*And I'd give up forever to touch you
'Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to Heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't wanna go home right now
Summary: Prince Baelor Targaryen survives a blow that should have killed him. The realm calls it a miracle. The prince is less sure. Returning to a life that no longer feels like his own, he is haunted by dreams of a lonely meadow, a black dragon, and the memory of a woman he desperately clings to. Perhaps dreams are not always just dreams.
Author's note: Wrote this after that fateful episode and then, being my own worst critic, was too chicken to actually post it. Fanfiction is new to me, but I spend an unreasonable amount of time reading (Baelor) fics, and I might as well contribute something. So... here goes. English isn't my first language, but I really wanted to share this with the fandom. Please be kind. I'm losing my fanfic virginity here! 💕
Word count: ± 8k (yeah well..)
Content warnings: A little Inception meets Arwen x Aragorn dream sequence sort of thing. Features mentions of death and dying, some PG-13 intimacy, Maekar swearing because that's simply what Maekar does, and Baelor having a full-blown existential crisis after waking up. But there is a wholesome ending, I promise.
(Still trying to save that man...)
—※—
The prince’s dream always begins the same.
Always the same meadow.
Always the same mist.
Always the same terrible certainty. It has been plaguing him for weeks now…
Each time the meadow lies surrounded by a forest so dense with ancient trees and thorny undergrowth that no light seems able to reach the forest floor. A wall of green, almost black, as though the woods themselves want to conceal the horror that waits at the heart of the grassy field.
Today the prince notices something is different…
Until now, the dream had unfolded with him as a bodiless bystander. This time he’s no longer merely watching. He stands at the edge of the meadow, feeling his actual body, touching the grass, the mud. Sensing the cold of the foggy morning as a shiver runs down his spine.
As always he is involuntarily drawn towards the center of the field. Wisps of thick, curling mist drift by like clouds, concealing something from view. The cold grey light of morning makes it even harder to see anything amidst the fog. The wet smell of last night's downpour still lingers in the air.
The same thought crosses his mind, as it always does. He has always loved the scent that lingers in the air after a downpour. The way it sharpens every other scent. The way it makes the world feel clean. The way it makes him feel alive. Yet this is different. The air is cold, thick, and wet against his skin, as though the meadow itself seeks to pull him under. Beneath the scent of rain lurks something else. Something foul. Still, he has no choice but to continue. The prince knows what awaits him.
A sudden gust of wind lifts the fog just for a moment, and there it lies. Although he has dreamt this many times, he is still startled and marvels at the sheer size of the creature. There, in the middle of the field, lies the form of a mighty black dragon. Slain. Its wings are shattered. Its body is broken. Its maw slightly agape. The beast is dead.
The prince notices he is standing closer than in previous dreams. If he reaches out, he can touch it.
Suddenly, he catches sight of the large figure of a man kneeling beside the dragon's head. Dressed like a knight, wearing hauberk and gorget, yet looking utterly forlorn. His hands are resting on one side of the giant scaled snout. The knight looks bloodied and broken himself as he mumbles the same things over and over:
"Wake up, Ser. Wake up."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
The words are close by, as if they are meant for the prince. He knows this man, the hedge knight. A true knight. The prince wants to say something to comfort him.
I need good men, Ser Duncan. The realm needs good men...
A sudden scream, high and terrible, pierces the air. The image of the dragon and the hedge knight fades as Prince Baelor Targaryen feels himself falling, the meadow swallowing him whole.
Only darkness remains.
How much time has passed, he does not know. There had been pain and his fingers had felt like wood, but no longer. A dull light seeps through his lashes as he carefully opens his eyes.
A numbing cold surrounds his body. It is the mist again. The prince is surrounded by a thick white mist that seems to shroud everything, even him.
The meadow still?
There seems to be no end to it.
Sudden hushed voices startle him. Their sound is far away and distorted as though his entire being is submerged underneath icecold water.
From the corner of his eye he notices a light amidst the endless dull white. Growing brighter as it beckons him, drawing him like a moth to a flame. The dulled voices grow louder and mingle into one. Still, Baelor thinks he can discern voices of those he had loved and those he had lost. The thought of it feels comforting.
The prince becomes aware of a presence approaching from within the light. Whispering his name. Inviting him. Welcoming him.
"Baelor."
Although he can't see it, he feels he must be standing before the Stranger. Folds of radiance are coiling about the prince’s feet, around his limbs. Taking hold of his very being. "Let go," it tells him gently. "Let go, Baelor."
Though the sensation frightens him at first, it soon becomes strangely peaceful. Filling him with warmth as he starts to move towards it.
Another voice, gentle, one he does not immediately recognize, echoes through the mist. A breeze brushes past him, making him turn from the light. For a fleeting moment, the white haze lifts.
There, standing amidst the fog, is a young woman.
Her long hair cascades in waves over her body. Wearing nothing but a simple shift. Strands of hair cling to her temples, dampened by sweat. Her face looks pale, dark shadows beneath tired eyes that are searching frantically for something…
For someone.
She sees Baelor. Although startled at first, relief quickly softens her weary yet beautiful face. "There you are, my dragon. I thought I'd lost you."
Where did you come from?
From the light, more tendrils of radiance reach for the prince. A powerful pull makes him turn back towards it. Laying claim to him. All those times he had danced with death upon the battlefield, he had been aware of the Stranger's presence. Knowing that sooner or later the god would come for him.
Why fight it?
If my time has come, what use is there in warring against it? My entire life has been spent in service to others. To the crown. To the realm. To my family. If you will have my service now, Stranger, then let it be so. I am not afraid.
"Don't go, my dragon."
“You have to try.” Her voice again. Gentle. Pleading. And so familiar.
Something inside him stirs. For the first time, he wavers, resisting the mist. Resisting the pull. Suddenly, the bright light no longer feels inviting. It feels cold. Distant. Wrong.
