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Horsebreaker

Baelor Targaryen x fem!Reader (House Blackwood)

summary: Young Prince Baelor, heir to the Iron Throne, comes of age and is granted a rare privilege by his father: to choose his own bride and future queen, trusting his son’s judgement. He travels the realm on his father’s behalf while he searches, combining two duties at once. During his circling progress through the Riverlands to secure peace among the lords, he stays at Raventree Hall. There, Drogon—his beloved friend and horse—breaks free and escapes from the stables into the Whispering Wood, where you are walking in peace. Out of the mist appears an impossible image: a royal stallion lost in unfamiliar terrain, utterly out of place. It is you who guides the steed back to the prince and makes sure he does not forget it. – [AO3] tags: erotica · suggestive · slow burn · forbidden desire · angst · mutual pining · canon divergent WC: 13k a/n: This piece is long and raw [concept here]. This fic flashed through me, front to back, like life flashing before your eyes in a near‑death experience. I woke up at 6 a.m. and finished editing it at 1 a.m. the next day. I just had to rip it out of my system. I’m too exhausted to polish every word. It’s not perfect: you can see where I was inspired and where I was getting tired. But I love every bit of it. It’s entirely self‑indulgent, but I do believe other people might enjoy it. If you want more chapters, let me know! I'm not sure if I should continue this one since the chapters are very long and heavy and feverish. Thanks for reading!

The servants should have known better than to bring out the black.

The yard behind the stables was still blue with morning when the stallion tore the tether free. One moment, he was standing, gleaming and restive beneath the groom’s hand; the next, his head snapped up, ears cutting the air, nostrils flaring at something only he could scent in the cold. The white steam of his breath gusted once. Twice.

Then he exploded.

The steed shot upwards, its front hooves flailing against the pale sky, and the groom cried out, stumbling backward as the leather strap seared through his grip. He came down awkwardly, the stallion, in a half-turned, half-twisted motion, his rear end bunching as if to propel him forward. The tether, looped through a hoop in the post, tugged sharply, resisted for a moment, and then snapped free, its iron ring echoing loudly against the wood.

“Easy, Drogon,” Baelor said, his voice cutting through the air, his feet already sending him onward with an automatic urgency. The steed’s eyes rolled white, catching the pale autumn light. He danced sideways, shoulder striking an empty cask hard enough to overturn it, muddy water sloshing over the packed earth.

A kitchen boy, hurrying across the yard with a basket full of wood, stopped dead in the animal’s way.

“Move!” Baelor barked.

He didn’t. The stallion reared up, the loose leather whipping behind it with a sharp crack, and then bolted forward with an angry snort. With a gust of wind, the boy’s basket was knocked from his hands, and sticks and bark tumbled across the cobblestones a heartbeat later. By the time Baelor reached the fence, the horse was already in full flight, black flank slick with cold sweat, tail streaming.

“Close the south gate!” someone shouted.

“Too late, he’s past—”

Hooves hammered over stone, then muffled as they hit the softer earth beyond. In a breath, the stallion was gone: a streak of black cutting through the mist, vanishing toward the tree line. Silence fell in his wake, thick and embarrassed. The air stank of churned mud and animal fear. A couple of chickens, disturbed from their pecking, took flight briefly before landing again with disgruntled squawks. The kitchen boy stood in the middle of it, chest heaving, splinters of kindling at his feet.

Baelor’s eyes blazed as he spun to confront the stablehand, his knuckles whitening on the sword hilt, a silent promise of pain in the air.

“What were you thinking?” he snapped. “You know he spooks at sudden noise, and you bring him out when they’re beating barrels? Gods, Gerren, I told you—”

The man blanched, broad face folding in on itself. “My prince, I—I checked the yard was clear—”

“It plainly was not.” The words came out too sharp, each one like a thrown bit of gravel. “That horse is worth more than—”

He stopped himself there, jaw locking. The kitchen boy had flinched at his first shout. Now he stood stiff, gaze fixed on the ground, fists curled in the air above his empty basket. A flush crept up his neck and onto his face, a warm, spreading tide that made his skin tight and his eyes sting.

The anger pulsed within Baelor, ricocheting off his ribs and shattering against his inner resolve. He drew a slow breath, long enough that it smoked visibly in the chill. He released it through his nose, pressing two fingers briefly to the bridge of it. His pulse thudded once, twice, then steadied.

“My temper was for the horse,” he said, this time quieter. “Not for you.”

Gerren shifted, uncertain. The kitchen boy risked a glance up and then away again.

Baelor softened his tone deliberately, the way a rider relaxes his hands on the reins. “No harm was meant. I know that.” He looked back toward the open gate, where the mist was lifting over the fields beyond; the low rise of the woods already a solid, dark line. “But a lot has been put into him.”

Baelor didn’t say years. He didn’t mention that the powerful stallion, a creature of untamed energy, was the only consistent presence in his life, bridging the gap between the thunderous tourney fields and the suffocating, oppressive halls of court. That when everything else required a posture, a word, a calculated smile, the horse had required only consistency. A steady hand. Honesty.

“He’s my favourite,” Baelor said instead, the admission feeling bare in his mouth. “We must retrieve him.”

“We’ll send men at once, my prince,” Gerren offered, half eager, half anxious. “Four riders, maybe five. The wood’s edge is—”

Baelor’s mouth tightened. The edges of the local woods were a hungry place, a place that consumed anything unable to navigate its paths.

“I’ll lead the search,” Baelor said.

Gerren stared at him. “Your Grace, with respect—”

“I am not yet king,” Baelor cut him gently. “And I am not sending anyone chasing him who cannot read when he’s about to bolt again.” He looked back towards the forest, observing the Riverlands mist gathering in the hollows, its white tendrils weaving through the trees and its grey form clinging to the branches.

“Saddle another mount. Light and quick. We’ll stay to the edges.”

“As you say, my prince.”

Baelor reached down, picked a fallen sliver of kindling from beside the boy’s boot, and set it back into the basket himself before straightening.

“The fault was mine,” he addressed the boy, meeting his eyes just long enough to make the words stick. “I startled him as much as any of you.”

The boy’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Yes, my prince.”

Baelor’s shoulders slumped as he turned toward the gate, the biting wind chilling him to the bone and a hollow ache settling in his chest. His jaw set with determination. Behind his composed profile, the thought gnawed: a black stallion, loose in Whispering Wood, his training undone in a heartbeat.

It was a familiar feeling.

The forest woke differently from the castle.

It did not clang or chatter. It exhaled.

Mist hung in the lower branches like breath held between teeth, a pale film clinging to the undergrowth and sinking into hollows where last year’s leaves lay in damp, matted layers. Above, the canopy filtered the weak, late-autumn light into thin, greenish ribbons that slanted down across trunks, interrupted by patches of moss, old wounds, and the deep, vertical lines etched by time.

You moved through it with familiar ease, like entering a room where the quiet hum of conversation had only paused for your return. Your boots sank half an inch into the leaf mould with each step, making a soft, sucking sound. The cold seeped up through the soles, a clean, metallic chill that bit pleasantly at your toes. Your trousers, damp to the knee from the dew-wet ferns you had pushed through earlier, clung to your calves and thighs.

