But you will not have it.

“I am thinking of my prince,” you whisper into the dark silk of his hair. Your own hands find the firm planes of his back, clutching at the fabric of his tunic. “My kēpus. Take me as yours!” You hiss. “Claim me!”

A sound rips from his throat—not a groan, but something deeper, more visceral. A growl. It vibrates against the sensitive skin of your neck as his teeth find the arch of your throat. He doesn’t bite, not truly, but the sharp pressure of his teeth grazing that frantic pulse point sends a jolt of pure, undiluted sensation straight to your core. Your head falls back against the stone with a soft thud, offering him more.

His free hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip. He grips your thigh, his fingers strong and sure, and lifts. You feel the cool air against your calf as he hooks your left leg over his hip, settling you more firmly against him. The new angle presses the hard ridge of his arousal against the juncture of your thighs, even through the layers of your skirt and his robes. A startled, delicious friction sparks there, and you cry out, a short, sharp sound.

His hand doesn’t stop. It smooths up the outside of your lifted thigh, pushing the heavy fabric of your gown and underskirts up as it goes. The cool night air from the window kisses your bared skin, raising gooseflesh. You tremble, not from cold, but from an anticipation so acute it borders on pain.

His fingers find the edge of your underclothing—simple linen drawers. He pauses there, his breath hot against your neck. “Do you know what you ask for, byka jēdar?”

“Yes.”

“Do you truly?” His voice is taut, strained. His fingertips brush the damp linen where it clings to you. A shockwave of sensation rolls through you, making your entire body jolt. You are wet. The evidence of your desire is a soaked patch against the fabric, and his touch ghosts over it, a maddening, feather-light pass.

“I know,” you insist, your voice trembling. “I want you, ñuha dārilaros.”

His thumb finds the shape of you through the cloth, a firm, circling pressure over the aching bud hidden beneath. You arch off the wall with a choked gasp. The sensation is too much and not enough—a brilliant, focused point of pleasure that threatens to unravel you before he’s even truly begun.

“Please,” you beg, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. “Baelor, please.”

He ignores your plea, his thumb continuing its lazy, torturous circles. The rough pad of it rubs against the sensitive bundle of nerves through the damp linen, building a coil of tension low in your belly that tightens with every rotation. Your hips try to roll against his hand, seeking more pressure, deeper friction, but he holds you pinned, controlling the pace, the intensity.

“Please what?” He demands, his voice a dark rasp in your ear. His other hand still anchors your head, his fingers threaded tightly in your hair.

“Inside,” you whimper, the word barely audible. “Your fingers… inside me.”

He stills. The sudden absence of motion is its own exquisite torment. He pulls back just enough to look at you. In the moonlight, his face is all sharp angles and shadowed hollows, his eyes like chips of flint. “Ask properly.”

You blink, dazed, your body screaming for the relief he’s withholding. “What?”

“You know how.” His gaze burns into you, unyielding. “Ask me as my niece should.”

Understanding dawns, hot and humiliating and thrilling. It is a test. A claiming, just like you pleaded.

“Kēpus,” you breathe, the High Valyrian title feeling different now—intimate, dirty, a secret between you. “Please. Your fingers.”

“Louder.”

“Kēpus!” You wail it, the sound torn from your throat, raw and desperate. It echoes softly in the high ceiling room, swallowed by the distant revelry.

A faint smile touches his lips. “Better.”

His hand moves. He pushes the damp linen aside, the fabric scraping softly against your oversensitive flesh. Then his bare skin meets yours.

The first touch of his fingers against your bare, slick folds is an electric shock. You cry out, your back bowing. His touch is not tentative. He parts you with a confident stroke of his middle finger, sliding through the drenched heat, gathering your wetness. The chill of the signet ring on his little finger presses against your outer lips, a stark, metallic contrast to the feverish warmth of your skin.

He finds your entrance, the tip of his finger resting there, applying the barest pressure. You are panting, every muscle in your body tensed, waiting. He looks into your eyes, holding your gaze captive as he finally, slowly, sinks his finger inside you.

The sensation is overwhelming. A fullness, a stretch, a shocking intimacy. You are tight, unaccustomed to any intrusion, and your inner muscles clamp around him instinctively, a silken, clutching grip. His breath catches audibly. He curls his finger, a deliberate, searching motion. The pad of his finger brushes a spot deep inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Your vision whites out for a second. A ragged, broken moan tears from your throat, and your nails, without conscious thought, drag down the nape of his neck, scraping over the short hairs there.

He hisses, a sharp intake of breath, and his own hips jerk forward, grinding his hard length against your thigh. The pain-pleasure on his face is intoxicating.

“Another,” you beg, the words slurred with need. “I can take you, ñuha kēpus. Give me another.”

His eyes flash with something wild. He withdraws his finger almost completely, making you gasp at the loss, then returns with two.

The stretch is more pronounced, a burning, exquisite fullness that steals the air from your lungs. You hear it then—the obscene, wet sound of your own arousal as he pushes his fingers deep, as your body accepts him. The noise is loud in the intimate silence of the room, lewd and undeniable. A hot flush of shame washes over you, followed immediately by a wave of even hotter arousal. You try to tuck your face into the hollow of his shoulder, into the fine wool of his robes, to hide from his penetrating gaze.