“Let go, Baelor,” the combined voice tells him again, almost soothing. It doesn't command him. Yet the pull of the light becomes stronger. The coils of radiance start to absorb him. Still, the prince feels a strong need to look over his shoulder.
There she is. Closer now. Almost within reach. A careful smile upon her face.
“Please, do not give in.”
“Fight.”
Baelor feels it. A spark. A fire from within. His fire.
No!
With a great effort, he tears himself free from the pull of the blinding white radiance and turns completely towards her. She stands waiting.
"You are brave, my dragon."
"Fight!"
The woman stretches out her hand towards him. Power surges through his body, power he had thought long lost. Baelor reaches out.
And he takes your hand.
Somewhere in the meadow, the fallen dragon stirs. A deep rumbling breath escapes him. The beast opens his bicolored eyes to the light of the new morning.
—※—
Baelor wakes with sweat upon his brow and a scream caught in his throat. He feels immensely cold. A shiver runs involuntarily through his body. For a brief moment, he does not know where he is.
The soft greyish light of approaching dawn fills the room. The great bed with its silk sheets stands in stark contrast to the all-consuming brightness he had been battling only moments before. The peaceful figure lying beside him is an even greater one.
There you are. He recognizes you.
As you stir awake, you slowly turn towards him, smiling as you rest a gentle hand upon his chest. "It's alright," you murmur, caressing him over his heart. "The meadow again?" It is more a statement than a question.
Baelor nods.
You move closer, resting your head against his chest, and his arm instinctively comes around you. Familiar in doing so.
As he settles beside you, a sharp pain suddenly splits the back of his head. With his free hand, he reaches for the spot.
"Careful," you tell him, looking up at his face with concern. "The maesters say you shouldn't touch it."
He relaxes and presses a kiss to your forehead. Your skin is cool and soft. Gently, he rests his cheek against the crown of your head. The scent of your hair reminds him of all kinds of wildflowers.
"I'm still dreaming," he sighs.
"Then this is a good dream," you reply with a smile.
"The fallen dragon in the meadow. It was me. I was dying. It felt so real." Baelor releases a trembling breath he did not realize he had been holding.
"I know.” You answer. “The maesters say you came very close."
"I saw you there. I heard your voice amidst the vast white nothingness." He pauses. "You reached for me and told me to fight. I took your hand." Baelor smiles faintly, covering the soft hand that rests on his chest with his larger one. "I have the feeling I owe you my life. I am grateful."
"There were many skilled people involved in saving you. I'm sure they are more deserving of your gratitude. Though I must admit, me saving you has a rather nice ring to it. And if that is so, then I am the one who is grateful."
You smile softly. "I think you saved me as well."
He gathers you properly into his arms, breathing in the flowery scent that seems to cling to your hair and skin. It is intoxicating.
Baelor holds you a little tighter, causing you to gasp softly. Suddenly, he is afraid that if he lets go, you will disappear. Gently, he cups your face and carefully draws you closer, lifting your chin to kiss you. Softly at first. Almost hesitantly. As though it is the first time your lips meet. He pulls away, only for a moment, to look at you. Your eyes are wide as you blink up at him, a little bashful.
"You are a marvel," Baelor whispers.
Strong fingers reverently trace the gentle curve of your jaw, the apple of your cheek. His thumb brushes over your lower lip. You part your lips. A careful smile. But an inviting one. As your smile widens, one cheek dimples ever so slightly.
Baelor quickly closes the small distance between you and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Hungry for you. Hungry for life. He no longer feels cold.
—※—
Gentle waves wash over the sand, as the two of you are walking along the beach, their sound peaceful and soothing. Just like the days you spent together.
Baelor watches as you wade through the shallows, feet bare, skirts gathered above your knees, lost in thought as you stoop to collect seashells washed ashore. He hears you mutter softly, a little annoyed, as a loose strand of hair escapes and blows into your face. The prince smiles. You look up and smile back. Your face is bright with delight. That beautiful dimple in your cheek again.
Where did you come from?
Behind him, the usually menacing castle of Dragonstone almost appears peaceful, like a sleeping dragon curled upon the cliffs. Content and untroubled by the woes of the world.
The prince reclines against a cushion nestled into the grass-covered dune. He can smell the wildflowers growing nearby as a soft breeze gently stirs them. He cannot remember there being so many flowers upon the island.
From the corner of his eye, he notices a robed figure approaching. In one hand the man carries a candle, in the other a small flask. It strikes him as odd. A sharp pain flashes through the back of his head. Sunlight catches the chains around the man's neck.
Maester Yormwell?
Coming to a halt, the maester towers over the prince. He offers no greeting. He merely sighs and places the candle and the flask beside Baelor in the sand.
Milk of the poppy?
"I have a headache, Yormwell, but it is a minor one. I have no need of the tonic." The prince frowns. "And is that candle truly necessary in broad daylight?" No answer.
The sea continues its gentle rhythm. Yet the maester says nothing. An uneasy feeling settles in the prince's stomach.
Baelor turns to call your name. Suddenly he realizes he does not know it.
The thought strikes him harder than any blow could have. He knows the sound of your laughter. He knows the feel of your hand in his. He knows the scent of flowers in your hair. He knows you. Yet he does not know your name.
How can this be?
You look up then. Hair flowing in the breeze, suddenly wearing the same shift from the meadow. Mist rolls in from the sea behind you as you walk towards your prince. You kneel before him and cup his face in both your hands. Then you kiss him. Deeply. Ardently. As though trying to memorize him.
A soft whimper escapes you when at last you pull away. Still, you do not let go. However, something begins to draw you back. Forcing you to release him.
"No..." The word leaves him in a whisper.
The mist thickens. It swallows the shore. The dunes. Dragonstone. Maester Yormwell. And finally, you. Only the candle remains. Its lonely flame flickering in the white nothingness.