Your attire suited the surroundings, not the observers: a dark riding surcoat, belted snugly over a linen shirt, wool trousers tucked into scuffed boots, and a cloak the color of wet bark draped open and loose from your shoulders. The only bright thing on you was the small weirwood-and-raven brooch at your throat, the Blackwood sigil dulled by age and touch.

Even though the morning had barely begun, stains already marked your gloves. The smaller basket on your arm cradled the spoils: pale, fleshy discs of oyster mushrooms arranged as if they were scales of some soft, subterranean fish; a cluster of chanterelles, their undersides finely ridged; a single, perfect hen of the woods, dense and layered like a ruffled fan, pried carefully from the base of an old oak. Mushrooms told on the forest as well as tracks.

You knelt beside a rotting log; the wood long gone to sponge under your palm. A scatter of tiny, translucent caps trembled there, almost invisible until you leaned close. You did not touch them. They emitted a faint shimmer, an oily sheen that caught the fog-filtered light, creating an unsettling, in a way, wrong feeling.

“Not you,” you murmured, more to yourself than to them. “You’d have my liver for breakfast.”

You straightened, knees damp, and let your eyes travel. Everywhere you looked, something had left its mark. The story of the place was etched into its marks, twists, and empty spaces. A sapling, twisted unnaturally and snapped at the top, bore witness to passing deer during last rut’s mating season, their antlers snagging and tearing. A darker, smoother patch on the bark of a beech, greasy with the rub of a bear’s flank months ago, now drying to a dull, scabbed sheen. Higher up, four long, parallel scars sank deep into the trunk, the width of them and the smoothness of their edges saying claws rather than blades. On another oak, the grey bark had been stripped in a lengthy, clean swath for nesting fibres;

Beneath your feet, the earth was freshly disturbed, marked by the distinct tracks of hooves, larger ones, forming a trail that led toward the babbling stream, showing a small herd of deer had recently passed. You read the depth, the spread, the slight drag of a back hoof and stored it away without effort. The Whispering Wood was a book you had been reading since childhood. Every morning you stepped into it was another page, another short paragraph added to a lifelong story. The chapter today was veiled in mist, its edges sharp with a slice of cold, and carried the earthy scent of soaked foliage, ancient bark, and a subtle, metallic undertone. Early autumn. The leaves had only just begun to turn, tips tinged yellow, a few bronzed scouts already fallen and dotted with mould. The air was thick enough that each breath felt like drinking; it lay on the back of your tongue, damp and green.

You had spotted a promising ring of mushrooms at the base of a hornbeam, their caps brown and rounded, not too glossy, the gills neat, when the forest offered you something else.

The first thing that caught your eye was a flicker of motion, an anomaly. Not the quick, countless flickers of birds, or the furtive scurrying of small things in the undergrowth. This was heavier, a deeper disturbance. A shadow slid between two oaks at the edge of your vision, then vanished behind the white veil of low-lying fog. You turned, one hand easing the birch bark basket closer against your hip, the other dropping instinctively to the knife at your belt—not because you meant to use it, but because your body liked the reassurance of steel. For a moment, there was nothing. Just mist and trees and the quiet drip of condensed fog falling from a high branch.

Then he stepped out.

For a heartbeat, you truly wondered if you had misjudged the strange little cluster by the log. That some treacherous cap had slipped into your basket and was now blooming hallucinogenic visions within your bloodstream.

The stallion materialised out of the grey as a piece of night undone. He was big: taller than most northern stock by a hand and more—but what struck you first was not his size or noble frame. It was the way he held himself, even in panic. He was all clean lines and hard curves: long neck arched, the crest thick with a mane as black and glossy as the rest of him; shoulders falling into a deep, powerful chest; back short and strong, croup sloping into a tail that hung like a sheet of obsidian silk. His coat was a deep black that seemed to absorb all light and trap it underneath, but even through the grime of dried sweat and mud, a subtle sheen remained, glistening in dark, inky patches on his sides.

He looked like something bred in a place that believed in perfection as a sacred duty.

The saddle on his back confirmed it. You knew leather; you knew what coin could buy. This was not some lordling’s best. This was royal. Dark, supple leather, too fine to squeak, too well-used to shine, moulded precisely to a single rider’s seat. Silver mounts and buckles chased with dragons and flames, tarnished now with dirt, glinting dully where branches and old bark had scored them. One strap had a fresh, ugly scrape, the leather abraded white where it had kissed something rough at speed. The flap of the saddlebag bore a small, distinctive stamp: a three-headed dragon in relief.

Your lungs burned, reminding you that you had unknowingly held your breath.

“Brackens be damned,” you muttered, almost amused despite yourself. “Either I picked the wrong mushroom, or some Targaryen princeling has misplaced a very expensive piece of horseflesh gifted on his name-day.”

The stallion saw you at the same moment.

He checked, hooves skidding a fraction in the leaf mulch, head snapping back. His ears went flat. The whites of his eyes showed, a rim of stark, startled moon around the dark. His body thrummed with a tense, coiled dread, a feeling that felt like it was burning through him, more suited for a creature built for flight than for combat. Something had chased him. His flank muscles quivered, and faint, straight scratches marred the skin above his hock, too shallow for serious wounds but too defined for brambles, betraying its presence. Claws? Branches? A boar’s tusk? He smelled of sweat and fear and the cold, metallic tang of water—a stream, probably, crossed in panic.

You did not move toward him at once. Instead, you lowered your eyes a fraction, softening your shoulders, letting your body fall into the loose, non-threatening posture you used on half-wild colts and offended hunting dogs. You shifted your weight deliberately, the crunch of your boots on the fallen leaves a slight, familiar sound he noticed.

“Easy,” you whispered, as if he were an old friend you’d surprised in a compromising position. Your voice sounded small in the vastness between the trunks, but it was steady. “I’m as out of place as you are, I promise.”

He snorted, a sharp, uncertain noise, and danced sideways, the reins trailing, catching briefly on a low fern and then slipping free. The bit clinked softly against his teeth. His front hooves lifted an inch, came down again. He wanted to rear, but he’d run out of outrage somewhere between the castle and here. What was left was nervous energy and the edge of exhaustion.

You slipped the basket from your arm and set it down carefully on a patch of moss, making a point of letting him observe the movement. Then, keeping your hands where his eye could track them, you reached into the leather pouch at your belt.

“You came a long way to the wrong wood, handsome,” you said, fingers closing around the cool, familiar shape of the apple you’d tucked there out of habit before leaving. “Let’s see if southern princelings feed you the same as northern ladies do.”

You brought the fruit out slowly. Red over green, a little bruised on one side. The horse’s ears twitched toward the front, then back again, indecisive. His nostrils flared, catching the scent. You took a step forward. Then another. Not directly at him, that would be a predator’s approach, but on a slight angle, letting your path arc closer rather than cutting straight. His glinting black pearls tracked you, head tilting with minute precision.