“No.” His voice is a command, low and absolute. The hand in your hair tightens, not painfully, but with undeniable force, pulling your head back. “Look at me.”

You obey, your eyes fluttering open to meet his.

What he sees makes the last vestige of princely composure vanish from his face. His lips part. His eyes, wide and dark with pupil, rake over your features with a kind of savage hunger. You know what he sees: your hair coming loose from its braids in wild tendrils, your breasts heaving as you gasp for air, your lips swollen and glistening from his kisses. Your eyes, wide and pleading, dark with a wantonness you never knew you possessed.

“Gods,” he snarls, the word half-reverence, half-curse. “Look at you.”

You watch him watching you fall apart. You see the awe in his gaze, the fierce possessiveness, the sheer, staggering want. It fuels you, amplifies every sensation. The coarse rub of his tunic against your cheek, the cold stone at your back, the relentless, curling thrust of his fingers inside you—it all coalesces into a single, rising wave of tension.

He changes the angle of his wrist, his fingers driving deeper, crooking just so. His thumb finds your exposed nub again, circling it in firm, rhythmic passes that are perfectly synchronized with the thrust of his fingers.

The coil inside you, wound so tight you think you might break, suddenly snaps.

Pleasure does not crest—it erupts. It is not a gentle wave but a firestorm, blazing out from that central, molten point where his touch resides. It consumes you, racing along every nerve, turning your bones to liquid heat. Your body arches violently, held to the wall only by his solid strength. A wordless, choking cry is torn from you, then his name mixed with ragged, sobbing gasps of “ñuha dārilaros!”

Your inner muscles clutch and flutter around his fingers in frantic, pulsing waves. The pleasure is so intense it borders on unbearable, a radiant, shuddering release that seems to go on and on, draining the strength from your limbs, leaving you boneless and trembling. Your head lolls forward, your forehead coming to rest against his collarbone as you gasp for air, each breath a shaky, shuddering thing.

For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breathing, the distant murmur of the feast, and the soft, wet sound as he slowly, gently, withdraws his fingers, raising them to his lips as his tongue darts out to taste your wetness on them.

As your pulse begins to slow and you breathing starts to even out, you feel Baelor still.

It is subtle at first; a tightening beneath your palms where they rest against him. The warmth does not vanish, but it pulls inward, as though he is drawing himself back behind walls you cannot see. His breath, which had been uneven and mingled with yours, begins to steady—too quickly, too deliberately.

You do not realise he is pulling away until the absence begins.

His hand at your waist loosens. The other, which had tangled possessively in your braided hair, slips free strand by strand. The space between your bodies widens by inches, though you remain leaning against him, too dazed to understand the shift.

Then, footsteps—distant at first, echoing faintly down the corridor outside his chambers.

The sound of skirts brush against stone. Your name echoes faintly down the corridor.

“My lady? Princess?”

Your maid.

Baelor breaks away sharply, as though burned. The last trace of warmth vanishes from his hands. He steps back, running one hand over his face as if to erase what just transpired, breath uneven once more—but now with restraint, not desire.

The absence feels cold.

You lift your head slowly, blinking up at him—flushed, shaken, hair loosened from its careful braids. Your lips still tingle; your skin still burns with the memory of his touch. The room seems smaller now, tighter.

“Go,” his voice rough, but not with want this time.

“… Pardon?”

“They will find you here.”

You wait, expecting him to say more.

Your maid calls again, closer, and still he says nothing.

You see the return of the prince: guarded, controlled, jaw set hard enough to ache. His hands are fisted at his sides, knuckles pale.

The silence cuts deeper than any refusal.

Anger floods back, hot and sharp.

“You tasted me,” you whisper bitterly, voice trembling despite your effort to steady it, “and still you hide.”

His expression twists—pain flashing across his features, something raw and strangled beneath it. For a moment he looks as though he might reach for you again.

He does not.

“This is folly,” he says, quieter now. “Dangerous folly. For you most of all.”

“For me?” You almost laugh. “We are dragons, kēpus, no matter what people may say! We do not have to bend to the will of these politics!”

Your name echoes again, closer this time.

He steps further back, putting deliberate distance between you. The space feels like a blade driven into your chest.

“Go,” he repeats, softer but no less firm. “Before I forget myself again.”

You straighten slowly, smoothing your skirts with hands that still tremble. The heat between your thighs has faded to a dull, aching warmth; your heart still pounds, but now with fury as much as longing.

You turn sharply, crossing the room in swift strides. When you open the door, the cooler air of the corridor rushes in, carrying with it your maid’s hurried steps. The corridor swallows you; your maid rounds the corner moments later, relief flooding her face. You barely hear her excuses as she escorts you away.

Behind you, Baelor’s door closes softly.

He does not follow.

You do not look back.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Two long, burning days since you last saw Baelor alone in his chambers—since heat and want and reckless words shattered whatever fragile balance had existed between you. Two full days of this tourney stretching on beneath banners and cheers; two endless nights lying awake in your bed, staring at the canopy overhead, replaying every look, every touch, every word he did not say.

He avoids you completely.

In corridors he bows with impeccable courtesy and moves past without lingering. At meals he speaks to your brothers, to your father, to visiting lords—never to you. His gaze slides over you in public as though you are no more than any other courtly presence. No stolen glances. No quiet murmurs in shadowed alcoves.