"It's time to wake, my dragon."
Baelor hears your voice one last time. Soft. Tender. And unbearably sad.
"Goodbye."
—※—
The prince opens his eyes.
Though his vision is blurred, he looks around the room. It is dark, and flashes of yellow candlelight almost blind him.
Where are you, my love?
A sudden gasp, followed by quickly receding footsteps and hushed voices. Baelor tries to focus on the room he is in. There is a burning sensation every time the light touches his eyes, as if he is staring directly into the sun.
"Your grace?" A soft male voice, almost a whisper. A bright light closing in.
"The light… it hurts my eyes." A whisper. Baelor’s throat feels incredibly sore.
"Seven be praised. Go wake the king. The Grand Maester. Wake them all! At once, boy!"
Most of the light moves away again. A soft thud as something is placed on the cabinet beside his bed. Baelor knows where he is. The Red Keep. Home.
"Some water, please, Maester Yormwell."
A sound that is half relief, half disbelief escapes the man as he steps closer. A hand gently supports Baelor’s back, lifting him slightly from his pillows, while a cup is brought to his lips.
"Drink, your grace. Careful now."
The familiar voice of the maester who has served him for years. Baelor tries to focus, but he sees only a vague figure leaning over him. He tries to sit up a bit more. Pain explodes through the back of his head and down his spine. He collapses back into the pillows with a groan.
"No, your grace. Do not exert yourself." Yormwell’s hands guide him back down carefully.
"You have been asleep for almost four moons, my prince." A pause. "We can only wait to see what effect the blow and your long slumber have had on your body."
The blow. The trial. Ashford. It comes back in pieces. Muddy fields. Knights who remembered their vows. Blood on steel. Blood against blood. And him. The fallen dragon.
All his dreams of the meadow had warned him of that moment. Nightmares, really. And you? You were never there. Just a shadow his mind had created to survive those months in the dark. A sudden pain tightens in his chest. Baelor releases a shaking breath.
"Rest, your grace," the maester says softly, misunderstanding the pain.” Your family will want to see you soon.”
The prince closes his eyes. Darkness envelopes him.
When he opens them again, morning has come. Slowly his eyesight adjusts to the light. He finds his mother kneeling at the side of his bed, gently holding his hand. The queen has been crying. A relieved smile crinkles the corners of her eyes. Behind her his father the king sits in a chair.
On the other side of the bed are his sons. Baelor smiles at Mataryss. Then looks at Valarr. The boy he remembered is gone, a man has taken its place. “Father…” The young man releases the breath he’s been holding.
I know my son.
Carefully Baelor reaches out, concealing how much pain and effort it takes him to lift his arm, and Valarr takes his hand. For now it’s enough.
After a short while the king ushers everyone from the room. “Rest son, your brothers, especially Maekar will want to see you, too.” They leave him with the promise of coming back soon. The prince stares up at the ceiling.
—※—
In the afternoon Maekar sits down in a chair beside his eldest brother’s bed. His fair brows drawn together in a familiar scowl, staring down at his own hands.
The silence in the room is tangible.
Baelor sits carefully perched up against a couple of large pillows. His body is very weak, aching all over. Still, against the maester’s wishes, he ordered the servants to help him up.
"Forgive me brother." Maekar suddenly breaks the silence. Something near to a tear escapes his eye. He notices it, and quickly wipes it away in embarrassment.
My brother. Always the soldier. Always strong.
"Don’t go soft on me now, Maekar," Baelor says weakly. The attempt at teasing is there, though his voice barely carries. His throat is still sore.
The younger prince huffs. "Never been accused of going soft in my entire life." A wry smile flickers across his face, gone almost immediately. Silence again. They sit in it for a while. Baelor studies his brother. There is relief in Maekar’s eyes. And something heavier beneath it. Something unspoken.
"You were protecting your son." Baelor tells him, at last. "You didn't know Ser Duncan would spare his life."
Maekar looks away. "Those little brats, the lot of them. Going around breaking girls fingers, lying to save their own sorry skins. Egg running away like that, twice."
He inhales sharply. Shaking his head a little. "Dyanna would have known what to do with them. She always did.” A breath. “I was only ever good at making babes, not raising them." There is no humor in it. Only the truth. Maekar sighs.
Baelor says nothing. He simply reaches out and gently pats Maekar’s hand. A steadying gesture.
Maekar tenses. Then, slowly, covers Baelor’s hand with his own. The brothers stay like that for just a second. Both men withdraw, almost at the same time, as if the moment itself had been too exposed.
Maekar leans back in his chair with a strained grunt. "Fucking Ashford." He mutters under his breath.
Baelor raises an eyebrow.
"Some idiot yanked me off my saddle with a lance mid charge,” Maekar huffs, throwing his older brother a knowing look.
"Hmm. It tends to happen during a tourney, brother."
"Agreed. However, this fucker managed to do it while standing on the ground. I never saw it coming. Maesters say the angle cracked my ribs pretty bad."
"That is unfortunate. He sounds like a deft fighter."
"A fucking show-off more like."
"Good thing you knocked some sense into him."
Maekar stares at his brother in disbelief. Then scoffs.
A sudden laugh escapes Baelor. Too sharp. He winces, immediately regretting it.
"Too fucking soon brother." Maekar rumbles in response. Yet he can't help but laugh as well. Pressing a hand to his sore ribs.
"Look at us," Baelor murmurs. "What happened to Ser Duncan?"
"I let him take Egg as his squire. Wandering Westeros. Eating hard salt beef and sleeping in ditches. Don't look at me like that, the boy sends a raven sometimes.” A tired breath escapes him.
His mother and I named him after the conqueror but he wants to live like a bald beggar, squiring for a hedge knight. Might be good for him though."