“Smells better than fear, doesn’t it?” you breathed. “Come on.”

At three paces, he stiffened. You stopped. The mist between you thinned, then thickened again as a stray draught moved through the undergrowth, bringing with it the faint sound of a crow’s distant complaint. You extended your hand. The apple sat on your palm, your fingers flat so your knuckles wouldn’t feel like teeth. For a long, taut moment, nothing happened.

Then he stepped in.

It was small, a half-step, as though he were ready to bolt the instant he smelled something wrong, but it was toward you. His muzzle dipped, the delicate, whiskered skin of his upper lip quivering as he investigated. The warm puff of his breath washed over your fingers. He brushed the apple, a slight jolt running up your arm, and then held it, his teeth brushing your palm with a sting that was sharp but safe. You let him have it, resisting the urge to flinch. A flinch at this moment would tell him you were just as unsure as he was.

“There,” you said in a soothing tone, as he crunched. The apple’s crisp echoed, ripples of sound spreading in the muffled morning, crunch after crunch. A piece of apple fell, bounced in the leaves; he nosed it up, less polite now that the first barrier had broken. “See? Not all strangers mean to drive you into trees.”

While he chewed, you extended your hand with deliberate accuracy, letting your fingers caress the moist, velvety texture of his neck. He tensed, eyes flashing white again, then seemed to decide that the sweetness in his mouth outweighed the new intrusion. His skin twitched once under your fingers, but did not pull away. Up near at hand, you could see the faint ripple of his heartbeat in the hollow of his throat. It matched, almost absurdly, the thud in your own chest. You ran your palm along the muscle, feeling the way it bunched and eased under your touch. He smelled of leather and sweat and something faintly smoky: familiar stable straw, perhaps, or the lingering ghost of the yard. Presence of the royals at Raventree Hall was foreseen, a strategic move in their Riverlands campaign, though their swift arrival caught you off guard. Your thumb snagged on the rough, slightly raised edge of a recent scratch near his side. You hissed softly through your teeth, sympathetic.

“Whoever frightened you is getting their ears boxed,” you told him. “If they have any sense left after your master is done with them.”

Master. Rider. Dragon.

Your gaze slid to the saddle again, to the small, scuffed sigil on the leather. Three heads, one body. Red on black, even under the mud. Of all the horses in all the woods in all the kingdoms, a royal Targaryen stallion had walked out of the morning mist into your reach, dripping black dread and pride in equal measure. You laid your forehead briefly against his neck, feeling the warmth there through the biting air, the way you sometimes did with the big wolfhounds at home when they came in from a hunt, trembling with leftover adrenaline.

“All right,” you said, more to him than to the gods who’d arranged this ridiculous gift. “Let’s find the princeling who was foolish enough to lose you.”

A soft chuckle escaped your nostrils. “Clearly, they were far more adept on dragons than on horseback.”

You gathered the reins, feeling the weight of the fine leather in your hand, and swung into the saddle in one smooth, practiced movement, the way you had mounted onto a hundred lesser horses since you were little. The stallion danced under you for two steps, testing, then settled when your seat settled, when your thighs and calves closed around him with the firm, unafraid contact he understood. From up here, the forest looked different. The mist was a little thinner. The trunks seemed less like pillars and more like markers on a road you hadn’t known you were riding until now. You clicked your tongue once, low and encouraging.

“Show me the way, then. You know where you came from. I’ll see you back.”

He exhaled, a sound akin to a sigh, and then faced the distant scents of smoke, man, and stone. With a gentle lightness in your hand, the reins guided him as he stepped down, his sure footing a promise as he bore you from the forest towards the life intended for him. You, astride a dragon’s black stallion, a steed reserved only for the royal family, vanished into the fog with him.

A woman in hunting clothes with a basket full of mushrooms and no skirts to trip her, riding a creature that was destined to bear no one but a prince.

By the time the shout erupted, Baelor had worn a path into the yard.

The search yielded results slowly and in fragments: first came two riders, their clothes caked in mud and their faces grim, already offering apologies before dismounting. An hour later, another pair arrived, their broken branches and scraped shins bearing silent witness to their failed attempt. The mist, thick and clinging, spread low over the fields as the sun rose, pooling along the fence line like spilled milk and resisting the morning’s warmth. At this point, the edge of it sat twenty yards beyond the open stable gate, a soft, grey wall. The forest further on might as well have been a separate realm.

Baelor stood facing it, cloak drawn close against the damp, jaw set hard enough that a muscle jumped now and then at the hinge. The sound of other horses’ hooves, a dull clop on the packed earth, followed him as the search party dismounted, their tack jingling with that defeated, hollow noise animals make when their riders are lost.

“He will not have gone far, my prince,” Gerren tried, from somewhere at his shoulder.

Baelor did not answer at once. His eyes were on the mist. In his mind, the steed’s dark form ghosted through the trees, a silent, aching reminder of a joy now lost. Every snapped branch, every unseen dip in the ground replayed as a break, a fall, a shattered leg. Having witnessed the plight of many broken horses, he found it difficult to design any other outcome. Baelor swallowed, the taste of sour worry heavy on his tongue.

“Send for hounds this afternoon if he’s not back by—”

“Your Grace!”

The call cracked across the yard like a whip.

A younger groom’s voice, a nervous, wavering sound teetering between fear and excitement, reached you. Baelor’s head snapped toward him, irritation flaring; then he saw where the boy was pointing.

The mist.

Initially, the fog alone was present, swirling as a gentle breeze meandered through the trees. The shape coalesced within its darkness—a towering figure, moving with a slow, rhythmic rise and fall, far removed from the panicked, headlong flight of a galloping horse.

A black stallion emerged from the cool grey.

He came at a trot, neck arched, ears pricked. Mud speckled his legs to the knee and flecked his underside; the fine leather of the saddle stained and scored along one side, but his movement was clean: no hitch, no favouring of a leg. Each hoof landed strong and sure.

A faint, ragged sigh escaped Baelor’s lips, a sound he made no effort to hide.

Then he saw you.

For a heartbeat, his mind rejected the image: a trick of mist, some strange mirage conjured by exhaustion and worry. No one rode that horse. No one had ever ridden that horse but me. He had broken the stallion himself under the eye of the master of horse, with more bruises and more pride at stake than he would ever admit.

But you were there—on top of him.

You sat astride as if you had been born that way: hips moulded to the saddle, thighs close around the horse’s barrel, weight balanced in the easy, unconscious manner of someone who does not need to think about the body beneath, because you had always known how to listen to its natural rhythm. Each step of the steed's trot carried you forward and back in a smooth, unbroken motion, your pelvis rocking with the creature’s tempo, not fighting it.

Your cloak—dark, heavy wool—hung open and soaked, hem darkened to near-black where it had dragged through wet undergrowth, clinging in damp folds around your thighs. Your trousers were worse: plastered to your legs up to the knee, the fabric moulded to the shape of muscle and bone, showing the clean line of your calves, the flex of your knees as you absorbed the movement—details he’d memorized a hundred times on horses, never on a woman.