The absence is deliberate.

It feels like punishment.

You endure two whole days of spectacle—of splintering lances and roaring crowds—while something tight and wounded coils inside your chest. Two whole nights without him, even though he hurt you so; even though he pushed you away when you were still trembling in his arms. Anger wars with longing until you no longer know which burns hotter.

By the dawn of the second great day of tilting, you are raw with it.

The morning rises bright and deceptively cheerful. Frost clings lightly to the grass beyond the walls, turning the fields silver beneath the early sun. The air is brisk, sharp in your lungs. From the royal box, the world seems carved from colour and noise—banners snapping crimson and gold, the carved dragons along the beams casting twisting shadows in the pale light.

You sit once more beside your father.

Maekar’s pride is evident; he leans forward slightly as the lists fill, satisfaction radiating from him like heat from a forge. Aegon laughs at some private jest, unconcerned. Aerion watches everything with sharp, assessing eyes.

But Baelor is missing.

Your gaze drifts again and again to the entrance lanes where the riders gather. Nothing. No sign of black armour; no sign of the man who has haunted every breath of yours for forty-eight hours.

Restlessness coils through you.

The Baratheon nephew rides out to thunderous applause. He looks every bit the victor of two days past—armour polished, the stag crest gleaming, your ribbon still tied firmly around his arm. The sight of it makes your stomach twist.

He guides his horse toward the royal box, lifting his visor.

“My lady,” he calls, voice steady.

The crowd hushes in anticipation.

You summon a polite smile that feels carved from wax.

And then—

A thunder of hooves splits the air.

It is not the measured trot of a knight awaiting announcement but a hard, deliberate gallop. Heads turn. Gasps ripple through the stands as another rider breaks into the lists without ceremony, horse powerful and dark as night.

The steed’s breath fogs in the cold air, plumes of steam curling from its nostrils as it slows sharply before the royal box. The animal is pitch black, muscled and restless, stamping at the earth as though eager for blood.

The rider sits tall.

Your breath leaves you in a single, stunned exhale.

Even before he lifts his visor, you know him.

The armour is unmistakable.

It is not gilded or overly adorned like the suits worn by lords eager for admiration. It is forged for war. Pitch black from helm to greaves, the metal drinks the sunlight rather than reflecting it. The chest piece is ribbed and hand-carved with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen—not in bright enamel, but etched deeply into the steel itself, as though the sigil has been claimed by fire and hammered into permanence.

This is not parade armour.

Cuts mar the surface—old scars gouged into the breastplate and along the pauldrons. Not decorative etching but the marks of blades that have struck true and failed to fell him. You have heard the stories whispered in halls and sung in quieter corners: battles fought in the marches, skirmishes on distant shores, duels settled in mud and blood. Too many to count.

He wears them all.

His gauntlets are plain but solid; his sword hangs at his side, well-used, the hilt wrapped in dark leather worn smooth by his grip.

When he lifts his visor, the world narrows to the line of his face.

Baelor.

Though the visor shields his eyes when lowered, you know—instinctively, fiercely—that they are on you alone.

He turns his horse slightly, so that he faces not only the Baratheon but the royal box.

“Before I ask anything,” Baelor calls, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent grounds, “I issue challenge.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd.

He turns his helm toward the Baratheon knight. “To you.”

The Baratheon stiffens.

“Fight me,” Baelor continues, “until death or until one yields. If I win, you will withdraw your request for the princess’s hand and speak no further of it.”

The words strike like thrown steel.

A collective intake of breath.

Your father’s sharp gasp is audible beside you. Aerion and Aegon fall stunned into silence.

Baelor turns his gaze upward—to the King, your grandfather.

“And if I win,” he declares, voice steady as drawn iron, “I claim her hand myself.”

The world stops.

For a heartbeat there is only wind snapping banners and the distant shifting of horses.

Your father half-rises from his seat. “This is fucking madness—”

But the challenge has been spoken. It cannot be unsaid.

All eyes turn to the King.

Your grandfather’s expression is unreadable, carved from old stone. He knows as well as anyone that a public challenge cannot be withdrawn without dishonour. The crowd waits, suspended between outrage and exhilaration.

At last, the King inclines his head.

“So be it.”

The words fall heavy.

A roar breaks from the stands.

Baelor turns back to you.

For the first time since he rode in, the edge of his composure falters. Even at this distance you see it—the flicker of vulnerability beneath the steel.

“Ñuha jēdar,” he calls, voice no longer for spectacle but for you alone, “your favour.”

Your cheeks burn.

Your heartbeat pounds so violently you fear it will burst from your chest. Your fingers tremble as you reach beneath your skirts, seeking the ribbon tied at your stocking. You feel your pulse pounding everywhere at once. The movement is hidden from all but you—and perhaps him, with how he is watching so closely.

The knot loosens. You draw the ribbon free.

Leaning forward over the carved railing, you stretch and lower yourself as far as you dare. The cold air bites your skin. The distance between you closes; your fingers brush the metal of his gauntlet.

He takes the ribbon from your shaking hand.

He takes the ribbon carefully, then he lifts it to his lips and kisses it with reverence.

The crowd erupts into cheers, but you can hear only your own heartbeat.