"Ashford has changed you, Maekar."
I know it has changed me…
“Well, don’t tell anybody.”
“You have my word, brother.”
“You need your rest.” Maekar grunts as he stands up and makes for the door.
“Maeker,” Baelor calls after his brother hoarsely. “Let's try not to face each other in battle again."
"Let's fucking not!" The corner of his mouth lifts up slightly. Then he leaves.
Silence falls again, it is lighter now. A relief, if only for a moment.
Baelor leans back into his pillows. His gaze drifts to the window. To the daylight. To the world he has returned to. A gentle breeze comes in through the open window. Touching his face.
Wildflowers?
The prince thinks of you. And in that moment, Baelor understands, with a cold clarity settling into his bones, that this time he truly is awake. Yet, you will never be here. And there is nothing he can do about it.
—※—
The road to recovery proves longer and far more difficult than anyone around the prince seems willing to acknowledge. Still, he presses on. Slowly. Painfully.
The maesters call it remarkable. The realm calls it a miracle. Baelor calls it survival. He pours every ounce of frustration into the exercises prescribed by the maesters. Into rebuilding the strength of his limbs that no longer feel entirely like his own. Into sword drills until his muscles burn and his vision blurs. Into his duties as Hand of the King and heir to the Iron Throne. If he keeps moving, perhaps he will stop noticing that a part of him is missing. That something inside him is gone and left behind in the dreamworld, with you.
Still, the realm rejoices. The gods, they say, have spared a good man. A just man. A prince who stood for honor and for justice, defending a hedge knight, even against his own blood. Songs are sung of Baelor Targaryen at Ashford Meadow. Lords praise his courage. Smallfolk call his survival a miracle bestowed by the Seven themselves.
Baelor is less certain. He faced the Stranger. He remembers the cold. He remembers the light. And sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, he wonders whether some part of him never truly returned. Or perhaps something else returned in his place. Either way, he no longer feels at home within himself. He still carries out his duties with the same diligence he always has. Though his temper is shorter than it once was. His patience is thinner. He finds little cause for laughter these days.
His family notices, of course. How could they not? Yet what can they do? More than once, his sons enter his solar only to find their father staring into nothing. A scroll open beneath one hand, unread.
Once, Valarr finds his father standing at the window overlooking Blackwater Bay. Standing far too close to the edge. For a brief, terrible moment, his eldest son feels the urge to grab him. After that, for a while, someone is almost always nearby.
Valarr and Matarys find time to read quietly in the corner while Baelor works. Even Aerys and Rhaegel spend more time in his company than before. His mother brings her needlework. His father begins keeping him after council meetings, pouring them both a cup of wine and pretending there is still state business left to discuss.
Maekar visits often. More often than Baelor remembers him ever doing. Whenever the younger prince returns from Summerhall, he simply drags his brother to the training yard. "Only training swords today. No maces."
Baelor always huffs at the jest. Yet he goes.
They all mean well, so he lets them. They are trying to bring him back. And because the prince loves them, Baelor tries his best to pretend his family has succeeded. It only makes him feel more alone.
How can he explain it? How can he tell them that somewhere between life and death, he had found love? And then lost it again. How can he tell them that he mourns a woman who has never existed?
The echo of your voice lingers like mist across Blackwater Bay. Whenever the wind moves through the gardens, Baelor thinks of you. The memory of your face haunts him every waking moment. And at night, he dreams. Always the meadow. Always the dragon. And always you. He yearns for the moment he can shut his eyes and be close to you again.
In the beginning, you seem to know he is there. Whenever Baelor enters the dream, you look up. You smile. Sometimes you laugh softly, as though he has said something amusing. Sometimes you sit nestled safely between the dragon's great wings, reading a book whose words he can never quite make out. Sometimes you sing, your voice carrying across the meadow like a distant memory. And sometimes, you simply close your eyes and rest beneath the creature's sheltering wings.
The dragon is always there. No longer dead. No longer broken. It lies in the grass watching over you with its mismatched eyes, one blue and one a warm brown, its vast black wings keeping the cold mists at bay.
Baelor calls out to you every time. But you never answer. Perhaps you cannot hear him. And yet, he is convinced you know he is there.
Though the prince does not know your name, in his thoughts he begins calling you something else.
My wildflower.
At first, Baelor tells himself it is enough simply to see you. To hear your laughter carried across the meadow. To watch you reading beneath the dragon's wing, or sleeping peacefully beside the great black beast.
It is not enough.
Once, in that strange place between life and death, Baelor had touched you. He remembers the warmth of your skin. The softness of your body pressed against his own. The way you had clung to his hand when he thought he was dying.
Now, whenever the prince tries to reach you, the mist rises. It curls around his legs. His waist. His chest. He fights it. Every time. He reaches for the shape of you through the cold white fog. Sometimes he thinks he sees you reaching back. Then everything disappears. When he wakes, he finds himself cold and alone. And every morning feels like another loss.
As the months pass, the dreams become less frequent. Less clear. Sometimes the meadow does not come at all. Sometimes he hears only a distant voice. Sometimes he wakes unable to remember your face. Those mornings are the worst.
In desperation, the prince orders the royal gardeners to fill the gardens with wildflowers. Beds upon beds of them. They look strangely out of place among the carefully shaped hedges and imported roses. Many fail to take root. Some wither within days. Baelor just orders them replanted. Again. And again. And again. Each wilted flower feels like a small betrayal. A reminder of a voice he has never truly heard. Of lips he has never truly kissed. Of a life that has never truly been his. You were never more than a ghost.
Eventually, he stops visiting the gardens altogether.
Duty and honour prevent him from doing anything truly drastic. Yet the heavy feeling of hopelessness is constricting itself around his heart like a vine. And the more the dreams of you start to fade, the more it pulls tight. Squeezing the life out of him.