A smear of dirt streaked one of your cheeks, where you must have brushed at it with the back of a hand. Your hair had come loose from whatever braid it had started the morning in. Sodden strands of it, cool against your skin, clung to your temples and neck. You shed all ladylike pretense, appearing as if the very essence of the forest had mounted the horse.

The stallion’s ears flickered, yet he remained unfazed by the sounds and quick motions. As you moved from the soft earth to the firm, hollow sound of hooves on packed yard, he lessened his pace of his own volition, his trot softening to a walk beneath your hand with no visible or audible signal.

Baelor sensed a shift in the stable’s atmosphere, a hushed, collective breath as everyone present: grooms, stableboys, and riders alike—turned their heads to witness the object of the prince’s captivated gaze.

“Who,” Baelor said, and his own voice surprised him. It came out low, rougher than he had intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Who is on top of my stallion?”

“Lady Blackwood, Your Grace,” Gerren answered at once, half awe, half disbelief.

More than any title could, the name embodied what he was seeing.

You drew the horse to a halt a few yards from Baelor with a light hand on the reins, the creature’s warm breath puffing in short, contented clouds, not the harsh, stuttering pant of panic. As you turned in the saddle, your eyes found his.

In that instant, the yard dissolved into a narrow, airy passage directly between you.

A dark, assured look settled in your eyes; then a swift, scrutinizing gaze swept across Baelor’s face, followed by a steady, unwavering stare that caused a knot to form beneath his ribs. You took him in the way you take in a horse: not the colour of the coat, but the posture, how the weight was carried, the tension in the jaw.

He discovered, with a flicker of anxiety, that he did not know what you saw.

Then you broke the gaze yourself with an economical movement, swinging your right leg over the steed’s back and dropping lightly to the ground. Your boots met the flat surface with a gentle thud, your knees instinctively softening the landing. For a heartbeat, your hips were level with the horse’s—a straight line of woman and animal—and then you stepped away, the long, wet fall of your cloak separating you.

Your hands stayed.

You turned back to the horse immediately, fingers going up to his jaw, along the line where cheek met neck. His ears flicked back, then forward again, mildly curious but unafraid. Baelor couldn’t quite make out your hushed words, a sound more than meaning, as the horse lowered its head, the hard ridge of its nose nestling into your palm as if it recognized the touch.

“Such a good boy,” you breathed, half coo, half praise, soft enough that it felt indecent to overhear. Your lips softened around the words, going round and full, your mouth almost a pout as you pressed a quick kiss to the damp, velvety patch between his nostrils. “Easy, easy. This one is feisty,” you added, fingers scratching lightly at the base of his mane. “But absolutely, rightfully so.”

The creature closed his eyes briefly, the long lashes fluttering once against your skin. He had never done that for anyone, barely even tolerated the master of horse. He allowed Baelor and no other.

Baelor realised his hand had clenched, unthinking, around the edge of the stable doorway. Wood bit into his palm at the exact moment his mind chose to remember how firmly your legs must have gripped the saddle—and refused to grant him any kinder image.

“Lady Blackwood,” he said, forcing his fingers to relax. The name tasted unfamiliar, though he knew the house: rivers, ravens, the poisoned tree, old kings in the ancient castle that had bent the knee late and grudgingly, but aided Aegon the Conqueror, regardless. “I assume this is my horse. Drogon.”

You turned your head back toward him, one hand still on the Drogon’s neck, the other resting flat against his cheek as if to reassure the animal you wouldn’t stray too far.

“Yes, I would assume so, my prince,” your voice, a deep rumble with that unmistakable Riverlands cadence, lent a deliberate, thoughtful weight to every word you uttered. “I did not think he belonged to the village dairyman.”

The yard’s edge rippled with a brief, choked-off sound of laughter. A smile tugged at Baelor’s lips, threatening treason, but he kept his face schooled.

“He was startled,” you continued with a plain tone and no smile in sight, thumbing at a smear of mud on the Drogon’s jaw as you spoke. “Far from here, in the wild parts of the woods, where the stream bends and the old beeches grow close together. The ground was torn where he’d skidded; there were fresh claw marks on some trunks.” You glanced at the long, shallow scores along his flank. “He took a few branches, maybe something with tusks, but no more. His hooves are whole. Knees and ankles intact. No heat, no swelling that I felt.”

Your fingers had run up and down the tendon as you said it, gentle, testing, fingers spreading then coming together. The intimacy of the touch—precise and skilled and yet soft—made the words land with double weight. Baelor’s gaze stayed on your palm for a bit too long, a moment of distraction his mind couldn’t justify, his lips pressing together as he swallowed.

“The saddle is scratched,” you added as if you were responsible while brushing the thumb over a raw strip where the leather had turned pale. “But that matters less than the precious thing beneath it.”

“The scratches are of no consequence,” Baelor said, a feeling so true it would have seemed alien to him an hour earlier. His eyes were on the Drogon’s legs, tracing the familiar lines, checking every fetlock, every joint for the faintest hitch. There was none. “Leather can be replaced.”

You nodded once, satisfied with the answer.

“He is a beautiful creature,” you said. “I have never seen one quite like him.”

Pride burned through Baelor then, hot and swift and embarrassing. He felt it flare in his chest like a coal teased by a hidden draft.

“He is Prince Baelor’s pride and joy,” Gerren put in, half eager, half still a little afraid. “Bred from royal stock across the Narrow Sea, they say.”

You glanced between the man and the beast again, as if measuring the claim.

“It was a privilege to ride him,” you said, and there was a flicker of something like mischief in your eyes now, quickly smoothed over. “Even in such circumstances.” You paused, and for the first time a hint of conventional courtesy slipped into your tone, though it sat oddly, like silk over mail. “And I apologise in advance for doing so without your leave, my prince. He was too far in and too unsettled to lead on foot all the way. The path back is long. And,” you added, almost as an afterthought, “roadless.”

The emphasis on the last word was mild, but it made Baelor’s mind draw unhelpful pictures of your inner thighs tightening around the stallion’s sides, squeezing the saddle, as Drogon picked his way through roots and ruts, your hips smoothly shifting with each unpredictable dip, cloak dragging in briars, damp hem slapping against your boots with an unexpected sound.

“It is… unseen,” he said slowly, pulling his thoughts back into order, “that he lets anyone ride him. Besides me.” His eyes dropped to Drogon’s muzzle, where the animal was now lip-searching your sleeve for more apple with the greedy assurance of a beast that had decided someone belonged to him. “However, he appears tranquil in your presence.”

“Lady Blackwood is the best horsebreaker and trainer in the Riverlands, your Grace. Forgive my intrusion,” Gerren said fervently, as if the words themselves might ward off the prince’s anger. “Bless the Gods, Old and New, she found him. Should another person mount your stallion, it would undoubtedly be our gifted Lady Blackwood.”

The words hung in the air, charged with a significance that wasn’t intended by Gerren. Baelor’s ears picked up on every subtle implication and resented the way his body agreed with all of them, a pang of annoyance at its willing response.

