My Little Fire - Part VII /?
Baelor Targaryen x Saerys Targaryen (Niece!OC)
word count: 10,718
The night before their wedding, Baelor and Saerys lay the last of their fears to rest. Some promises are spoken beneath the gods, others are whispered in the dark between two people learning that love asks not for perfection, only trust.
A/N: Increased the AO3 rating from M to E btw.
Part 1 • Part II • Part III • Part IV • Part V • Part VI • Masterlist
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Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Targcest (what it says on the tin), Arranged Marriage, Age Difference, Patriarchal Society, Family Politics & Dynastic Marriage, Courtship, Mutual Pining, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Abuse (referenced), Physical Abuse (discussed), Branding (described), Past Attempted Sexual Assault (discussed), Threats of Marital Rape (discussed), Trauma & PTSD, Nightmares, Emotional Distress, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Aerion Targaryen Is His Own Warning.
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DISCLAIMER: All themes, plot, images used in general and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms + the world of ASOIAF and elsewhere belong to the rightful owners, I hold no rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.
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The night before the wedding, Maekar found Baelor in his study.
“Baelor,” he drawled, “I know it’s been some years, but it’s a sorry thing if you’re needing to turn to literature.”
Baelor’s eyes rose to him from where he sat amidst candlelight and scattered pages. “And you so often tell me you have no sense of humor.”
“Weddings must bring out the best in me,” Maekar spoke as he looked about the room. “Pray tell, why are you pouring over books the night before yours?”
“I’m almost finished annotating this for Saerys as a wedding gift.”
“Another book? Seven, you’re besotted.”
Baelor paused in his notation. Besotted.
The word should have irritated him more but he couldn’t find much footing to disagree with it. Instead his thoughts drifted over the past few nights, toward Saerys laughing softly beside him beneath candlelight, they way she truly seemed to have come in to her own at the King's table. Toward the dangerous ease that had settled between them. He told himself that he had offered for her hand to protect her. He had never imagined that doing so would require such careful mastery of his own longing.
Tomorrow she would truly be his, cloaked under his protection for all the realm to see. The certainty settled warm and terrifying beneath his ribs all at once. It felt more like a sacred calling than a personal triumph.
Maekar drifted closer, looking over his shoulder, curiosity seemed to overtake mockery. His brow rose as he glanced down at the text. “Nymeria?”
Baelor’s fingers stilled briefly against the margin. “It was the first text we discussed upon her arrival at court.”
Maekar swallowed, remembering that night well. He held his hand out for the book and Baelor acquiesced, handing it over. Maekar flipped through a handful of pages before the corner of his mouth twitched. Translation notes, commentary in Baelor’s hand, certain passages carefully marked. Maekar huffed softly through his nose.
Baelor looked up at that. “What?”
“You annotate books for her like septons illuminate holy texts.”
Baelor merely held out his hand for the book again, sighing. “You’ve made your point.”
But Maekar did not relinquish it immediately. His eyes scanned another marked passage concerning the alliance of Nymeria and Mors through marriage, the forging of a new people. A realization settled more fully across his face.
“It’s not a sin to admit it, you know, that you’ve fallen for her.” He handed the book back to him. “That you yearn for her, that you desire–”
“Enough. I don’t need reminding.” Baelor sighed before he continued. “It’s no matter,” he said firmer now, “I plan to do the honorable thing.”
“Just like a dragon plans to breathe fire.” Maekar rolled his eyes. “Forgive me, you’ll have to elaborate.”
Baelor’s jaw worked before he answered. His gaze drifted briefly toward the open pages again rather than his brother. “I don’t intend to consummate our union until she’s–”
“Seven Hells, Baelor, this isn’t your first time at this. You can’t truly be that daft.”
“I refuse to push her on this.”
“She wears the colors of your eyes on a chain around her neck, for Seven’s sake. You do her more disservice than good refusing her your first night together.”
“Maekar–”
“She’s marrying the heir to the throne, she well knows her duty–”
“To the seven with duty, I won’t force–”
“Baelor, have you spoken to her like I told you to?”
One look at Baelor gave him his answer. With a heavy sigh, the fight seemed to leave him then. “All your wordsmithing and for what?” The mockery began to ebb from Maekar’s expression. He edged closer instead, studying his brother more carefully now. “You could go to her now and avoid all of this.”
Baelor stared down at the open book for so long Maekar almost thought he would not reply.
When he finally spoke, his voice came low and rough. “She trusts me, Maekar.” His fingers tightened against the edge of the binding.
“The way she looks at me…” Baelor paused, almost lost in thought. “…like I’m some knight from a song.” His voice broke as if the words hurt him. His eyes raised skyward, ruefully. “I won’t squander that by overwhelming her.”
He couldn’t shake the dread of Saerys enduring him, of watching her trust give way to fear the moment she realized only too late the full force of his want for her.
Maekar watched him carefully then, and for perhaps the first time that evening, he understood the true shape of his brother’s problem. “Baelor,” he said haltingly, “you speak as though she didn’t choose this.”
Baelor exhaled sharply through his nose and spoke before he could stop himself. “You speak as though my wanting her is some gentle thing.” He pointed a finger at his brother, heated. “Wasn’t it you, not long ago, who warned that I would terrify her?”
Maekar at least had the decency to look regretful. “I did, I’m sorry for it.” He swallowed before continuing with a small admission. “We can both admit this stopped being mere acceptance some time ago.” He made a gesture with his hand. “There’s a tenderness between the two of you now.”
Baelor looked away, shame and frustration warring plainly across his face before only fear remained. “If I start,” he admitted quietly, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop myself at tenderness.”
For a moment the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire. For perhaps the first time that evening, he stopped seeing the brother who reached for duty like a favored cloak. He saw the widower who had spent twelve years convincing himself that wanting anything too deeply inevitably ended in loss.
Maekar finally spoke again. “You speak about tomorrow night as though she’s being dragged to the Sept,” he scoffed softly. “She’s marrying the man she asked for.”
Baelor tensed and looked away sharply at that. ”She didn’t—”
“—She went to you,” Maekar pressed. “Not father. Not me. You.” The words landed like blows. “And now, you’re so busy fearing your own bloody urges that you’ll likely have her wondering why her husband can barely bear to touch her.”
“I would never shame her.”
“No,” Maekar agreed dryly. “You’d just gallantly make the decision for her again, forsaking what she might actually want.”
Silence stretched taut between them. Again. The possibility in that word sliced through him like a blade. Hadn't he already made one irrevocable choice on her behalf? The implicit accusation lodged beneath his ribs, and Baelor replied in kind. “I’m finished with this conversation.” He bit out sharply.