“I pray you ride safely,” you say softly, voice trembling just enough for him alone to notice. “Return to me.”

His gaze darkens at the words.

His helm lowers and he turns his horse.

The Baratheon knight draws his sword. So does Baelor.

The clash is immediate.

Steel rings against steel with a shriek that scrapes along your bones. The first blow lands hard enough to jar both men in their saddles. Horses rear and wheel; dust kicks up in sharp clouds beneath pounding hooves.

Your chest tightens.

They fight not with lances but with swords—close, brutal. The Baratheon is strong, disciplined; his strikes are precise, calculated. But Baelor fights like a man with something to lose.

Like a man with something to win.

The sound of blade on armour cracks through the air again and again—sharp metallic shrieks, dull thuds where steel meets ribbed breastplate. Sparks flash when swords glance off one another.

Your head swims with each collision.

They dismount almost simultaneously, abandoning horses for footing on earth. The fight grows more vicious. Boots grind into dirt; shoulders slam. The Baratheon swings hard, forcing Baelor back a step—another. The crowd roars approval.

You cannot breathe.

You press your hands together, knuckles white, whispering frantic prayer to the Mother: Bring him back to me. Protect my jorrāelagon.

Steel crashes again. Baelor pivots, parrying with swift efficiency. He fights differently now—no flourish, no wasted motion. Each movement is purposeful, measured, honed by real war rather than tourney sport.

The Baratheon lunges. Their blades lock. For a heartbeat they strain against each other, faces inches apart behind steel.

Then Baelor shifts.

A twist of his wrist; a sharp kick to destabilise. The Baratheon stumbles. Baelor presses forward, relentless. Sword strikes armour with brutal force—once, twice. The sound is deafening.

Dust clings to black steel. Sweat darkens the edges of Baelor’s helm.

The Baratheon rallies, slamming shoulder-first into him. They crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs and metal. Gasps ripple through the stands.

You rise to your feet without realising.

They roll; blades scrape against earth. The Baratheon attempts to pin him—but Baelor surges upward with startling ferocity. He shoves the other man back, brings his sword down in a controlled arc that stops a breath from the Baratheon’s throat.

Pinned.

The black blade rests at the vulnerable seam beneath the stag’s helm.

Silence falls.

“Yield,” Baelor commands.

For a heartbeat you think the Baratheon will refuse.

Then, hoarse and defeated: “I yield.”

The roar that follows is thunderous—it shakes the very beams of the royal box.

Baelor rises slowly, chest heaving beneath scarred black armour. He pulls off his helm. His shoulders rise and fall with each drag of air. Sweat traces down his temples, along the sharp line of his jaw, slipping to disappear beneath the collar of his breastplate.

His eyes find you immediately.

Everything inside you snaps.

You do not think; you run.

You run down the steps of the royal box, past stunned nobles and shouting small-folk. Skirts gathered in your fists, heart pounding wildly. The crowd parts and presses around you in equal measure, pushing you closer to the entrance of the lists.

He sees you coming. His armour is already off, thrown carelessly to the earth beside him.

Baelor moves toward you before anyone can stop him. When you reach him, breathless and trembling, he does not hesitate. He catches you by the waist and lifts you effortlessly, settling you behind him onto his black steed. The horse snorts, steam curling into the cold air.

You cling to him—armoured and solid and alive.

The crowd roars again as he wheels the horse toward the gates.

And then he is galloping.

Away from the lists. Away from the roar of nobles and small-folk alike. Back toward the Keep, wind tearing at your hair, your cheek pressed against scarred black steel.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The cobblestones blur beneath the stallion’s pounding hooves, a thunderous rhythm that matches the frantic beat of your heart where you cling to Baelor’s back. The wind steals your breath, whipping stray strands of hair across your face. His scent envelops you—sweat, leather, the metallic tang of dried blood from the skirmish at the tourney grounds, and beneath it all, the clean, warm smell of him. Your arms are locked around the hard muscle of his abdomen, your cheek pressed against the damp linen of his tunic, feeling the powerful flex of his body as he guides the beast with a fierce, single-minded urgency.

He rides not like a lord, but like a man possessed. Every shouted command to the steed is a guttural promise. Every sharp turn that makes you clutch him tighter is a step closer to a destination only he sees. The world streaks past in a smear of stone and shadow, the late afternoon sun casting long, desperate fingers across the city. You feel a wild, unbridled joy surge through you, a laugh bubbling in your throat at the sheer madness of it—the Hand of the King, still in his fighting leathers, cutting through the capital like a comet, with you as his only passenger.

The castle gates loom. He does not slow. Guards scramble aside, their faces a mix of shock and deference. The stables are reached in a final, breathtaking gallop across the inner yard. He pulls the great horse up so sharply its front hooves skid on the gravel. Before the animal has fully stilled, Baelor is swinging down, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thump. He turns, his hands finding your waist before you can move, and lifts you from the saddle as if you weigh nothing. Your body slides down the length of his, a slow, friction rich descent that leaves you breathless. Your feet touch earth, but his hands don’t leave you. They slide to your back, holding you steady, holding you close.

His face is a map of the day’s violence—a fresh, shallow cut gleaming on the sharp plane of his cheek, his silver-gold hair darkened with sweat and dust, his violet eyes blazing with an intensity that has nothing to do with battle. He looks at you, really looks, as if checking for cracks. Then his mouth finds yours.