Horsebreaker. Best in the Riverlands. Calming something too wild for anyone else. Feisty, but rightfully so. Riding without permission because the path was long and roadless.

Baelor’s mouth went dry. He sensed the intensity of numerous eyes darting between his face, your expression, and Drogon; every man in the yard heard the same echo, a sound that resonated within them, yet they all strained to maintain stoic expressions.

You seemed, for a heartbeat, to hear it too. Your brow lifted a fraction. Instead of looking away, you met Baelor’s eyes full on, one corner of your mouth curling in the barest suggestion of a smile that was not quite polite.

“If it consoles you, my prince,” you said, fingers still stroking the stallion’s neck, “he did make me work for it.”

It should not have felt like a confession. It did.

Baelor’s throat worked. The word ‘privilege’ lodged somewhere unhelpful. For one, sudden, unprincely instant he wondered whether the horse had been the only one. He caught himself, smoothed his face, and inclined his head.

“Then I am doubly in your debt, Lady Blackwood,” he said. “For bringing my friend back to me. And for managing what no one else has.”

The political matter had taken three days. Again.

Baelor had sat through two dinners, one arbitration over river rights that had been festering since his grandfather’s reign, and a very long afternoon listening to Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken explain, with the thin courtesy of men who had been killing each other’s great grandfathers since before the Conquest, why the other one was wrong. He mediated with the patience and precision of a seasoned prince, understanding his regal presence subtly influenced conversations, a tool as potent as any blade.

Baelor had done all of this. He had done it well. He always did it well.

On the second morning, as mist settled low over the Blackwood courtyard, he stood at the guest quarters’ window, gazing at the wooden chest secured to his accompanying carriage. The political matter wasn’t the sole purpose of his journey, this time.

He had been working toward this conclusion for some weeks.

It was logistics; he told himself. The Riverlands were on his route. The horse needed a destination. A gift delayed too long becomes an insult. There were a dozen reasonable, unimpeachable reasons to stop at Raventree Hall on the way back from a perfectly legitimate diplomatic errand, none of which had anything to do with a wet cloak or the way a stranger’s mouth had softened around such a good boy and made the words sound as if they belonged in a darker room. Baelor told himself all of this. His body, stubbornly, believed none of it.

The rumble of the horse carriage echoed across the main yard in the late morning, a sound that marked the end of their meetings and Lord Blackwood’s generous offer of the hall. Baelor had thanked him with the warmth of genuine liking—the old lord was blunt, loyal, and pleasantly uninterested in flattery—and asked, with a casualness he had rehearsed once, whether Lady Blackwood might be sent for.

“She’ll be with the kennels,” Lord Blackwood replied, without surprise and without apology, a man who had made peace with this reality. “Someone will fetch her.”

Baelor nodded, expressed his gratitude, and went to wait in the yard.

He’d had the horse prepared before he left the road. The two grooms who’d travelled with the animal had done their work well: the carriage door gleamed, the tapestries folded and pinned neatly along its sides. The chest sat on the second cart, iron-bound, lid closed, strapped securely. Baelor stood beside his own mount with his hands loose at his sides, watching the courtyard’s routines carry on around him: a stableboy crossing with buckets, ravens wheeling above the great weirwood in the inner yard, a grey-muzzled hound ambling across the stones with the profound self-certainty of a dog that had decided it owned this particular patch of ground and all who moved across it.

Then he heard them.

A complex, interwoven chorus of barks and whimpers emerged from the kennels, as if the dogs were in a democratic debate over their next destination. Nails on stone. The scuff and slide of boots. Three dogs rounded the corner first, their ears and jowls flapping with every bouncy step. Two hounds, along with a broader, lower, and more menacing-looking dog whose blunt head and rolling shoulders suggested a purpose beyond mere good looks. Their attention was not on Baelor. They were not, precisely, in pursuit.

They were following.

You came around the corner after them.

His immediate thought was that the visit had been a miscalculation, though not one he regretted, but rather the opposite.

Your working jacket, made of heavy oiled leather, hung open over a once-white shirt now stained with the day’s beginnings, its fur trim dark and clumped, hinting it had been used as a towel at some point. Your leather trousers, tucked into boots that were muddy up to the ankle and beyond, bore a perfect paw print pressed in something dark and earthy across the left thigh: a large paw, four-toed, a testament from a decisive creature. Your hair was down, or most of it. A braid had survived somewhere at the back, but the rest had been liberated, and a loose strand curled against your cheek, apparently having been there long enough that you’d stopped noticing it. There was a smear of what looked like kennel mud along the inside of your right forearm, and something that might have been dried blood—animal, not yours, the quantity too small for worry—on the heel of your hand.

Baelor knew what ladies were meant to look like: silk pinned so tightly it creaked when they sat, gold at throat and wrists, hair coaxed and powdered into shapes that took three women and half a morning to achieve, a laugh produced on cue for the benefit of half a court that spent its days arranging itself around them. Gold that lay in the hollow of the neck like a collar, something a lord could close his hand around behind polite doors and have the body follow without a word.

You looked like none of that. You looked like someone entirely occupied with something that mattered, a woman who put collars on other creatures and expected them to mind you instead; A lady of an old lesser house who handled her own dirty work, unaware that the world expected her to clean up before being seen.

Baelor’s mind strayed to a place it shouldn’t have: what it would be to be led that way himself, contemplating the sensation of being overpowered, to feel a hand close at his throat and have his body go quiet and obedient without consulting his rank. It was an idle fancy for a man who was second in the realm and bred to hold reins, not give them up. He shut the door on it, a fraction too late.

As he wrestled with his thoughts and began to lose, Baelor conceded with a weary, specific clarity: Ah. Of course.

You noticed his horses first, their sleek coats gleaming, followed by the vibrant colours of his attire, and finally, the man himself. Something shifted in your face and beyond—a quick reorganisation, the eyes sharpening, the body adjusting posture without quite committing to formality.

Then the dogs caught up.

All three arrived around your legs simultaneously, completing the orbit they’d been executing since the kennels, looking up at you with the expectant attention of creatures awaiting permission to do whatever they were about to do. You glanced at them. A single look, no words, your hand dropping briefly—one flat, downward press of your fingers.

Every dog sat. Not in stages, not with a shuffle or a half‑hearted slump, but in the same instant, the way birds turn on a wind. Three animals of different sizes and tempers hitting the ground because your hand had said so.

Baelor looked at the dogs. Looked at you.

It was the forest and the stallion again, except the creatures at your feet had teeth and would gladly open a throat for you if asked. Something low in him answered the sight with a feeling he would not, under any circumstances, name. His fingers twitched at his sides, an unconscious, useless answer to the urge to see what you could make him do with only that hand.

You were already moving toward him, brushing your palms briefly against your thighs as you walked, and he could see the moment you registered the full state of yourself—a small, almost invisible pause behind your eyes, the kind not meant to be noticed. You did not apologise for it. You did not reach for your hair. You simply arrived at him, exactly as you were, and let that be the thing.