“With me? Fine,” Maekar groused. He turned toward the doorway before pausing long enough to throw one final barb over his shoulder.
“You see gratitude because it’s safer than seeing the truth.” Baelor’s gaze snapped toward him.
“You rescued her, yes,” Maekar said dryly. “But no woman alive looks at a man that way simply because he was kind to her.” Then he stalked from the room.
After the door closed behind his brother, silence reclaimed the study. The fire crackled softly in the hearth while somewhere beyond the windows the Red Keep settled gradually into night. Even at this hour the castle had not fully surrendered to sleep. He could still hear distant voices drifting faintly upward from the yards below where preparations for tomorrow continued beneath torchlight, the sound carrying just enough to remind him that by this time tomorrow he would be a married man.
No woman alive looks at a man that way simply because he was kind to her.
The words lingered stubbornly. Against his will, memories rose to meet them.
The tack room. Dust motes drifted through shafts of morning sunlight while the scent of leather, hay, and notes of lavender lingered in the air around them. He remembered how close she had stood that day, close enough that he could still recall the amber flecks hidden within her dark eyes, he could still summon the feeling of her soft inner wrist under his fingers. For one suspended moment the world seemed to contract around the space, leaving only the sound of her breathing and the dangerous awareness of how little separated them.
The captain's interruption had shattered the moment before either of them could discover what might have followed, and afterward Baelor had done what he always did when confronted with something he did not wish to examine too closely. He had found an explanation. They were newly betrothed. The circumstances had been unusual. Proximity had created an illusion of intimacy where none truly existed.
Yet the memory lingered, just as the memory of the steps below the keep beckoned still. Rain had fallen so heavily that night, water streaming from battlements and rooftops alike. He remembered the immediate rush of relief at returning home, accompanied by the realization that she was there waiting, the hour and the rain an afterthought.
He remembered the way her face had brightened when she saw him. How he leaned close enough that he could feel her breath on his lips. Even now he could feel the ache of how badly he wanted to kiss her, with rain falling around them and half the keep looking on.
She had worried for his safety. She had missed him. She trusted him. All of those things were true, and each explanation had provided another stone with which to reinforce the wall he had carefully built around his own hopes.
Gratitude was simple enough to accept. It allowed him to remain what he had promised to be, her protector, her safe harbor, the man who would ask nothing of her that she was not prepared to freely give. It could be borne as readily as countless other burdens had been before it.
Could it be though, that when she looked at him she saw not merely the prince who had rescued her, nor the future king she had agreed to wed, but the man himself, with all the inconvenient wants and hopes Baelor had spent years teaching himself to ignore? The thought felt almost arrogant.
For months he had named that caution wisdom and carried it like it was honor, yet sitting alone in the quiet of his study with Maekar's words echoing stubbornly through the room, Baelor found himself wondering whether some part of him had simply been too afraid to believe that Saerys might want him in return.
If the look he sometimes caught in her eyes had meant what he dared to hope, then that threatened to change everything.
Had his restraint ever been truly tested? Perhaps it had been merely aided by the crutch of a belief that Saerys could not possibly desire him as desperately as he desired her.
If that belief proved false, then tomorrow would demand something far greater than restraint. It would demand trust that she knew her own heart. Trust that she understood what she was offering him. Trust that when she reached for him, she did so with the same certainty that already threatened to undo him.
The thought lingered as the fire had burned low. Baelor stared down at the open pages before him, once more his gaze caught on a line he had marked earlier in careful ink:
Nymeria and Mors had not begun in love, only trust enough to set fear aside and build something greater together.
Slowly he closed the book, and quit the room.
Saerys had become more and more meticulous in her grooming as the days ticked down to the wedding.
This night she worked a brush through her hair with oils, stubbornly convinced it still didn’t feel soft enough. She’d long since dismissed Alerie for the evening, not wanting to burden her with the strange fixations that had overtaken her as of late. The endless brushing of her hair, scrubbing herself raw in the bath. The anxiety that ran through her seeking something, anything to control.
She’d begged the queen to have this night alone even though the castle was swirling with guests eager to bestow wisdom and well wishes. She just needed quiet, surely that would ease her mind rather than give it free reign to run rampant.
Tomorrow she would be Baelor's wife. The thought spiked her pulse each time it returned. She had seen the warmth in Baelor's eyes often enough since he returned. Had caught him looking at her when he thought she did not notice. She knew he desired her. That certainty no longer frightened her as it once might have. What frightened her was everything that came after. Wanting was one thing. Living beside her was another. Could she be the wife he deserved once the ceremony was over and the music had stopped? She had spent so many years expecting to endure marriage that she scarcely knew how to prepare herself for one built upon kindness.
Her brush slowed. Her mind betrayed her at once with memories of dancing in Baelor’s arms. The warmth of his hand spread across the small of her back. The roughness in his voice whenever his composure seemed to fray. The way his gaze lingered upon her now when he thought no one else was looking. And gods help her, the realization that she wanted more of it.
Oh, she wasn’t going to get any sleep this night.
She was interrupted from her reverie by a knock at the door. “Come in.”
Alerie stepped in. “My Lady, the Prince stopped by to speak with you.” She eyed Saerys by the mirror, clad only in a heavy robe and nightgown. “I can tell him that you’ve turned in for the night.”
Saerys took in a steadying breath. Surely Baelor would only call on her at this hour with a matter of import. She assured Alerie, “It’s quite alright, you may show him in.”
She fixed a pleasant smile on her face and drew the robe tighter around her. It was plenty large enough to ensure her modesty
When Alerie returned with the Baelor, Saerys stood to greet him. “My Prince”
Baelor spoke to Alerie, though his eyes remained on Saerys. “I merely wished to speak with the Princess regarding tomorrow.” His implication reached Saerys when he didn't continue further. He wished to speak to her alone.
Baelor and Alerie watched the understanding dawn on Saerys’ face. Her chin tipped up and her shoulders tensed, a stance Baelor recognized instantly. He felt a pang in his chest at her reaction, but only stood still, waiting. It was not for him to dismiss Saerys’ maid in her own chambers.
Saerys took a deep inhale. She felt as if a spectre hovered, just beyond her periphery. She had been here before, in her chambers with a prince, the night before a new path. Even now she could feel the remnants of that night down her back. Her eyes closed involuntarily. She had to forcibly remind herself, This is not that night, this is not that prince.
This was Baelor, her Baelor.
Her Baelor who was gentle, patient, and kind. Who had never once given her reason to distrust him.