It’s not a gentle reunion kiss. It’s a claiming. A punctuation mark on the frantic ride. His lips are firm, insistent, tasting of salt and urgency. One of his hands cups the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, angling you to deepen the contact. It’s over almost as soon as it begins, but the heat of it lingers, sparking on your lips, simmering in your veins. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.

“Soon,” he murmurs, the word a vow. Then his hand swallows yours, fingers lacing through yours with a possessive tightness, and he turns, pulling you into a near run.

You are a comet’s tail in his wake. He storms through the Red Keep, a force of nature in bloodied leather. Servants and courtiers alike part before him like wheat before a scythe, their eyes wide, their bows hurried. No one dares speak. The message is in his grip on your hand, in the savage purpose in his stride. Staircases spiral upward, one after another, your legs burning with the effort to keep pace. Halls stretch, tapestries fluttering in the wind of your passage. Your laughter finally breaks free, not a delicate giggle but a full, throaty sound of pure, undiluted exhilaration. It echoes off the stone, a bright counterpoint to his silent, driven fury. You throw your head back, the world a dizzying whirl of vaulted ceilings and torchlight, and you laugh. You laugh for the sheer, stupid joy of being alive, of being wanted, of being his in this wild, stolen moment.

He glances back once, at the sound, and something in his fierce expression softens for a fraction of a second, a flicker of sun through storm clouds. Then he’s moving again, faster, dragging you up one final, private staircase.

His apartments. The heavy oak door bears the three-headed dragon, carved and painted a deep, bloody crimson. He shoves it open, pulls you inside, and slams it shut with a sound that feels final. The clack of the iron lock sliding home is deafening in the sudden quiet. You have a half-second to register the familiar room—the hearth cold, the Myrish rugs, the large bed with its dark hangings—before he spins you, your back coming to rest against the carved door. The dragon’s scales press into your shoulder blades.

He cages you there with his body, his hands planted on the wood on either side of your head. He is all heat and solid weight and panting breath. His eyes roam your face, devouring every detail. The scent of him—exertion, iron, man—fills your lungs. You lift a trembling hand to the cut on his cheek, your thumb brushing the edge of the dried blood. The gesture makes his eyes flutter closed for a heartbeat.

You tilt your face up, your lips a breath from his. “Ñuha dārilaros,” you whisper into the scant space between you.

A low sound, almost a growl, vibrates in his chest. His mouth descends, but not to yours. He bypasses your lips to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the corner of your jaw. Then another, lower, on the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. His lips are a brand, moving with a desperate hunger across your skin. He kisses a trail along your cheekbone, down the line of your throat, his teeth grazing the tendon there, making you gasp. He moves lower, his mouth finding the hollow of your collarbone, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin. Each kiss is a wordless sentence, a confession written in fire.

You can taste his blood from his cut lip upon your tongue. It is copper and heat and something achingly, terrifyingly intimate.

Your hand rises between you almost without thought. Your thumb brushes the split in his lower lip, gentle at first, then pressing just enough to draw another bead of red to the surface. He inhales sharply at the touch, dark eyes flaring, but he does not pull away. Instead he watches you, something reverent and unguarded flickering there.

The blood stains your skin.

Slowly, deliberately, you drag your thumb upward, leaving a thin crimson line in its wake between his brows—a trembling mimicry of the old Valyrian marriage rite, whispered of in histories and half-burned scrolls. A mark of binding, of blood answering blood.

For a heartbeat the world stills.

His breath turns unsteady. His hand comes up to cover yours where it lingers at his forehead, and for a moment you feel the shudder that runs through him.

Then he moves.

He wipes the blood from his own mouth with two fingers, gathering what remains. His gaze never leaves yours as he lifts his hand.

He draws a line between your brows. The touch is slow and careful, intimate beyond any kiss. His fingers tremble slightly as they fall away, leaving the warmth of him behind. The air between you feels charged, sacred, dangerous. Your pulse thunders in your ears. He rests his hands on the door on either side of your head, catching his breath, as you stare at each other, wholly aware that you will spend the rest of your lives together.

His hands leave the door, coming to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your temples as his mouth works its way back up your throat. He pauses, his breath fanning over your damp skin. “Ñuha dōna jēdar,” he murmurs, the Valyrian syllables rough with emotion. “Ñuha ābrazȳrys. Eman mērī mirre jorrāelatan ao.”

You whimper, the ancient words weaving a spell around your heart. You want to reply, but coherent thought is scattering under the onslaught of his mouth. You push gently at his chest, and he allows you to create a sliver of space, his eyes questioning, dark with need.

“The dirt,” you manage, your voice unsteady. “The blood…”

His gaze drops to his own tunic, then to your travel stained dress. Understanding clears some of the wildness from his eyes, replacing it with a tender focus. He nods, a slow, deliberate motion. His hands, which moments before held you with bruising intensity, now come to the laces at the back of your gown. His fingers, long and deft despite their callouses, work the knots with infinite patience. There is no tearing, no rushed urgency. This is a sacrament.

The fabric loosens. He guides the sleeves down your arms, the bodice falling forward. The cool air of the room kisses your shoulders, your upper back. He turns you gently, his hands smoothing the dress down over your hips, letting it pool around your ankles on the rug. You step out of it, feeling profoundly exposed in just your thin shift. You hear his sharp intake of breath behind you.