“My prince.” Your voice carried the familiar, deliberate rhythm he recalled, each word precisely placed as if pre-calculated. “I was not told to expect you.”

“The fault is mine,” Baelor replied. “I did not want to alter your morning.” He let his gaze move over you once, brief, and allowed something close to a smile to surface; the easy one, the one that said I find this charming, while some less disciplined part of him noted mud, leather, throat, the loosened strand of hair with a care that had nothing to do with courtesy. “It appears I failed.”

“You interrupted a hound that was halfway through a lesson.” The look you gave him was dry. “He was not pleased.”

“I apologise to the hound.”

“There’s no way he’ll take it.”

You took in the carriages with a practiced assessment, accustomed to deciphering their contents purely by observation. You scanned its contours, taking in its size, the ventilation grates, and the peculiar, slightly agitated movement of unseen mass within.

“You brought a horse.”

Not a question.

“I did.”

A subtle, almost imperceptible shift occurred within you, like a mere degree of change. A small brightening, quickly reined back in. Baelor caught it.

“The debt I mentioned,” his voice dropping a register, deliberate as a key in a lock. “I told you, Lady Blackwood, I do not forget.”

“You were not required—”

“I rarely do what I am required to do,” he said pleasantly, “and frequently do what I decide to do. You’ll find there’s a difference.”

You looked at him for a moment. He could see you measuring the exact width of that sentence, deciding whether to argue with it. Then your eyes returned to the carriage, and whatever debate had been occurring behind your expression adjourned.

Baelor nodded to the groom. The carriage door.

Opened.

The horse descended the ramp, its entrance as graceful and unannounced as a masterpiece entering a gallery, its presence immediately altering the atmosphere and making the surrounding air rearrange itself. Much as a woman had once ridden out of the trees and rearranged his.

He had chosen this one for that very reason. There were sound explanations, of course—bloodlines, suitability, the practicalities of Riverlands terrain—but beneath them lay a simpler truth: he liked watching people see what only Targaryen heirs could casually bring into a yard. The right horse, at the right moment, could do what titles sometimes could not.

He was young—four years at most, his body still holding the last suggestion of colt-length in the legs, the chest not yet fully filled, which only made the potential of him more startling. His coat was a rich, deep brown, which, in the shadows, deepened to an almost black hue, possessing a subtle, iridescent sheen like mother-of-pearl. The weak autumn sun illuminated the layered hues of his hip and withers, the colour of ancient heartwood, vibrant and full of life. His mane was a breathtaking sight: long, flowing waves with a delicate curl, possessing a hue reminiscent of pale hay softly kissed by late summer light; it absorbed the very essence of it, appearing almost white when illuminated and giving off a faint glow that made it look like molten gold. It was full and loose, and the breeze stirred it against his neck with a movement that felt unnervingly free.

His belly, which Baelor had observed stopped people in their tracks, was marked with patterns resembling shallow water flowing over white sand. Faint dappling, almost transparent, barely-there spots and stripes that shifted as the horse moved and disappeared when it stood still, the kind of thing you second-guessed yourself about, wondering whether you had seen it or invented it.

The grooms had placed a necklace that morning: a delicate white gold chain set with stones of black and red, the colours of Blackwood, which fell against his chest and caught the light with his every movement. The tapestries across his back bore ravens in flight against white trees, the fabric deep crimson and black, chosen to fall across the dark of his coat without clashing. It was, without exaggeration, the sort of animal one expected to see under a Lannister in full cloth-of-gold, or parading with a Tyrell tournament entourage, rather than stepping into a muddy Riverlands yard just because a prince had chosen to entertain the consequences of its placement.

His left eye, dark and liquid, held the ordinary miracle of a horse’s gaze. His right, though.

Baelor watched the realisation move through the fence line like a shiver.

The nearest Blackwood groom went very still. The armed men in the distance adjusted their positions, their glances not quite meeting. Someone’s mouth opened on what might have been a comment and closed again on a swallow. No one said a word. They did not have to. Every person who had stood close enough to the prince to see one brown eye and one unmistakably Targaryen violet now saw it looking back at them out of a stallion’s head.

He had chosen the horse for many reasons. Bloodlines. Temperament. Potential for distance and cold. That was the story he would have told if anyone had been foolish enough to ask. The truer reason was simpler, and lived in the small, private satisfaction of this exact moment: a blue right eye, set in a dark face, watching you.

The grooms had done their work; the necklace lay at the colt’s chest, the Blackwood colours blazing against his coat, the ravens and heart‑trees riding his back like a herald’s dream. But it was the eye that stopped you. You devoured the lines of him with the focused hunger of someone finally reading a text they’d waited years for, your attention locked from neck to shoulder to hip to hock, entirely uninterested in the gasps at the fence.

Then your gaze reached his head.

Left, dark. Right, blue.

You stilled in a new way.

Your expression was completely empty for a split second, just the raw, empty intake of facts. Then your eyes left the horse and found Baelor’s across the yard, and he watched you see it: brown, violet; brown, blue. The deliberate echo. The insult to common sense and good modesty that was putting a stallion with the prince’s gaze under the keeping of a minor Riverlands lady.

It was not subtle. It was not meant to be.

You held Baelor’s look for a fraction longer than courtesy required, as if measuring how far you were willing to let the implication travel. Your jaw did a small, traitorous thing—tightened and released—and your tongue pressed once against the inside of your cheek in a gesture that would have passed for nothing if he had not been specifically watching for it.

Then you looked back at the horse.

Your professional calm guided you as you detailed his finer qualities, but the knowledge sat between all three of you now like a hand on the reins: you would ride a stallion who carried his colours and his eye. You would put your knees to his sides, your weight behind his withers, your hands on a neck Baelor had chosen in his own image, and every time you did it some part of you would be forced to admit that this was what a prince’s vanity looked like when it stopped pretending to be anything else.

It was petty. It was possessive. It was, Baelor acknowledged to himself with a slow, private satisfaction, very nearly obscene in its intimacy.

He had no right to touch you.

He could, however, make sure that when you swung your leg over this beast and settled your hips to its stride, you would be doing it astride a piece of him, however symbolic. A lesser lady on a horse better suited to Lannister cloth‑of‑gold or Tyrell procession—except that your thighs, not theirs, would be the ones closing around the saddle. Your hand, not theirs, would lie against the warm, flexing throat beneath that mismatched gaze.

You understood that. He saw the moment your awe and your sense rebelled at it at the same time, and the moment your desire for the horse won.

You took one step closer.

The blue eye tracked you as you came, curious, unafraid. Beneath your ribs, an unseen force nudged you forward, compelled by an unacknowledged inner voice. Baelor’s fingers curled once, slow and tight, around the rail, savouring the fact that he had managed, with a choice and a coin and a bloodline, to arrange it so that whenever you mounted this creature, you would have to think, if only for the length of a single breath, of the man who shared its gaze.

The stallion reached the ground, took three steps, and stopped. His blue eye found you.