She took another measured breath and nodded. “You may leave us, Alerie.”
She nodded with a curtsy and saw herself out. I’ll be right in the antechamber my lady.” Close enough to hear if you but raise your voice.
“Do come in, your Grace.” Saerys gestured to a table and chairs set by the fire.
Baelor walked in slowly. His eyes studied her as he made his way closer, entering the room as he would enter the grounds with a skittish colt. There was a melancholy in his eyes that he couldn’t quite mask when she met his gaze again. She gestured to a carafe and goblets. “Would you care for something to drink?”
“If you’re having some.” She began to pour. “Wine?” he asked.
“Mead, actually.” Baelor smiled at that. Every chance to know her better, cherished.
His gaze was steadily fixed on her as she made her way over to him. She set the glasses down in front of them as she took a seat to his side. Her voice was breezy, almost too much so, as she asked, "What did you wish to discuss?”
He began, “I wanted to make sure we discussed the details of tomorrow. I worry with my absence I’ve been remiss in adequately–”
It was only now that she was closer to him that he could properly take in the robe she wore tied closely around her. Heavy, familiar red brocade on black, far too large for Saerys’ frame, and in a men’s cut.
“–Saerys” he said, cutting himself off with a tug at the corner of his lips, “if I return to my chambers, will I find I’m missing a dressing robe?” He knew that robe. He'd worn it through winter evenings at his desk, and to see it hanging from her shoulders... Something settled unexpectedly warm beneath his ribs.
Saerys ducked his gaze with a small smile as she toyed with the edge of her sleeve “I might’ve…employed some help in borrowing it.” She looked up shyly. “I craved something of yours while you were gone. It makes me feel warm. Safe”
Safe. He felt that pang in his chest once more, a warning. “Saerys,” he said as he began to reach for her hand, his gaze intent on her face, “did you feel unsafe when I was gone?
She swallowed and ducked his gaze again. “I feel most safe when you are here”.
Baelor took in another deep breath. “That’s not quite what I asked.”
She looked up at him again with a sheen to her eyes as they moved over his face. “You’re back now,” she said quietly.
He nodded and took her hand in earnest. “Come tomorrow, it’ll be much harder for me to be parted from you.”
“I’m glad for it,” Saerys said as she offered him a small smile.
He cleared his throat and began to smooth his thumb over the back of her hand. “I’m sure my mother has walked you through the ceremony many times over–” Saerys nodded again.
“This is perhaps the one event where I will not be torn constantly from your side. I’ll be with you every step of the way. We’ll open up the evening festivities once again. And after that–” he swallowed and leaned closer to her.
“When evening comes.” He broke off, thinking of Maekar's remarks, all that wordsmithing. He met her gaze and carried on. He could do this, for both of them. He drew her hand closer.
“Saerys, when evening comes, I can stave off a bedding.” Her eyes met his wide, and he continued. “I can make sure a guard is at our door to ward off those who would listen. I can not prevent bawdy japes and leering eyes or the expectation that comes with this night and I am sorry for it.”
“I know my duty, my Prince.” Her use of the word, duty, chafed at him but he carried on.
His voice dipped even lower if it was possible. “We’ll spend the night here in your chambers.” He let himself smirk slightly. “Far easier to carry you here than clear across the keep and up a–”
“Baelor, surely you do not intend to carry me all the way to–”
He fixed her with a look that was mirth and promise all in one.
“--I know my duty, Princess”
She smiled at that and the pressure in his chest lightened a touch. They both seemed to bask in the lighthearted moment. Baelor was loathe to move past it but he must.
“Saerys, I know you’ve been without a mother.” He said as he held her gaze, “For both of us I must ask…” He trailed off, and her brows puckered in question. “If you feel comfortable, that is, I would ask what you’ve been taught about what is to come.”
She nodded and her gaze fell back down to their hands again. “Dyanna spoke to me some, as well as our Septa at Summerhall.” She raised her eyes past him considering, as she said with a small smile, “My new ladies have offered some very helpful advice.” Baelor’s lips twitched despite himself, he could well imagine the kind of instruction Saerys might’ve received from the ladies of Dorne.
When his gaze found Saerys again, though, she had gone stiff. Her gaze was far away as she took in a measured breath. Baelor tensed in response to her posture. The ghost that entered the room with them when he asked to speak to her alone seemed to loom over them now.
“I should tell you that…” She took in another breath, this one shakier than the last.
“By the time I reached my majority, Aerion was well assured I would be wed to him.” She swallowed roughly. “He took great enjoyment in informing me just what he had planned for me.” Venom had begun to seep into her voice. Baelor went very still.
Saerys swallowed again as if it was bile, and she held herself so stiffly she almost seemed to shake. Her eyes fixed upon their joined hands as she drew in another breath, her fingers tightening in Baelor’s grasp. “He believed the arrangement granted him ownership of my body and the thoughts in my head before vows had even been spoken.” Her shoulders drew tighter still.
Baelor squeezed his eyes shut briefly before forcing himself to ask the question. “Saerys…did he ever take liberties with you? Did he ever harm you?”
“I’m a maiden, my Prince. I swear it.” She said, holding his gaze, almost too steadily.
He couldn't ignore the fact that, once again, she had not truly answered him. “I ask not out of concern for your virtue,” he said quietly. “But for concern for your well-being.”
Something unreadable passed across her face before she gave the barest nod. “The night before we left for the keep, I made the mistake of believing he might actually be reasoned with.” The words were sharpened now, anger beginning to war openly with distress. Her jaw tightened. “I was prepared with every argument I could think of as to why he should choose another bride. Why we would both surely be happier freed of the arrangement.”
Saerys swallowed hard, her voice dropping lower still. “His wrath that I even thought to thwart him was unlike anything I'd experienced before.” Saerys gaze went almost unseeing, as if she’d been transported elsewhere.
Baelor went almost preternaturally still. “What did he do?”
Then suddenly she jerked away from him, pushing her chair back from the table hard enough for it to scrape sharply across the floor. Fear sharpened his voice “Saerys—what has he done?”
“It’ll be easier to show you,” she bit out. Baelor felt bile in his throat as he rose to stand behind her.
Facing away from him, Saerys loosened the ties at the neck of her nightgown until the fabric pooled and slipped down her shoulders. Then she pushed the heavy robe down after it, exposing the expanse of her upper back.
At first all he saw was angry raised flesh, then recognition struck him like a physical blow. Burned into the skin between her shoulder blades lay the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, scarred deep enough that he could still make out the shape of each twisted neck. Horror struck with such force that the room seemed to tilt beneath him.