Perhaps I am the ghost now?
For the first time in Baelor’s life, oblivion holds a certain appeal.
—※—
More than a year has passed since the trial at Ashford. Baelor stares at the painted map spread across the council table. He does not truly see it.
King Daeron and the lords of the small council are discussing trade. The sickness that had plagued the Free Cities appears to be waning. Ships are returning to their usual routes. Coin is flowing once more.
"He will remain in Lys," Maekar is saying. "The outbreak seems contained, but I will not risk bringing it back to Westeros. They assure me the prince is safe enough. Let Aerion contemplate his own insignificance a little longer."
A few muted chuckles circle the table. One stern look from Maekar silences them.
Baelor contributes when expected. Nods when required. Years at court have made him skilled at appearing attentive. Beyond the open windows, King's Landing murmurs below.
A sudden gust of wind sweeps through the chamber. Parchments scatter. Several lords curse as pages slide across the floor. One small sheet is carried all the way across the room, landing at the feet of a lord who has only just entered. Yet Baelor notices none of it. Because he hears your voice.
"Hold fast, my dragon."
Soft. Close. As though you stand beside him. His head turns before he can stop himself. For a heartbeat, Baelor almost expects to see you there. But, all he sees is the newly arrived lord, placing the small piece of parchment on the table.
The king is speaking again.
“My lords, settle down. The crisis has been averted. The windows will be closed.” The king nods at one of the servants. “Let us continue. The infrastructure of the city.”
A new Master of Works is appointed. The lord who just entered bows. Baelor doesn’t catch his name, although he has read it many times. The prince forces himself to focus. What does he remember?
A respectable house. Loyal. Prosperous through trade. Something about effectively improving the infrastructure around his lands. The council has appointed him to oversee the drafting of the architectural plans and developing structural solutions for the older parts of the city. His lady wife and some of his children will accompany him to King's Landing. The king speaks of introductions at court.
The lord thanks the king and the Hand with a deep bow and withdraws.
Baelor only nods.
By evening the prince has forgotten the lord’s name again. Yet your voice still resonates inside his mind.
—※—
The next morning, the throne room is crowded with petitioners, courtiers, and visiting nobles. The king sits upon the Iron Throne, listening with the patience of a man who has spent most of his life hearing other people's problems.
Queen Myriah sits below the throne amongst her ladies, occupied with their own soft conversation. Only looking up whenever something particularly interesting catches her attention.
Baelor stands at his father's side. Present. Attentive. At least, that is how he appears.
The newly appointed Master of Works approaches the dais with his family. His wife rests one hand lightly upon his arm. Both bow deeply.
"Your graces," the lord says.
"Rise," king Daeron replies pleasantly. "And welcome to King's Landing."
"May I present my wife, your grace."
A handsome woman, perhaps past her youth, though age has treated her kindly. She curtsies gracefully.
"And our two youngest children." She beckons them forward.
The king smiles. "Seven children, if I recall correctly?"
"Yes, your grace,” the Master of Works confirms. “Six sons and one daughter."
King Daeron chuckles kindly. "A productive marriage indeed."
A ripple of laughter moves through the hall.
The lord beams. "My youngest son is eager to train, your grace. He will make a fine knight one day." A proud youth steps forward and bows. "Perhaps even a place amongst the Kingsguard," the Master of Works continues. The boy's ears redden.
The king laughs warmly. "A noble ambition."
Baelor hears the words but he scarcely registers them.
"And, of course, our only daughter."
A breeze moves through the hall. Gentle and unexpected. There are no open windows. The scent of wildflowers drift past him and Baelor’s heart stumbles. For the briefest of moments he is back in the meadow. Mist curling through the grass. Your laughter. The dragon, ever watchful.
Slowly, Baelor lifts his gaze. A young woman steps forward. Head bowed. Hands folded before her.
There you are.
"My king and queen. Your grace."
Your voice reaches a part of the prince that Ashford had left broken. Everything else disappears. The courtiers. The throne. The noise of the hall. All gone. You lift your head. One cheek dimples slightly as you smile at him. The exact same smile he remembers.
Seven save me.
Baelor's breath catches. You are here. Not in the meadow. Not beyond the mist. Not in a dream. But here. Real and alive. For one terrible moment, he wonders whether he has truly lost his mind.
The queen is speaking now. Baelor tries to focus. He forces himself to listen. "I can see why your parents brought you to court, my dear," queen Myriah says warmly. "A beautiful flower such as yourself should not be hidden away."
Your cheeks colour slightly at the queen's praise.
"And not yet married, I understand?" His mother continues, inquisitive, not unkind. A few amused smiles appear amongst the courtiers.
You lower your gaze modestly. "No, my queen."
"Remarkable," king Daeron muses. "Surely at least half the eligible men in your father's lands must have tried for your hand." Gentle laughter and murmurs of agreement rise from the hall at the king’s words.
Your father smiles proudly, though a little sad. "Our daughter has had little opportunity to encourage such pursuits of late, my king."
The queen tilts her head. "Oh?"
Your lady mother’s expression softens immediately as she looks at you. "Our daughter was gravely ill last year. A fever unlike any the maesters could explain." Her hand finds yours. "We thought we were going to lose her."
The words send a chill through Baelor. You had been dying. Just as he had. The realization strikes him so suddenly he nearly forgets where he is.
"We thank the gods our daughter made a remarkable recovery," your mother continues. "But we felt we could not part with her just yet."
"I can hardly blame you," the queen says kindly. Satisfied with the answer. She briefly glances at her eldest son.
All this time, Baelor remains frozen. He knows he is staring but he is unable to look away. He knows you.
Gods. You exist.