You froze in place. It wasn’t the composed quiet of the court, but the stillness of a body that no longer knew how to pretend. Your lips parted; the hands that had been moving to brush mud from your sleeve hung motionless at your sides. Whatever words you might have had for him earlier in the day had been quite cleanly removed.

The way you observed the horse was akin to how others behold perfection—a palpable yearning that transcended facial expression, manifesting instead in your body’s slight forward inclination and suspended breath. A distinct satisfaction washed through Baelor as he stood close enough to see it. This, too, was a language he knew: the moment when someone realised that what stood in front of them was more than they had ever expected to be offered. Power moved differently then, and he liked the feel of it.

You had not gawked at him in the mist. You had met a Targaryen prince and heir with steady eyes and a plain voice, as if his face and his reputation were facts to be filed rather than wonders to be admired. Now, though, you were standing absolutely struck in front of something he had chosen with you in mind, and some unprincely part of him uncoiled at the sight.

Baelor watched you look at it. He felt something move in him that was not, precisely, strategic or measured. Memory was unhelpful; it supplied the sound of your voice in the mist, low and pleased on such a good boy, and laid it over the way you were looking at this one now until his skin felt too tight. It was a ridiculous thing, perhaps, for the second man in the realm to be pleased that he could make a lady’s composure slip with nothing more than a horse and a decision—but he was, and the knowledge ran through him like heat.

“My prince.” Your voice came back to you a beat slower than usual. “This horse has never seen winter.”

Baelor folded his hands at his back. “He has not.”

“He is built for a king’s parade,” you said, and there was something almost sorrowful in it, as if you were arguing yourself out of something while the argument was still arriving. “For a lady in silk on a summer road. For a knight going somewhere that will remember him.” Your eyes tracked the blaze of white gold at his chest, the tapestried ravens. “Not for mud and frost and two hundred miles of northern track.”

“That is what I assumed you would say,” Baelor answered.

You looked at him.

“His dam is Essosi,” he said, allowing nothing into his voice but the clean interest of the information. “Bred for plains and cold both, built to move in wet ground without tiring, to go long between water. His sire is Crownlands stock—fast, responsive, lungs like bellows. The noble silhouette.” He paused. “Northern garron mares were used as a foundation as well, for hardiness, thick bone, and winter tolerance.” He met your eyes. “Hardy enough for the North, elegant and smooth enough for a lady.”

“Exotic enough to show off obscene wealth and ambition,” you added. The people in the yard were dead silent.

Baelor let a gentle chuckle escape his lips.

“The crossbreed is—untested. In the formal sense. Should my lady desire it, I am ready to tell everything about this particular stallion.”

You could practically taste the smug satisfaction in Baelor’s voice as he spoke the line. Someone cleared their throat.

“Untested,” you repeated.

“He has never been ridden,” Baelor declared, his violet eye glinting with a hint of impatience as he stared you down.

Something shifted in your expression. Not the doubt, not quite. For a fleeting moment, your eyes met his before darting away, as if the unspoken words had settled in several places and you were unwilling to acknowledge them all. Baelor kept his tone bland. His pulse was less disciplined.

“His hooves?” you asked. Your voice had gone quieter.

“Hard. Wider than pure Essosi breeding gives. Built to grip.” Baelor paused. “His health record is here, if you want it. The farrier’s notes as well. I brought them.”

You were looking at the horse again, not at him. The blue eye tracked you, curious, without fear, which was, Baelor knew, extraordinary in a young, unridden stallion in an unfamiliar yard. Most of them danced, pulled and found something to be afraid of. Its intelligent eyes studied you, as if an unfamiliar presence were being meticulously evaluated.

“He doesn’t know me,” you said, almost to yourself.

“No,” Baelor agreed. “He doesn’t know anyone.” He let a beat fall. Then, quietly, with precision: “You are the best horsebreaker in the Riverlands, Lady Blackwood,” he said at last. “It would please me to see the truth of that said about you. In action.”

A fractional pause. “If the lady allows.”

The yard fell silent again, the chirping of birds abruptly ceasing. No one repeated Gerren’s praise this time. They did not need to; every man present heard the echo, and every one of them suddenly found something else to look at.

You turned your head toward Baelor, and the look you gave him was different from before. It wasn’t the hurried judgment one might receive from the stable yard, nor the cool, evasive response of a woman keeping a prince at arm’s length. This was more direct. Your eyes travelled his face, settling with a thoughtful, unhurried intensity, like a person contemplating the difference between what is seen and what is truly felt.

Baelor met it.

You held the gaze long enough that he felt it—the specific, quiet pressure of being actually looked at, not as a prince, not as a title, but as a person who had brought a gift, that could mean several things and was waiting, carefully, to see which meaning you took.

It was not the open, hungry staring he knew from tourney stands and court halls, the wide eyes that drank in his face and saw only story: the Realm’s Delight, the tourney champion, the future king. It was narrower, steadier, almost inconveniently calm. You weren’t trying to impress him, or to be impressed by him. You were simply… taking stock. As if he were a horse you were considering: bone, balance, temper.

The first time you had seen him, you hadn’t even noticed the eyes. That had stung, absurdly; half the realm told stories about the Targaryen violet, and you had looked straight through it, filing him away without so much as a second glance. Now, though, after the stallion with the mismatched gaze, you looked at him and saw it. And there was a flicker there, a tiny, traitorous acknowledgement that you understood exactly what he had done.

Heat went through him like a struck vein. It showed up in small, betraying places: the way his fingers curled once against the back of his wrist where his hands were clasped; the way his throat worked as if the air had thickened; the slow, heavy pull of blood lower, coiling in a body that had no business reacting to a look as if your gaze were a forbidden touch. Being regarded like this, with unblinking attention, aroused him with an intimacy that no amount of courtly admiration had ever managed. Deliberate. Full. He felt a jolt, a visceral response to being seen so completely, so intensely, like a predator brought to bay, an awakening far more profound than the superficial praise. A forbidden current within.

For a fleeting moment, a wild, insane sense gripped him almost by the throat: that if you held his gaze any longer, if you decided to stay there with a patience of a horsebreaker, to linger, and discover what lived behind the purple and the brown; some crack in him would show itself without his permission, and an involuntary vulnerability would break through.

And the worst of it, the thing that made his grip on his own composure feel suddenly, precariously thin, was that a part of him wanted you to.

“You chose an unknown breed,” you said. “Deliberately.”

“I chose an excellent horse.”

“You chose one I’ve never handled.”

“I chose one no one has. There have been attempts, though, with dire consequences.”

A silence. The horse shifted its weight, the necklace chiming softly against the chest.

“This is a very expensive gift,” you said, “from a man who is not my kin and is not my lord.”

“It is a debt repaid.”

“It is far more than a debt.”

He inclined his head, neither confirming nor denying, letting the silence answer for him. Your jaw worked once, as if there was a plainer word you would have liked to use and had to swallow instead. You did not want to owe a prince; he had expected that. He had counted on it. The resistance put a keener edge on his own intent, the way a whetstone made a blade more itself.