“Oh, Saerys,” he whispered, feeling as though he’d just taken a lance to the chest.
His hand shook in earnest as he reached toward the mark. Though she tried to fight it, she flinched at the touch, curving inward around herself.
“I could smell my own skin burning,” she said, her voice beginning to shake in earnest now. “And all the while he called me an ungrateful whore, for surely I wanted the freedom to seek out other men at court.”
Something cold and murderous unfurled low in Baelor’s chest.
Venom bled back into her words now, fury briefly overtaking grief. “The most unsettling part was his eerie calm as he listed all the things he would do to me once I was truly his to punish.”
He wrapped his arms around her from behind and pulled her back firmly against him, heedless now of propriety, restraint, any of it. His head came down on her shoulder.
“I’m here now,” he vowed to her, each word deliberate. “As long as my heart beats, I will not allow anyone to harm you ever again.”
Her head fell back against his chest as she leaned into him. Her arms came up to grasp his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as the shaking began to abate.
Baelor shook his head, his heart broke a little as he swore, “Sweet girl, you have nothing, nothing to be sorry for.”
“I’m sorry that I’m coming to you as this tarnished, broken thing.”
Baelor, if possible, pulled her even closer still. “You are coming to me a queen amongst women.” His breath caught. “You are brave, you are strong.” His voice broke then. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever beheld.”
He felt her breathing begin to even out and he moved to release her but she clung to him still. “Don’t let go, not yet,” she pleaded. Baelor paused in his retreat. “I can’t remember the last time I was held like this.” Saerys whispered, as she leaned back into him, luxuriating in the feel of him strong behind her, his arms secure around her.
“Dyanna passed away when I was young but even then I was old enough compared to the others that I wasn’t to be coddled but—” she let out a shaky breath. “I can’t think of the last time someone just held me and listened.”
Baelor felt her breathe out a long exhale. His head bowed, coming to rest against her shoulder again. He thought of how often he’d longed simply to hold her, never imagining that it was exactly that comfort she had been yearning for all this time.
For a long while neither of them moved.
The fire crackled softly beside them. Somewhere beyond the chamber walls the Red Keep still roared with wedding guests and celebration, yet here the world had narrowed to warmth, breath, and the steady weight of her in his arms.
He could have lived in this moment forever.
Saerys didn't know how long it had been, only that her breathing had finally slowed, her shoulders had eased. When Baelor finally spoke again, his voice conversational and mild. “Do you know what I’ve begun calling you in my head?”
Saerys shook her head slightly against him. Baelor let out the faintest breath of something almost resembling embarrassment before speaking. “My fire.”
“For you have been such a light. The warmth I feel whenever I’ve made you smile, the heat between us when we dance, the sparks that fly whenever you tease me.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “You are joy, you are vitality, you are the sun itself.” Tears pricked her eyes at that.
He felt her take in a shaky breath. “You warm me too, Baelor.” Her hands came over his. “Yours is the safe embrace of the hearth, and other times…” she swallowed. “It’s like dragon’s breath down my neck.” She felt a tremor of a different kind roll down her spine.
Baelor swallowed roughly, half agony, half hope. Leaning his head against hers he whispered, “It breaks my heart to know that you’ve been left out in the cold. That those who should’ve cared for you dimmed your light.” He breathed deeply before continuing.
“Saerys.” Baelor said her name like an oath as he brought his arms tighter around her. “You must know from this night on, these arms are yours, my warmth is yours,” he pressed a lingering kiss below her ear, “My heart is yours.”
The words settled over the room like something sacred. He felt her draw one long, trembling breath, and she turned within the circle of his arms. Then, with a hesitancy that broke his heart all over again, her arms came around his neck, returning his embrace, seeking him.
“There is one more thing I need you to know,” she pulled away from him then to meet his gaze, but he chased her, leaning his forehead against hers.
“Konīr sia daor tolie,” he said softly.
Her eyes widened in recognition. The words he had said to her in the library, an oath so quiet she’d never been able to translate it on her own.
“There were no others.” Her eyes narrowed in confusion and he brought his hands to the side of her face. “There were no others I considered for your hand.” He watched the realization dawn on her at his confession. “From the moment you asked, I’ve been yours.”
Her breath caught. All this time she'd believed she'd been rescued. Never once had she imagined she'd also been chosen But he had wanted her from the very beginning, just as she had come to want him.
Saerys searched his face, pained devotion etched across it, something like awe rippled through her as the realization dawned.
Baelor mistook her silence for hesitation, this close to her he could no longer stave off his worst fear. He began to pull away, his head bowed in retreat, his voice thready as he fought to get the words out. “Tell me this is not what you want, Saerys, and I will master myself.”
Saerys raised her brows in question and clung to him still, drawing him back to her as she pleaded, “Baelor,” bringing a hand to the side of his face. “ I choose this,” she confessed, guiding his face so his eyes met hers. “I want this,” uttered so softly as if she might frighten him.
Before he could respond she raised herself on her tiptoes to softly capture his lips with hers.
Baelor felt his breath leave him as if he’d taken a blow.
For one impossible moment he could only hold her there against him in stunned silence, overwhelmed that she was truly kissing him. Then she pressed herself closer, her fingers curved tentatively around the back of his head, the movement shattered what remained of his restraint. A moan scraped out of him as he returned her kiss.
Nearly every thought left him then. All that was left was Saerys.
Her fingertips cradling the back of his head, the way her lips responded to him in kind, the feel of her hair soft as silk as he threaded his fingers through the strands, yearning to have her closer still.
As if she could hear his thoughts she pressed herself against him more fully. Baelor could feel the heat of her down his body, Gods she felt glorious. He had imagined this a thousand times in weak moments of solitude.
None of it compared to the reality of her beneath his hands now.
Baelor had known affection before this. He had known duty, companionship, even tenderness. He had believed that was all a prince of the realm might ask for in a marriage. But this...
This felt like discovering an new language entirely. His attraction to her spiked his blood like the finest dornish wine. The love he had for her, yes it was love, had him chasing her lips like a man slaking his thirst at the Rhoyne.
Saerys had been kissed before, sweet courtly things from a young squire, and then the violent plunderings from Aerion. Until Baelor she’d never dreamt that she could be held so passionately and still feel safe and cared for. She had never imagined herself capable of this kind of wanting.
His lips moved against hers with an intensity like devotion rather than dominance. Even as he leaned over her, her knees beginning to feel liquid, the surrender didn’t feel like defeat.
Baelor’s hands slid from her hair down her back leaving heat in their wake.