You turn back to face him. He is staring, his eyes drinking in the sight of you through the semi-sheer linen. Your own hands rise, shaking slightly, to the fastenings of his own tunic. You mimic his slowness, undoing the leather ties, pushing the heavy, blood smudged fabric from his shoulders. The scent of sweat, steel, and a faint trace of smoke clings to the heavy fabric. It falls with a soft thud.

His chest is revealed—broad and powerfully built, the kind shaped not in vanity but in battle. Muscle lies thick and defined beneath sun-kissed skin, each line and curve earned through years of swordplay and tourney lists. His collarbones are strong, sweeping outward into shoulders built to bear armour without complaint. Dark hair dusts his chest, thicker at the centre and trailing in a deliberate path down his sternum, tapering along the hard planes of his abdomen.

He is warm beneath your palms when you lay them against him—solid, unyielding. The slow expansion of his lungs presses into your touch. Beneath your fingertips you can feel the quiet tension coiled in him, a warrior’s readiness that never truly fades.

Scars map him like constellations.

There are pale ones first—thin white lines that catch the light when he shifts. Clean, precise marks where blades bit and were swiftly stitched. One curves just beneath his ribs, another slices diagonally across his side. They are old enough to have softened, the skin smooth though faintly raised, evidence of wounds that were sharp and decisive.

Then there is the one that draws your breath.

It mars his left shoulder, cutting from the crest of it down toward his collarbone in an angry sweep. Unlike the others, it is not pale. It is red still, a deeper hue against his skin, as though the memory of the injury lingers there. The flesh is uneven beneath it, slightly ridged—a wound that had not been clean, not easy to mend.

You trace the edge of it lightly, and he exhales through his teeth. The scar pulls subtly when he rolls that shoulder back, the movement making the muscle beneath flex and shift. It only emphasizes the strength there—the thickness of his arms, corded and powerful, veins faintly visible beneath the surface when he tightens his grip on your waist.

He is magnificent—not unmarred but marked; not pristine marble, but living stone shaped by fire and steel. The moonlight through the window paints him in silver, catching along the planes of his chest and the hard line of his abdomen, gilding the scars instead of diminishing them.

You reach for the lacings of his breeches, but he catches your wrists, bringing your palms to his lips for a soft kiss. “My turn,” he says, his voice a velvet rumble.

He guides you backward, away from the door, toward the vast canopied bed. When your legs hit the edge of the mattress, he presses down on your shoulders, urging you to sit, then to lie back. You sink into the featherbed, the dark silks cool against your bare arms. He stands at the foot of the bed, just looking. His gaze is a physical touch, travelling from your flushed face, down the column of your throat, over the peaks of your breasts pressing against the shift, down the flat plane of your stomach, to the junction of your thighs where the linen is already shadowed with your arousal.

A wave of self-consciousness washes over you. The sheer intensity of his scrutiny is overwhelming. Instinctively, you squeeze your thighs together, turning slightly on your side.

He makes a soft, chiding tut of a sound. He climbs onto the bed, kneeling between your legs. His hands are warm and firm as they settle on your knees.

“Look at me,” he commands, gently.

You force your eyes to his. The love you see there, mixed with a blazing hunger, steals the air from your lungs.

“I will one day know every curve, every freckle, every secret sigh of this body,” he says, his voice low and sure. “Why shy away from me now, when I am finally here to worship it?”

His words melt the last of your hesitation. He coaxes your legs apart, his hands sliding up from your ankles with a mesmerizing slowness. His touch is reverence itself. He pushes the hem of your shift up, over your knees, your thighs, bunching it at your waist. The cool air touches your most intimate skin, and you flinch, but his hands soothe you, stroking the inside of your thighs.

He sees you then, fully. Your sex is laid bare to him, to the fading light from the high windows. You watch his face as he looks his fill. His lips part, his eyes darken to the shade of a deep twilight storm. Your petals are already slick, glistening with your own wetness, the inner lips a shade deeper than the surrounding skin, swollen and parted slightly, revealing the glistening pink within. The neat thatch of curls at the apex is the same colour as the hair on your head. You are utterly open, utterly vulnerable.

“Gods,” he breathes, the word filled with awe. “You are a vision.”

He doesn’t wait. He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a lightning strike. It’s not a tentative flick, but a broad, languid stroke from the very bottom of your entrance, all the way up through your soaked folds to circle the tight, aching bud of your clitoris.

You cry out, a sharp, shocked sound. Your hips jerk off the bed. “Baelor!”

He hums against you, the vibration travelling straight to your core. The sensation is so intensely foreign, so shockingly intimate, a bolt of pure and undiluted pleasure mixed with a flare of embarrassment. Your hands fly to his head—not to push him away, but to clutch at his salt and peppered hair, your fingers twisting in the short strands.

He ignores your startled squeal. He moans, a low, ragged sound of pure pleasure, as if he’s tasting the finest wine. His hands slide under your thighs, then around to grip your hips, pinning you to the mattress. There is no escaping the decadent assault of his mouth. He licks you with a focused greed, exploring every fold, every hidden crevice. He laps at your entrance, tasting the essence of you, then swirls his tongue around your bud before sucking it gently into the heat of his mouth.