“You understand what you’ve done, my prince,” you said, still looking at the horse rather than him. “No man in all kingdoms would willingly let a woman from a lesser house sit a creature like this. He will be stolen within a month, and I’ll face severe reprimand for my scandalous display: parading in the mud on something so outrageously bred it makes the Bracken studs look like plough nags, mere farm animals. The North and the Riverlands do not forgive that kind of spectacle.” You tilted your head, considering the blue eye. “Especially not when the faces in question already spend their days smeared in their own horseshit.”

The yard broke like a wave.

Laughter, sharp and delighted, spilled over the fence, devoid of any pretense. A stable boy slapped the rail. One of the men‑at‑arms bent double, wheezing. Even Lord Blackwood’s steward allowed himself the ghost of a smile, which in him might as well have been applause.

“Lady Blackwood,” Baelor said with a smile that appreciated the joke.

The sound of his voice cut cleanly through the noise. He let it sit a heartbeat, looking down at his own leather boots drenched in mud as he shifted his weight, hands clasped behind him—modest, almost, if not for the faint curve at the corner of his mouth. Then he raised his head.

The moment his eyes landed on you, the violet fleck in his right iris seemed to capture every particle of the wan autumn light.

“All the Seven Kingdoms will know whose gift he is,” he said, each word measured, almost lazy with assurance. “No one will dare lay a hand on a horse that carries my colours and my eye. And especially not the lady mounted on top. Not Brackens, no other Riverlords or Lords in the North, not any Lannister or Tyrell, not any man in any muddy yard who values his own skin.”

He let the next phrase fall with the pleasant finality of a gauntlet.

Possession. Ownership. Without a single touch or command.

“That is a crown’s promise.”

The chuckle that went through the men then was different, lower, edged with something like approval and relief. A prince staking a claim in plain hearing, wrapping a lady of a lesser house in the quiet, territorial arrogance of a Targaryen guarantee.

Baelor was absurdly, privately pleased by how good it felt to say it—and by the fact that, for once, the weight of the dragon on his breast did not feel like duty alone.

There it was, the calculation, running openly behind your eyes. Not whether you wanted the horse: you had decided that before you finished looking at him, and you both knew it. The question was the cost. What you would owe after, and to whom, and whether a gift accepted was something left open. You did not want to owe a prince. Baelor had expected this. He had counted on it, in fact, and then found, somewhere between the planning and the standing here, that he liked the clean, unbending honesty of it rather more than he’d expected.

You looked at the horse.

The horse looked at you with its blue eye.

“What a stallion,” you whispered, your voice carrying further than you intended.

“He has never been ridden,” Baelor said again, softly. “He is waiting for someone who knows what she is doing.”

You took a breath. Let it out slowly.

“If I accept this—”

“I will want to watch,” he interrupted, “from the first touch to the moment he gives you his back.” His tone stayed pleasant; the words did not.

Another silence. Your throat gave a small, involuntary gulp, a tiny crack in your maintained calm, and your fingers ghosted over your wrist, as if to confirm your pulse was behaving itself. The broad-headed hound’s tail resumed its slow, stubborn wag against the ground.

You turned back to the horse. You took a tentative step, then another, your hands already lowering into the relaxed posture that had calmed Drogon in the mist. The blue eye tracked your approach. The horse did not step back. His ears perked up, wide with curiosity, deciphering your motion like an animal senses truth: the depth of your awareness, the absence of threat in your posture, and the deliberate calm of someone who has all the time in the world. Your hand reached his nose. He sniffed once—long, searching—and then, to Baelor’s very private satisfaction, pressed the flat of his muzzle into your palm as if there had never been any other choice.

“Ridiculous creature,” you said, very quietly. Baelor could not have said with certainty which of them you meant.

“I’ll need a week with him before anything of note,” you said, not turning, fingers already learning the map of the bone beneath the skin. “Possibly more. The process takes months, but I can achieve initial results in days.”

Lord Blackwood hummed in approval.

“I am in no hurry,” Baelor said. It came out lower than he intended, almost velvety, as if his conversation implied something else entirely.

“To go anywhere in particular.”

Your hand paused for the space of a heartbeat on the long muscle of the horse’s neck, thumb pressing in, as if testing not his steadiness but your own, before resuming its slow, sure path. You said nothing to that. But your fingers curved around the horse’s jaw, initiating the slow, deliberate process of building trust, and you chose not to turn him away.

It was a ridiculous thing, perhaps, for the second man in the realm to be pleased that he could make a lady’s composure slip with nothing more than a horse and a decision—but he was, and the knowledge ran through him like heat. What followed was less comfortable.

Baelor wanted her to look at him that way.

Not at the Targaryen colours, not at the tournament record that preceded him into every hall in the realm, not at the face his mother’s ladies had called beautiful with a reverence that had always struck him as faintly impersonal, as if beauty were a property of the station and not the man. You had given him none of that in the mist. You had looked at him the way you looked at everything: with a steady, appraising patience that gave nothing away and required nothing from him in return. He had found it irritating. He had found it, if he was honest, intoxicating.

The horse had moved you. He had not.

The thought landed with the specific, unpleasant burden of an unforeseen issue he was now fixated on. What would it require? Not his title, not his lineage, not the effortless ease with which he could command a room. Something else. Something you had decided, by your own private measure, was worth the concession.

He did not know what that was. The not-knowing was new.

His father had granted him leave to choose. Not a diplomatic arrangement, not a match made in a council chamber over maps and alliances, but a choice: the particular, rare indulgence of a king who trusted his heir’s judgment in most things, including this. Baelor had taken the commission seriously and had conducted it with method. He had stood in the great halls of the Great Houses and watched ladies move in silk and gold with the practised eye of a young man, the first prince, who understood that a marriage was also a partnership, a prolonged negotiation, and that the body beside him for the rest of his life had better be one he could at least bear to sit across a table from without something in him going dim.

Baelor had not yet found the answer. He had not been looking for it in a muddy Riverlands yard.

You were not the answer; he told himself. A minor house. A woman who kept kennels and broke horses and met princes with dry courtesy and unimpressed eyes. Not a match his father would have circled on any list, not a name that solved anything he needed solved.

You were, he thought, looking at you now with your hand moving slow and sure along an animal that no one else had ever managed to reach—you were, perhaps, the last of something. The last question before the answer was given. The last afternoon of good riding before the road closed in and required him to be only what he was supposed to be.

Baelor was second in the realm. He would be first, in time. The stallion’s days would end when the harness went on, and he had known that since boyhood with a clarity that left no room for complaint.

He watched your fingers find the long line of the colt’s jaw and felt, with a quiet and unprincely resignation, that he would spend a very long time wondering what it would take to make you look at him that way instead.

You were the last clean gust before the window shut: a brief, wild draft of freedom he meant to drag into his lungs and get drunk on, once, hard, before he turned back to the still air of a highborn marriage. A final storm let loose in a dim candlelit room, before he bolted the shutters, straightened his crown, and resigned himself to breathing nothing but duty for the rest of his life.

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