By the seven, when did her chambers become so stifling?
Saerys let go of Baelor briefly, only to shrug the heavy robe to the floor. Her arms wound themselves around his neck once more as she returned his kisses with a new heat.
She could hardly think as she felt his hands on her through the thin silk. One at her neck, the other learning the shape of her hips. Her skin had always heated at his touch, even during their dances. How she hadn’t burst into flame now, she knew not.
Baelor groaned into her mouth at the feel of her, only one blessedly thin layer between his hands and the heat of her body. He was spinning out, truly now. The way she arched against him, the way she breathed him in between kisses, all of her own volition. The trust she placed in him was a heady thing, he was going to be driven to madness.
Fire burned through him as he brought one arm lower around her hips, hauling her off the floor against him. Saerys gasped into his mouth at that, and Baelor took the opportunity to tug at her bottom lip with his teeth, The mewl Saerys let out in turn wiped his mind almost completely blank save one primal urge.
He’s moving now with one singular purpose. How lucky, the dragon inside him thought. They were already in her bedchambers.
He turned at the last moment as he reached her bed bringing her astride him as he sat at the edge. Even in this haze he would not presume to overcome her.
Saerys, it would seem, held no similar compunction.
Once he reached her bed she was upon him immediately, reaching up to card her fingers through the short trim of his hair. All it took was the light feeling of her nails against his scalp, and suddenly he was the one breaking away in a gasp. He returned his mouth to hers with a vengeance, rife with the need to taste her everywhere.
His lips slipped down the corner of her mouth, across her jaw to her neck.
Yes.
Her lovely graceful neck, that he would drape in fine silks and jewels, finally where it belonged. With a pulse that he was making race and sounds that he was teasing out of her.
He’d been so patient, and she was gasping for him so prettily that he couldn’t resist licking up the column of her throat like a man dying of thirst.
Saerys’ head fell back on a whimper and her whole body arched against him.
He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so uninhibited, the way her lips parted, her eyes half closed with bliss. This was the future he had scarcely dared imagine in the Riverlands, when even the memory of her smile had felt like enough to sustain him. Seeing her like this, with him, choosing him, touching him with abandon. The beauty of her in this moment threatened to bring him to his knees.
He couldn't help but smile against her skin, murmuring, “Gevie,” as she began to move her hips against him. Gods. He kissed lower still.
It was only when his mouth found skin where he expected to meet silk that he came back to himself, albeit slowly.
Saerys was breathless astride him, her robe gone.
His fingers flexed as they gripped her thighs.
Baelor went still. For one terrible moment he had nearly disregarded his restraint entirely.
At last he dragged himself back enough to grasp her hips and pull away from her, though not without visible effort.
“Princess,” he breathed shakily. “Forgive me.”
“Whatever for?” She asked softly, chasing his lips. He leaned back further, relenting, and brought a hand to her neck once more so he could ease her back.
He swallowed thickly. “This isn’t why I came here tonight.”
She let out a small laugh, leaning into his ear as she brought her hands to his chest, and his eyes slipped closed again. Her voice was low as she asked, “Why did you come here tonight, my Prince?”
Seven. Fucking. Hells. His eyes opened again, locked on her in warning. Careful, Princess. Though he didn’t think he’d fare well hearing her refer to him by name in this moment either.
He leaned back even further. “I came here,” he swallowed again, “to make sure I do right by you tomorrow evening.”
She continued to follow him with her body. Baelor reached a hand behind him to steady himself.
Her hands came up to twine behind his neck again as she rose up to her knees fully. “Then I believe you accomplished your goal.”
“My goal wasn’t to compromise you before our wedding night.”
“I do at least know enough to know that isn’t the case,” she said with an impish smile as she leaned into his neck, laying an open mouthed kiss there.“Yet, at least.”
His head canted back at that and he fisted the furs on her bed with a white knuckled grip.
“Saerys…” He sighed her name on a brittle laugh. “You could at least pretend to have mercy on me.”
Saerys leaned back at that, lowering herself to sit astride him again, his hands immediately coming to her waist. Her eyes flicked up to his as they both felt the way his length pressed against her.
She kept her gaze on him as she marveled at him. The Heir to the Iron Throne, below her on her own bed. Throat exposed, eyes half-lidded, chest heaving.
When she agreed to their match she never once considered the power that she might have over him.
Her gaze wandered over his face, over the taut restraint she found there. “As you wish, my prince,” she sighed at last as she dismounted from him, before looking back at him coyly.
As she walked from the bed to retrieve the robe and pull it on, Baelor took the opportunity to adjust himself.
Baelor shook his head as he tried to come back to himself, even as a young man he can’t remember the last time he was so addled by lust.
Saerys pretended not to notice the deep breaths he took to steady himself as she busied herself with their abandoned goblets.
Once done she turned to face him. His gaze was softer now, some but not all of the heat worn off. “I should leave, Saerys. Before I forget every honorable intention I arrived here with, and fire consumes me completely.” He took her hand pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles.
Saerys smiled at that. “What a lovely way to burn,” she murmured dreamily. Baelor’s eyes flashed to her once more.
That was all it took, it would seem. The barest hint that she ached for him as he did her and he was at the end of his tether yet again. So this, he realized, was what it felt like to not carry longing alone.
He felt the strain in his neck as he leaned his forehead to hers. “Am I to be awake all night with yearning, my little fire, or will you allow me to take my leave?”
A small smile graced her lips. “Until tomorrow then, my prince.”
Baelor bowed deeply to her before leaving the room. “At least one of us should get some sleep,” Saerys could’ve sworn she heard him mutter on his way out the door.
Once in her antechamber, Alerie rushed to open the door to the hall for him.
She hesitated for a moment as he started down the hall.
“Your Grace?” She called after him.
He turned quickly, eyebrows raised. She pursed her lips for a moment considering.
“I need you to know that I wouldn’t betray my lady’s confidence unless I thought it was absolutely necessary.”
The Prince only tilted his head.
Alerie continued. “The princess often suffers from nightmares. Terrible things, she’s pulled from sleep begging and screaming. Sometimes it takes her a moment to remember where she is. She needs gentle hands and a soothing voice when she wakes.”
Baelor felt as if his stomach had turned to lead. Once he regained his composure he nodded.
“Thank you, Alerie, for confiding in me.” He swallowed roughly. “And for serving my lady so well.”
“Of course, your Grace. Thank you, your Grace.”
He merely nodded then took his leave.
He found the wine cellar much depleted upon his inspection.