That smile. The little dimple in your cheek. The sound of your voice. Bealor remembers all of it. And far more intimate things besides. Your soft lips pressed against his. The way you feel underneath him, the sounds you make when he loves you. Heat rises to his face. Embarrassed by his thoughts, the prince looks away, briefly. Trying to collect himself. Trying very hard not to look like a man who has seen a ghost.
"My eldest son seems quite enraptured, young lady."
The king's amused voice snaps Baelor back to reality. A wave of laughter moves through the hall. Apparently his father had asked him something. Baelor closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them he is his composed self again.
"Your grace," he says smoothly, though he feels like a complete idiot.
King Daeron's grin only widens for a moment, but he decides to spare his son further blushes and changes the subject. Directing the conversation to the marvelous infrastructure of your family’s homeland.
After a while Baelor risks another glance. He finds you're looking directly at him. Not boldly. Not quite. There is something else in your gaze. Something searching. A question in your eyes. Recognition even. As though you know him too.
But that cannot be. It cannot. Can it?
Eventually the audience comes to an end. Your family bows and withdraws. Another lord steps forward towards the dais prepared to make his petition. You trail behind your parents and brother. Just before you leave the great hall you look over your shoulder and meet the bicolored gaze of the prince again. Baelor notices you press your lips together before you're unable to repress a smile.
You disappear through the great doors. Baelor's gaze lingers upon the empty space you have left behind. Unable to look away. Unable to think of anything else.
—※—
As the day unfolds Baelor isn’t quite sure what to do. He finds himself unable to do anything at all. He has dismissed a meeting concerning the grain reserves. Vaguely recalling apologizing to the lord responsible for arranging it. There had been some excuses about fatigue.
Fatigue…
As if exhaustion was the reason his hands still trembled.
You exist.
The thought returns again and again. Baelor’s entire being burns with the desire to go to you. To run, not walk. Yet he cannot simply seek you out. He is a stranger to you. The mere thought alone is absurd. And yet… The way you had looked at him.
The prince realizes only after several moments that he has wandered to one of the entrances of the royal gardens. He stands beneath the shade of an archway, staring at the sunlit flowers beyond. Unable to move.
A group of ladies emerge from the gardens, their laughter fades as they notice the crown prince. They curtsy quickly and pass him. One of them stops. His mother.
Queen Myriah studies her eldest son for a moment. There is no alarm in her face. Only concern. "How are you, my son?"
The question catches him entirely off guard. Baelor opens his mouth. Then closes it again. "I..." he begins. He does not know how to answer.
The queen slips her arm through his. “Walk with me for a moment.” It is not a command. Not a question either. Baelor obeys. They walk in silence. The afternoon sun is bright but pleasant. Somewhere nearby, water trickles from a fountain. The sound is somewhat soothing to him. A soft breeze stirs the leaves overhead.
"You frightened me," the queen says at last.
Baelor glances at her. "In the throne room?"
She smiles faintly. "No. Long before that."
He says nothing.
"Your injury…” His mother continues. “After they finally brought you home, they told me there was little hope of you ever waking up again.” A heavy pause as she breaths in deeply.
“But then you opened your eyes. You came back to us. Yet, you have looked at everything this past year as though it belonged to someone else's life." She pats his hand gently. "Today, for the first time since you woke up after Ashford, you looked at something as though it mattered."
A thousand responses crowd his mind. None of them can be spoken. How can he explain that he has spent more than a year mourning a woman he has met in a dream.
"I am well, Mother."
The queen's expression tells him she does not believe him. Fortunately, she is spared the opportunity to say so. As they round the bend in the path, the Master of Works and his wife stand among the flowerbeds. They bow deeply.
"Your graces," the lord says pleasantly. "A lovely afternoon for a stroll."
"Indeed," queen Myriah replies as her face lights up.
Baelor scarcely hears them. Because you are standing behind your parents. And you are looking at him, a little startled but curious. As though you, too, are trying to understand something impossible.
"The gardens are extraordinary," you offer softly. "The wide array of wildflowers especially."
The queen's eyes flick briefly toward her son. "Indeed," she agrees. "They are particularly beautiful this time of day."
Baelor remains silent. He seems to be frozen to the ground again.
"The scent is lovely," you continue with a gentle smile directed at the queen. Yet, you carefully glance at the prince.
The queen gently pinches his arm. "My son knows these gardens better than anyone."
Baelor blinks as he tries not to stare.
His mother looks up at him and then at you. Observing something with a twinkle in her eyes. "I am certain he would be delighted to show them to you."
Your father immediately shakes his head with a respectful smile. "His grace is undoubtedly occupied with matters of state. My daughter would never wish to take up so much of the prince's valuable time."
"It would be my pleasure." The words leave Baelor's mouth so quickly that everyone stares at him. Heat rises to his face. He sounds like a green boy asking for his first dance.
Steady yourself!
He clears his throat. "That is... if the lady would do me the honor."
You look up at him. There is no mockery in your eyes. Only warmth. And something else. Something familiar.
"I would like that very much, your grace."
Baelor's heart pounds. "If your parents permit it, of course."
"Oh, they do." Queen Myriah says smoothly before anyone else can answer.
Your parents look momentarily bewildered.
His mother unhooks her arm from Baelor's and gives him a look he has not seen since he was a child. "Enjoy your walk, my son. Good day to you all." Then she departs, her guard in tow.
For a moment Baelor watches his mother go. He is almost certain she is smiling. Then he looks back at you and clears his throat. "This way," he says, gesturing toward one of the winding garden paths.
You smile and step away from your parents.
Behind you, Baelor vaguely registers the Master of Works and his Lady exchanging a rather baffled look before falling back. Keeping a respectful distance.
For a while, the two of you walk in silence. The prince has negotiated with lords, settled disputes between lands, and addressed the realm in his fathers name. Now, walking beside you, he finds himself unable to think of a single thing to say. Still, the silence is not uncomfortable.