You arch, a broken sob tearing from your throat. The embarrassment is burned away in the forge of the pleasure he’s stoking. It builds, a coil tightening low in your belly, a pressure gathering with each expert flick and suck. He varies his rhythm—long, slow strokes that make you writhe, then quick, fluttering flicks that make you whimper. He inserts the very tip of his tongue inside you, just a shallow penetration that has you clenching around nothing.

“Please, I can’t—it’s too much…” You babble, but your body is screaming the opposite, your thighs trembling around his head.

He releases your bud with a soft pop, blowing cool air on the wet, sensitised flesh. You gasp at the contrast. “You can,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot. “Give it to me. Let me have it.”

He descends again, and this time, he sucks. He draws your bud into his mouth and sucks with a firm, relentless pressure, his tongue working over the tip.

It shatters you.

Your peak rips through you with a violence that is utterly new. Your back bows off the bed, your spine a tense arc. A raw, guttural wail is punched from your lips, a sound you don’t recognize as your own. Inside, your sex convulses, a series of rapid, clutching contractions that seem to originate from your very core and radiate outward. Your vision whites out at the edges. You feel a sudden, hot gush of wetness, more than you’ve ever produced, and his mouth is there to drink it, his moan of satisfaction vibrating through your entire being.

The pulses go on and on, each one a little less intense than the last, until you are a boneless, trembling wreck on the silks. You are aware of him releasing you, of him sliding up your body, but you can’t open your eyes. You float in a haze of spent sensation, your breathing ragged, your skin humming.

You feel his weight settle beside you, then over you. His breeches have been removed while you quivered in the aftermath, but doesn’t enter you, not yet. He lays his body alongside yours, one of his hands finding yours on the mattress. He interlaces your fingers, palm to palm, a connection that feels more intimate than anything that just happened. His other hand strokes your hair back from your damp forehead, his touch infinitely gentle.

Slowly, you drift back to yourself. The frantic pounding of your heart settles into a heavy, satisfied thrum. You crack open your eyes.

He is propped on an elbow, looking down at you. There is no triumph in his gaze, only a profound, awestruck love. A soft adoration that makes your newly sated body stir all over again. He smiles, a small, private thing that lights his whole face. He leans down and kisses you, softly, on your swollen lips. You can taste yourself on him, a musky, sweet flavour, and the intimacy of it sends a fresh shiver through you.

“Welcome back, ñuha dōna jēdar,” he whispers.

You lift your free hand to trace his jaw, your fingers raking through his now soaked beard.

“That was…” Your words fail you.

“The first of thousands,” he promises, his voice thick. His hips shift, and you feel the hard, hot length of him pressed against your thigh, a blatant reminder of his own unslaked need.

The sight of him, the feel of him, rekindles the fire in your blood. The fullness you felt during your peak was internal, a ghost of a sensation, and now you crave the real thing. You need him inside; the emptiness is suddenly an ache.

You turn onto your side to face him fully, your hand sliding down his chest, over the taut muscles of his stomach, to wrap your fingers around his shaft. He hisses, his eyes closing. You explore him, this part of him that is now yours. He is thick, the skin like heated velvet over solid steel. A bead of moisture glistens at the broad, flushed tip. You smear it with your thumb, feeling him jump in your grasp.

You look into his eyes, trying to find the Valyrian words he has showered upon you. “Ñuha valzȳrys,” you breathe, the accent clumsy but earnest. You kiss his chest, over his heart. “Kostilus, nyke jorrāelagon ao in…”

A shudder runs through him. “Ābrazȳrys,” he groans. He rolls you onto your back once more, coming to rest between your thighs. He looks down at where your bodies are about to join, his expression one of solemn reverence. He takes himself in hand, guiding the broad, plump head of his cock through your slickness. The sensation of him gliding through your soaked folds, gathering your wetness, makes you moan. He does it again, and again, coating himself thoroughly, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet room. Each pass teases your swollen entrance, making you clench in anticipation.

Finally, he notches himself there. The pressure is immediate, immense. You feel yourself stretching around the very tip. You gasp, your eyes flying to his.

“Slowly,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Slowly, my love.”

He leans down, bracing his weight on his forearms on either side of your head, his body covering yours. He kisses you, deeply, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he begins to push forward with his hips.

It is a gradual, inexorable invasion. The pressure builds, a sweet, burning stretch as your body yields to him. You feel every ridge, every inch of him as he sinks deeper. He pulls back slightly, just enough for your stretched opening to try to close, then presses forward again, going deeper this time. The wet, sucking sound of your body accepting him is loud in your ears. Your own juices, stirred by his earlier attentions, ease his way, but the sheer size of him is breathtaking.

“Kēpus,” you whimper against his lips, the Valyrian word for lord falling from you like a prayer.

He stills, fully seated at last. You feel impossibly full, stretched to your limit, the root of him pressed firmly against your entrance. There is no space left inside you. He is everywhere. You look up at him, your eyes wide, and see his own struggle for control. A fine sheen of sweat coats his brow, his jaw is clenched, the muscles in his neck cording with strain.

“Are you…” He starts, his voice gravelled.

“Yes,” you breathe, shifting your hips experimentally. The movement sends sparks through your nerves. “Yes. More. Please.”