The wine cellar was cooler than the chambers above, heavy with the scent of oak, dust, and spilled arbor red. Rows of casks sat half-emptied already from the wedding feast preparations above. Baelor exhaled slowly through his nose as he descended the last stair. He needed something stronger than sleep tonight.
“They’ve already taken all the good stuff up to the kitchens I’m afraid,” came a sluggish drawl.
Baelor looked over and saw Daeron the Younger sprawled against the wall, flagon in hand, eyes glazed. He walked over to him. “You should get some sleep, my boy.”
Daeron only gave him a lopsided smile. “Where would the fun in that be?”
Baelor gave him a melancholy smile in return. “Madness for lack of sleep can rival the madness of drink. Trust me.”
Daeron replied to him, “And the madness of nightmares perhaps the worst of all.” He winced, squeezing his eyes shut, and when they opened again Daeron was lucid once more. He extended his flagon towards him. “Trust me, Uncle.”
Baelor froze at that. Daeron was always the most unsettling when he slipped into lucidity.
Baelor was still holding Daeron’s gaze when Maekar walked in. “Fucking hells,” he said, shaking his head. “Daeron, out now. Go sober up for the morrow.”
Baelor helped haul him to his feet. “Good tidings, Uncle,” he slurred as he departed.
Maekar sighed as he watched him go.
“Fancy running into you here,” he muttered as Baelor busied himself running a hand among the remaining casks.
“Yes, well I needed something to take the edge off.”
That sent Maekar’s head reeling. He eyed Baelor up and down. “Took my advice then did you?”
Baelor took a deep inhale through his nose. “I think I took it perhaps a little too much.”
Maekar tilted his head at that. “Oh?”
He then took in more of Baelor’s rigid posture.
“Oh,” he bit out sour with a disturbed look.
Maekar rubbed a hand down his face, the humor finally fading from him entirely.
“Did your visit at least…” He hesitated visibly now, searching for words he clearly did not want to say aloud. “…Allay your fears?”
Baelor’s posture eased only slightly. Maekar swallowed. “Will she be ready?”
Baelor was quiet for a long moment before answering. He did not know what tomorrow would ask of either of them. There would be fear still. There would be memories that neither love nor vows could erase in a single night. But now he knew with certainty that the trust between them would carry them through whatever came.
"She is," he said quietly.
Maybe Baelor had been right, Saerys thought begrudgingly as Alerie lightly jostled her awake, because despite how impossible sleep had seemed the night prior, she now found herself burrowing deeper beneath the blankets with all the stubbornness of a child.
“You don’t want to sleep through your wedding day, my Lady,” her handmaid informed her with entirely too much glee for this hour of the morning.
Saerys made a deeply unconvinced sound into her pillow. Surely she could have slept another bell at least.
Yet by the time she finally forced her eyes open, the sheer flurry of activity already overtaking her chambers had proven tonic enough to banish the last remnants of sleep entirely.
The room had transformed overnight. Ladies moved through it in a constant swirl of silk and perfume while steam curled upward from the bath being drawn near the hearth. Folded ceremonial layers awaited carefully atop chests and screens in shimmering pools of cream and crimson, and velvet-lined boxes sat open upon the vanity displaying the jewels selected days ago for the ceremony. Somewhere near the windows one of the seamstresses muttered furiously about missing pins while another carefully arranged the maiden’s cloak Saerys’ would wear into the sept.
Gods, it was real, it was finally here.
Hands descended upon her almost immediately once Alerie finally managed to coax her from the bed. The next couple of hours was a flurry of bathing, hair brushing, and painstaking grooming all to ensure Saerys was the perfect picture of a Targaryen maiden eager to wed her prince. Internally at least, this was no feat.
“You’re fidgeting again,” Laena Penrose observed from near the dressing screen where she stood inspecting one of Saerys’ sleeves with surprising seriousness.
“I am not fidgeting,” Saerys lied at once.
Laena’s brow lifted. “You nearly frayed the hem of your chemise earlier.”
A softer wave of laughter moved through the room while Saerys pressed her lips together against her embarrassment, warmth already beginning to creep steadily into her face. The chambers themselves seemed far too warm this morning, though perhaps that was merely her nerves. Before the day was through half the realm would watch her wed the heir to the Iron Throne, she would endure a ceremony, a feast large enough to drown the keep in wine, and somewhere amidst all of it there remained the simple impossible fact of Baelor himself.
Alerie clicked her tongue softly as she guided Saerys toward the vanity. “Sit still long enough for me to braid your hair back and perhaps we might preserve some dignity before the realm arrives.”
“I think dignity fled this situation several months ago,” Sarella remarked slyly from across the room as she organized the jewels that had been set out, perfectly at ease amidst the chaos surrounding her.
Rosamund glanced up from the ribbons she sorted nearby. “Roughly around the time the prince began finding entirely new reasons to linger wherever Saerys happened to be.”
Saerys made a weak sound of protest beneath her breath.
“Laena noticed first,” Sarella continued thoughtfully.
“Only because Prince Baelor suddenly developed opinions regarding court musicians and garden suppers,” Laena replied dryly as she crossed the room carrying another folded length of silk. “A man does not spend twenty years avoiding half the entertainments of court only to discover a passion for poetry readings overnight.”
“He was even willing to stay for the discussion afterwards, though his attentions did seem diverted elsewhere,” Rosamund added mildly.
Saerys covered her face outright then, earning another softer round of laughter from the room while even Alerie failed to suppress a smile as she began carefully threading pearls through the first sections of Saerys’ braid.
Baelor had used all the days since his return to the keep to soak up as much time with Saerys as possible, often finding himself patiently bemused besides Saerys at whatever gathering attended with her ladies without a single complaint.
Kiera’s expression remained gentler than the others as she crossed the room carrying Saerys’ gown. She paused beside Saerys’ chair long enough to smooth one sleeve lightly between her fingers before saying quietly, “I’m glad it’s you.”
Saerys blinked up at her. Kiera smiled then, warmth softening her features. “Baelor lingers after dinners, Valarr relaxes more, and even Matarys has begun to come out of his shell.” She looked back toward Saerys then, affection plain upon her face. “The family feels more complete somehow.”
The words settled warmly somewhere low within Saerys’ chest, surprising her slightly with the force of it.
“And selfishly,” Kiera added more lightly, “I’m glad my friend will be staying.”
Before Saerys could answer, another knock sounded at the chamber doors, and the room quieted almost immediately.
Queen Myriah entered moments later clad in deep copper silk and gold, regal as ever despite the unmistakable warmth that softened her expression the instant her gaze settled upon Saerys.
For one long moment the Queen simply looked at her before breaking into a warm smile.