The afternoon sun warms the stone beneath your feet. Bees and butterflies drift lazily among the flowers. Somewhere nearby, he hears the sound of the waves.
Baelor glances toward the flowerbeds. He is amazed to see that the wildflowers have taken surprisingly well. After all the times he had ordered them replanted.
"I love wildflowers," you say softly.
Baelor almost smiles. I know... The words rise so naturally that he nearly speaks them aloud. Instead, he clasps his hands behind his back. "I am glad," is all he manages.
You continue walking. A breeze stirs the flowers around you. Their scent fills the air. At the edge of the gardens, the land falls away toward Blackwater Bay. The afternoon sun reflects on the waves. Turning the water to silver.
You rest your hands lightly upon the stone wall and look out over the sea. "I have only ever dreamed of seeing the sea this close," you tell him quietly.
Baelor stops. The wind shifts. For a moment he sees you wading through the shallows, collecting shells, as the waves crash against the cliffs of Dragonstone. He joins you at the wall. "Dreams can feel very real," he says carefully. Almost to himself.
You look up at him. Then you look back out over the water. "As we both know, your grace." There is no challenge in your voice. No accusation. Only understanding. The breath catches in Baelor’s throat. Neither of you speaks. A gull cries somewhere overhead.
Then you look up at him again and smile. Not the courteous smile one gives a prince. No, your smile. The one with the slight dimple in your cheek. The one Baelor has seen in his dreams so many times before.
You turn away from the wall and begin walking back through the flowers. Baelor follows. He tells himself not to stare. He fails. You are exactly as he remembers. The way you move. The way the wind catches your hair. Even that same loose strand. You tuck it back absentmindedly.
He has spent more than a year being convinced that none of it was real. That all of it had been a dream. And it had been a dream. Yet, here you are.
Without quite deciding to do so, Baelor takes a step towards you and reaches for your hand. The moment his fingers close around yours, something in his chest loosens. Your hand feels warm. Real. Exactly as he remembers.
You stop and look down at your joined hands. Then back up at him, somewhat hesitant. Yet, you do not pull away. "Your grace?" Your voice sounds a little breathy.
For the first time since Ashford, Baelor smiles without forcing himself to. You lower your gaze for a moment. Though you do not let go of his hand. "To be honest," you admit quietly, looking around you, "this is all rather intimidating."
"The gardens?" Baelor asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
A soft chuckle escapes you. "The court. King's Landing. You." You look up into his eyes, raising your eyebrows slightly.
The prince blinks. "Me?" Sounding amused.
"You are... well." You gesture vaguely toward him with your free hand. "You."
Despite himself, Baelor laughs. An actual laugh. "I see."
You smile again, a little nervous. "But being here with you..." You hesitate. "It feels right."
The words settle somewhere deep inside him. This cannot be explained. Not to your parents, who are no doubt watching from a distance and wondering why the prince of Dragonstone is holding their daughter's hand. Not to the court or his family. He can't even explain it to himself. And yet, standing here in the gardens, with you, Baelor realizes that he does not care.
He smiles again, softer this time. He should say something wise. Something princely. Instead, he hears himself tell you: "Then perhaps let us begin anew."
You tilt your head. A little confused.
"I believe that this is the part where two people properly introduce themselves."Baelor straightens slightly, adopting the formal expression that has served him so well all his life, though there is warmth in his eyes. He inclines his head in a small bow without letting go of your hand. "My name is Baelor."
You press your lips together as your smile slowly grows.
"I have developed a great fondness of wildflowers," he continues with mock gravity. "My youngest brother occasionally accuses me of being a show-off. I also happen to be the crown prince of Westeros, though I do not believe that fact entirely defines me."
A soft giggle escapes you.
Gods… He would know that sound anywhere.
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady."
You laugh then. Not politely. Not because he is a prince. Because you are happy. You squeeze his hand gently. Then, you take a step, closing the small distance that has remained between the two of you. Looking up into his beautiful mismatched eyes. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Baelor has heard your name spoken in the throne room this morning. And yet, somehow, that does not feel like enough. He wants to hear you say it. He wants this moment. His thumb brushes absentmindedly over your hand.
Your expression softens. "The pleasure is all mine, Baelor." You draw a breath.
"My name is..."
—※—
Your dream always begins the same.
A pale grey light washes over the meadow, draining the world of color. Wisps of mist curl around your bare feet as you walk through the familiar silence. The dark forest still surrounds the clearing, ancient and impenetrable, its shadows keeping watch.
This time, however, something is different. The dragon is very much awake.
As you approach, the great black beast slowly rises from where it had lain for so long. Massive wings unfurl with a sound like distant thunder, stretching as though after a long and weary sleep.
A soft breeze stirs the mist.
The dragon lowers its great head to regard you. One eye shines bright blue. The other, a warm golden brown. Beautiful and full of life.
A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it.
"There you are, my dragon," you greet him.
The great beast huffs softly, warm breath stirring your hair. You reach out without fear. The scales beneath your fingertips are smooth and warm. Gently, you press your forehead against the dragon's snout.
For a moment, neither of you move. Then the dragon makes a sound deep in its chest. Not a roar. Something softer. Something almost affectionate. A soft laugh escapes you. "I missed you too."
The dragon blinks slowly. One great winged claw lowers to the ground, offering you a view of his back. Then, with surprising care for such a mighty creature, he lowers himself further. An invitation. You smile. "Thank you."
Climbing onto his back feels as natural as breathing. As though you have done this a thousand times before. As though you were always meant to. You settle yourself between the great horns, your hands finding grip amongst the dark scales. The dragon turns his head slightly, as if to ensure you are ready.
You lean forward. "Go," you whisper.
The dragon roars. The sound shakes the meadow. The force of his wings sends the mist scattering in every direction. For the first time, you see the meadow as it truly is. Not grey. Not cold. Alive. Wildflowers stretch as far as the eye can see, covering the grass in brilliant colors. Dancing in the morning light.