He begins to move. The first thrusts are tender, measured, a slow withdrawal until just the head remains within your clutching heat, then a slow, deep return. It’s a dance, a conversation held with bodies. Each stroke touches a place deep inside you that makes you see stars. He watches your face, reading every flicker of pleasure, adjusting his angle until he finds the spot that makes you cry out. He kisses you through it, swallowing your gasps, his breath mingling with yours.

The tenderness builds its own kind of heat. The slow, loving rhythm stokes a different fire, one that burns in your chest as much as between your legs. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting his thrusts. The sound of skin meeting skin is a soft, rhythmic slap, underscored by the wet sounds of your joining.

“Ñuha dōna ābrazȳrys,” he chants into your skin, between kisses to your throat, your shoulders. “Ñuha byka jēdar.” He speeds up, infinitesimally, the control starting to fray. “Finally. I have you. I have all of you.”

The change is subtle at first. The loving, deep strokes become more urgent. His hips snap forward with a little more force, a little less finesse. The slide of him inside you is a slick, perfect friction. Your own need coils tight again, spurred by the sheer physicality of him, by the love in his eyes, by the primal need to be claimed. You feel his stones, drawn up tight, slap against the curve of your backside with each forward drive.

You claw at his back, your mind splintering. The words spill from you, a desperate, heartfelt plea. “Fill me, kēpus, please. I want it—I want your child.” You beg, your head thrown back into the pillows. “Fill me with your seed, make me round with your babe every spring until I can carry no more…”

Your plea undoes him. A ragged groan tears from his throat. His rhythm fractures completely, devolving into a hard, desperate rutting. His thrusts become shorter, faster, a heavy rut driving into your welcoming heat. His face buries in the crook of your neck, his breath scalding hot against your skin. You feel the exact moment he loses the battle. His whole body seizes, a tremor wracking his frame. He drives deep—as deep as he can go—and holds there, buried to the hilt.

Inside you, he erupts.

The warmth is sudden. You feel the first thick, pulsing spurt deep in your womb, then another and another to follow. His release floods you, a claiming more absolute than any word. It fills you so completely that a small, wet sound escapes as a little spills out around the base of his shaft where you are still joined, trickling onto the bedsheets beneath you. His hips jerk through the last of his spend, a series of shallow, helpless spasms against you.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of your combined, ragged breathing. He collapses atop you, his full weight a welcome anchor. You wrap your arms around him, holding him as his tremors subside. He shifts slightly—just enough to keep from crushing you, but doesn’t withdraw. He stays inside, softening, a constant, warm presence.

His lips find your shoulder, then your neck, placing soft, reverent kisses on your sweat-slicked skin. His hand, which had been gripping the sheet near your head, relaxes and comes up to cradle your cheek. He turns your face toward his.

Your eyes meet in the dimming light. Mismatched into your own. No masks, no titles, no Hands or courtesies. Just Baelor and you.

“I love you,” he whispers, the Common Tongue words simple, direct, and more powerful than any High Valyrian poetry. “With everything I am. With every scar, every duty, every breath.”

Tears well in your eyes, not of sadness, but of a joy so fierce it aches. You stroke his hair, your fingers tracing the line of his ear. “And I love you, my prince. My husband. You are my home.”

He kisses you again, a slow, deep, languid kiss that tastes of salt and completion. He finally slips from your body, a slow, wet separation that makes you both sigh. He gathers you immediately, turning on his side and pulling you against him, your back to his chest. His arm snakes around your waist, his large hand splaying possessively over your lower stomach. You feel the sticky evidence of your union between your thighs, on your skin, and you have never felt more cherished.

He nuzzles the back of your neck, his breath stirring your hair.

“Will it take, do you think?” He murmurs, his voice drowsy with spent passion.

You place your hand over his, lacing your fingers together over your belly. “I hope so,” you whisper, a smile in your voice. “But if not this time, we have all the time we need to try.”

He tightens his arm around you, a wordless promise. Outside, the last of the sun dips below the walls of King’s Landing, plunging the room into soft twilight. You lie together in the quiet dark, wrapped in each other, in the new, unbreakable bond forged of sweat, blood, whispered vows, and shared, blinding pleasure. The world with its dangers and duties waits beyond the locked door. But here, in this moment, there is only this: the steady beat of his heart against your back, the warmth of his skin, and the profound, echoing peace of being exactly where you are meant to be.

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TRANSLATIONS

Ñuha byka jēdar - My little sky

Kēpus - Uncle (for a direct address)

Tala - Niece (more specifically it translates to brother’s daughter, as their is no direct word for "niece" in HV)

Kepa - Father

Ñuha dōna jēdar - My sweet sky

Se nyke daor gryves urnēbagon ñuha byka jēdar sagon ruarza - And I cannot bear to watch my little sky be hidden

Iksā ñuha vēzos se jēdar. Ñuhon mērī, dōna run - You are my sun and sky. Mine alone, sweet thing

Eman va moriot issare aōhon, ñuha jorrāelagon - I have always been yours, my love

Ñuha dārilaros - My prince (also translates to "heir" or "crown prince/princess", as this HV word is gender neutral)

Ñuha dōna jēdar. Ñuha ābrazȳrys. Eman mērī mirre jorrāelatan ao - My sweet sky. My wife. I have only ever loved you