“Oh,” Myriah murmured softly. “There she is.”
Saerys laughed quietly despite herself. “You say that as though I had gone somewhere.”
Myriah crossed the room and gently smoothed one thumb beneath Saerys’ eye where Alerie had only just finished touching powder to her skin. “Gone is the girl who first arrived at court wanting nothing but to fade into the background.”
Warmth touched Saerys’ face at that, though whether from pleasure or embarrassment she could not entirely say. Myriah’s smile lingered another moment before she gestured lightly toward the others gathered throughout the room. “Leave us for now”
Predictable protests immediately rose from every direction. “We’re helping.”
“You’re hovering,” the Queen corrected calmly.
“We are witnessing history.”
“You are tormenting the bride.”
“Only lovingly,” Sarella clarified without shame.
Still, the ladies gradually dispersed toward the adjoining chambers and dressing screens, though not nearly far enough for true privacy. Sarella in particular made absolutely no effort whatsoever to move.
Myriah noticed immediately. “You remain.”
“Your Grace,” Sarella replied with lazy dignity, “if you desired privacy you should not have invited this many Dornishwomen.”
Even the Queen failed to suppress a laugh at that.
“Fine,” Myriah relented at last. “But if you scandalize my good daughter before the ceremony I shall blame you personally.”
“I scandalized her weeks ago,” Sarella replied serenely. “Today we are merely ensuring she remembers what she learned.”
Saerys covered her face outright once more while Myriah’s brow lifted with immediate understanding.
“Ah,” the Queen said mildly. “So that explains the parcel Addam almost intercepted yesterday.”
“It was educational,” Sarella defended at once.
“Selene nearly fainted reading one of the titles,” Rosamund contributed helpfully from somewhere behind the dressing screen.
“It mentioned anatomy before marriage,” Selene called back. “I was unprepared.”
“Gods save me,” Saerys muttered into her hands, though the helpless laughter threatening at the edges of her voice robbed the complaint of any true conviction.
Myriah, traitorously, looked amused rather than scandalized.
“Well?” Sarella asked then, and though amusement still lingered upon her face, something more sincere softened her expression now. “Have the books reassured you at all?”
Saerys swallowed softly before answering. “Some.”
Sarella nodded once, apparently satisfied enough to continue. “And you understand now that your comfort matters every bit as much as his?”
Myriah reached over then, taking one of Saerys’ hands gently between both of hers. “Listen to me carefully,” the Queen said softly, and the room quieted almost immediately.
“You are not being sent to survive a marriage to an arrogant princeling or some distant lord.” Her voice remained calm and certain, steady as stone beneath the din and anticipation overtaking the castle beyond those walls. “You are walking toward a man who already cherishes you dearly.”
The words landed low and aching somewhere within Saerys’ chest.
“He is nervous too,” Myriah continued, amusement flickering briefly now. “Though my son would sooner face a battlefield than confess such a thing.”
Sarella hummed softly from the settee nearby. “I suspect Prince Baelor has spent half the last month reminding himself restraint exists.”
“Oh to the Sept with you” Myriah informed her, though laughter lingered plainly in her voice now.
Still smiling faintly, the Queen turned her full attention back toward Saerys.
“Baelor has spent most of his life carrying responsibility,” she said gently. “Duty. Restraint. Expectation.” Her thumb stroked softly across Saerys’ knuckles. “You've given him something precious, with you he’s lighter, happier.” Myriah's smile softened. “I do not think anyone expected that part.”
Saerys blinked. “Your Grace?”
“We knew he would be a kind husband to you,” Myriah said simply. “That was never in doubt.” A note of quiet affection entered her voice. “What surprised us was how much ease you would bring him in return.”
Emotion tightened unexpectedly in Saerys’ throat at that, enough that Myriah noticed at once.
“Oh no,” the Queen warned softly. “None of that. Today is already far too long without tears ruining all Alerie’s hard work.”
Alerie smiled immediately from behind the chair. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Another softer wave of laughter passed through the room before Myriah’s expression gentled once more.
“You are ready for this, Saerys.”
The words settled deeper than reassurance alone.
“For the crown?” Saerys asked quietly.
“For all of it.” Myriah held her gaze steadily. “For the noise, the demands, the endless eyes watching you,” she said softly. “And for the joy of it too.”
Saerys drew in a careful breath then, because that was the overwhelming thing this morning, wasn’t it? Not fear, but joy so large it scarcely fit properly inside her chest, anticipation sharp enough to leave her restless beneath her own skin whenever she allowed herself to think too closely on the fact that before the day was through they would belong to one another entirely
Myriah smiled as though she could see the realization moving plainly across Saerys’ face.
“Above all, never lose sight of the joy. There is so much of it to come, for the both of you” the Queen murmured warmly.
This time Saerys smiled without restraint, joy flooding through her, banishing the nerves so that she could finally stand the remaining preparations for the day.
The wheelhouse ride to the sept was quiet. With all other guests already gathered, Saerys and the King would be the last to arrive. She hoped she didn’t betray her nerves as she watched the city go by. The king brought a gentle hand to hers where it laid on her shaking knee, a gesture of calm.
She turned her gaze to him from the window. “I apologize, your Grace.”
He merely shook his head. “Grandsire, especially today, dove.” His gaze was fond and gentle. “Jitters are only natural, Saerys.” She tried to return his smile. “Besides it’s not every bride who enters the Sept that will one day be Queen”
She looked away again, staring at a far off point, and after a deep breath she managed, “It does weigh on my mind, Grandsire.” She folded her hands neatly in her lap. “I hope I'm worthy of it.” she swallowed "worthy of him."
Daeron meets her gaze and holds it taking in her solemnity “We wouldn’t have chosen you for this if we didn’t have complete faith in you”
Saerys looked down again. It would not do for her to question the king. “I will be forever grateful.”
Daeron nodded at that. “Be grateful if you must.” He squeezed her hand. “Do you think you will be happy?”
She had spent so long preparing herself merely to survuve marriage that the possibility of happiness still managed to unsettle her whenever someone spoke of it plainly. She looked up with a small smile and nodded. “I think I will be very happy.”
“Good.” Daeron’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, a lingering tension eased from the king's shoulders. “You know, you remind me so much of Myriah. If your marriage with Baelor takes the same cadence, you shall both be happy indeed.”
She felt the wheelhouse begin to slow and took in another deep breath. As they neared the steps of the sept, Daeron gave her hand a little squeeze. “It is time.”
She had never seen a sept so full. The cavernous space was filled with onlookers trying to get a glimpse of her. But Saerys only had eyes for one as she took the king's arm and made her way through the crowd.