The dragon launches into the air with the force of a hurricane. A shriek escapes you. Not from fear. From joy. The wind rushes around you as the ground falls away beneath your feet. The meadow and the dark forest grows smaller and smaller until it disappears entirely.
Ahead, the sun rises. You do not look back. Neither does your dragon. Together, you leave the cold mist behind and soar into the sky, as the golden light of the new day embraces you both as one.
—※—
If you made it to the end thank you for reading. Love to know what you think💕
*Lyrics are from the song Iris originally by de band Goo Goo Dolls, but for this fic I had the cinematic cover in mind by Jay Putty & Matt Macleod. I'm just a sucker for romance...
Warning: Maekar snapping at people (but not really you 😏🥰), massage, back pain
Word count: 507
A/N: I’m sorry to the anon who sent this, i accidentally detailed your drabble request. But it was for Maekar and the prompt was roll reversal and taking care of eachother. You did not mention any smut so I kept this clean incase you weren’t wanting any of that! 💛
“My lady,” the knight approaches you quickly, that was rare. “Prince Maekar has bared any from entering the armory. He only has asked for you.”
Your knitting was cast aside on the table and you were following him down to the armory, rushing as quickly as your hiked up skirts allowed.
“Maekar-“ you approached the door as guards and servants parted for you. “Husband, let me in.” You pulled at the handle.
“just you-“ he grunted voice sharp enough to cut.
You did not bristle at it. Your skin has grown tougher over the years, Maekar was simply rough man. He did not care much for the poetics of overstated manners.
“yes, gods, just i.” You confirm with a roll of your eyes before the latch opens and you are able to push the door forward. It swing closed behind you as you step into the space. Looking around for him.
“I seem to have pulled something.” He said through gritted teeth. Behind you, his voice coming from lower which was strange…he always towers above you, aside from more intimate moments, but this was not one of those.
Your shoes turned against the stone floors as you faced the door again and looked to the side of it. Maekar was slumped half over on the floor, a hand braced against the ground and his other holding his back.
“Oh gods-“ you knelt right away and went to feel where his hand was.
“fucks sake woman!” He hissed when your fingers pressed against the tender muscle.
“I’m calling for a maester-“ you tell him seriously and stand up about to go open the door and demand one be brought here.
“no…wife, no.” His voice is softer now, less anger filling it and more anxiety. His hand has also reached to grab your ankle. To stop you from stepping. To prevent you from swinging open the door and letting all those gathered see him crumbled on the floor. Weakened by a overdramatic muscles spasm.
You sigh, nod, so he doesn’t hurt himself by attempting to stop you from bringing people in.
“fine…no maester.” You reach to rub his cheek and frown at the pain you see etched into every feature.
“Here,” you begin to remove his training leathers and eventually get him so he’s sitting in a more upright position. “Trust me.” You kiss his temple once and stand up going to the door. Cracking it open and looking out.
“leave us…” when they all lingered just blink at your command you swallowed, set your jaw in the way Maekar had shown you and bit out. “Have you all gone deaf? Leave us, now!”
Maekar laughed at the hurries responses and the feet he could hear retreating. The laugh earning him a groan as well because the air pushing through his throat had hurt his back.
“Now they won’t hear your crying.” You hum. Sitting behind him on your knees and you began to work at his back. Pushing your thumbs in hard against the tightened muscle and breaking it up as much as you can.
“seven fucks-“ he bit out, hand tense on his own knee as your normally tender fingers tore apart every knot that attempted to cause him discomfort. You destroyed them like they cause you great offense. They did.
“There you are,” you smile and stand back up as your husband rolls his neck and shoulders. Lose and pain free. You smirk as he stood without issue. “You really must stop falling apart on me, I was hoping you’d last till I’m decently old.” You tease and he gladly kisses the grin right off your lips.
Elf reader in delicious in dungeon who’s super powerful but could not be arsed to care at all about ruling it I yearn to write you
Fuck it I’m blurbing this:
You yawn as you wander about the dungeon. Over a thousand years that Thistle has been holding the inhabitants here even though they’ve long gone, desperate to keep the kingdom alive. He’s even gained the monicker the Mad Mage.
“Whoever defeats the Mad Mage shall rule the dungeon as its owner,” you mutter to yourself as you stop in front of the corpse of the Red Dragon.
“He’s not going to be happy about this,” you look at the dragons head. Its eye has been cut and it’s been butchered.
You look around the body. There’s blood marks and its innards have been pulled out, whoever did this was desperate to find something. You summon your staff as you walk towards where a large circle has been drawn and kneel by it.
“Black magic?”
You look around searching for any mana signatures, finding five humanoids residing in one of the homes. You glance back down at the circle before tapping your staff down, cleaning the marks.
“Thistle can find them, it’s his pet anyway.”
You turn back to where the humanoids were residing. One of them carries the same signature as the Red Dragon. So, a revival spell using black magic, it’s been a few centuries since you’d last seen the usage of such a spell. Maybe you should stay near, this could be fun after all.
You walk to the door of one of the other homes and enter. You’ll wait for the one mixed with the dragon to reveal herself. It won’t be long until Thistle comes to find his most prized possession.
“Thus did the flower of House Strong, an ancient line of noble warriors boasting descent from the First Men, come to an ignoble end in the ward at Harrenhal. No trueborn Strong was spared, nor any bastard save…oddly…Alys Rivers.”
FIRE AND BLOOD | The Dying of the Dragons – Rhaenyra Triumphant
"I think I might like to keep chickens" "I will not have any beast harmed" "Her sons were always kind" 😭 Gods please protect Helaena Targaryen, please let her live out a peaceful life with her daughter and her bugs and her chickens. I know it doesn't happen, but please 🙏
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