Baelor stood atop the high steps beside the High Septon, framed between the Father and the Mother. Black velvet and crimson caught the noon light, the broad red sash across his chest stitched with threads of gold. The sight of him threatened to steal the breath from her lungs. Maekar next to him gave her a slight nod and a rare smile.
Baelor straightened the instant she came into view. Something akin to awe broke cleanly across his carefully maintained composure. “Gods,” he breathed.
His father chuckled at the look on his face, but oh how she was a vision in ivory silk, patterns of red and gold dragon scales embroidered over her waist and shoulders, Rubies at her ears, and throat, crowned with the diadem he’d gifted to her moons before.
A smile lit Saerys’ face as their eyes met and Baelor once again felt that chord pull around his heart as she made her way up the steps, to him.
Once Saerys joined him, her hand grazing his, he led them up the final steps. Once they reached the final step she was finally able to take him in, the joy in his eyes, the way his shoulders seemed to ease an unseen burden in her presence. He leaned his forehead to hers for but a moment before he nodded to the High Septon.
The Septon began the words. “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”
Saerys looked to him as he unfurled a stunning velvet and brocade cloak of black and crimson, her eyes widened as she recognized it as the one Myriah had shown her, the queen's hands moving lovingly over the dragon embroidery, the very one Daeron had brought her under his care with.
The weight of it settled across her like history itself. Saerys’ closed her eyes for a moment as she felt Baelor’s hands linger at her shoulders.
He stepped away just a beat too late as the Septon began again. “Your Graces, My lords, my ladies, we stand here before gods and men to witness this union of man and wife, in the Light of the Seven."
Saerys’ gaze locked on his as they reached for one another. Baelor began to smooth his thumbs over the backs of her hands. The simple gesture settled something inside her. Months ago she would have stood unsteady before a stranger, instead she stood before a man she knew. She knew the gentleness of his hands, the quiet patience he carried into every room, the way he steadied her. That knowledge calmed her more than all the blessings of the Seven combined.
The septon drew out a red ribbon and they raised their hands to him as he began again.
“Let it be known that Baelor of House Targaryen and Saerys of House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul, now and forever.” Saerys inhaled deeply as the septon wrapped the ribbon round their hands. “Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder." Baelor’s shoulders straightened just a touch.
The Septon gestured that they raise their hands higher. "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon each other and say the words.”
Saerys and Baelor began, the certainty in Baelor’s voice giving strength to Saerys’ own. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger."
"I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."
"I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”
Baelor’s gaze turned molten as she uttered the word “mine”. She’d barely finished her vows when she felt his free hand come up to cup her cheek as he declared, "With this kiss, I pledge my love." He pulled her close, careful restraint gone as his lips found hers.
Oh thank the seven, Saerys thought as she felt her back arch as Baelor leaned over her. Thank the gods Baelor had the foresight to kiss her senseless the night before so she was prepared. The way his lips felt as they moved over hers, sweet and sure. She might’ve melted into the steps of the sept had she no prior inkling of what was coming.
Applause, cheers and laughter rippled through the crowd. Saerys smiled into the kiss as she brought her hand to Baelor’s cheek. This time she was the one to pull away first, Baelor leaned his forehead against hers mirroring her smile. “Ñuha dōna ābrazȳrys,” he whispered, his eyes warm. Now those words she knew, “my sweet wife,” having heard Daeron refer to Myriah similarly.
The words settled through her as Baelor finally drew back just enough to look upon her fully once more, his expression carrying the same quiet wonder that had followed her through the ceremony from the moment she first stepped into view.
Around them the great Sept shimmered with noise and movement, lutes and strings tuning, silks whispering across stone, the low thunder of voices swelling ever louder, yet Saerys scarcely heard any of it. Baelor’s thumb brushed softly against her knuckles once more, grounding and familiar, the last lingering remnants of her trembling finally stilled. He held her hands as though reluctant to lose even that small connection before the eyes of half the realm. As though after all these months of restraint he still found the reality of her difficult to believe.
And perhaps she understood the feeling, even now, standing cloaked in their colors at his side, with the blessings of gods and men settling over them both, some part of her still expected to wake from it. She had asked for good and kind, never in her wildest dreams had she imagined this.
Above the gathered crowd, beside his queen, King Daeron watched the newly wed couple in silence while applause rolled outward through the sept beneath vaulted crystal and candlelight.
Baelor still held onto Saerys as though he might be asked to surrender her, even though he’d just declared her as his for all the realm to see. His gaze was fixed upon her with the same quiet intensity Daeron had watched steadily undo his eldest son over the past moons.
Baelor had been altered in ways only a father might notice, different from the stiff dutiful way he’d held himself the last time he’d been on the sept steps. He was not diminished by this love, but steadied. The careful vigilance his eldest son had carried for so many years seemed softer now at the edges, eased by the simple certainty of the young woman standing beside him.
And Saerys—Gods, the girl was transformed.
Not merely beautiful, though she was certainly that, but unguarded in a way Daeron realized he had scarcely ever seen her before. The careful wariness she had carried into King’s Landing seemed finally absent beneath the warmth of Baelor’s attention, as though some part of her had at last accepted that she no longer needed to brace herself for harm.
Beside him Myriah’s hand slipped quietly into his own. Daeron felt suddenly as though something deep within the bones of his house had begun to be set right. Not healed entirely — perhaps such things never truly did where Targaryens were concerned — but eased, like a long festering ache had finally begun to heal cleanly at the edges.
Since Saerys arrived at the Keep, the sight of them together had stirred some strange disquiet within him, some half-formed memory threatening to rise whenever Baelor looked upon Saerys with that terrible gentleness, whenever Saerys turned instinctively toward him as though seeking light.
Too much like old songs, like old griefs. Here though, at last, the story had bent another way.
The prince had reached her in time. Not bound helplessly by duty while she suffered beside another man. Neither of them condemned to spend a lifetime watching sorrow hollow the other. No love left to sour quietly into tragedy while the realm looked elsewhere.
Baelor stood before gods and men alike with his cloak draped across Saerys’ shoulders, unquestionably his, while she looked upon him not with obligation, not even gratitude, but with the kind of adoring trust that could only be happily given.
And in the Sept of Baelor the Blessed, beneath prismatic light and the echoes of sacred vows, Daeron hoped an old restlessness in the blood of his house might finally begin to settle. Perhaps the dour melody of their history was not wholly doomed to repeat itself.
Perhaps, if the gods were merciful, a different kind of song might begin instead.
