I read this amazingly heart-wrenching DunkBaelor story on ao3, can't find it at will add name once I do, but anyway Baelor still dies at Ashford but then haunts Dunk and Dunk sees him whenever he's close to dying.
Yeah.
Anyway, that is a killer story idea I feel like we've all been sleeping on guys. Baelor haunting the Narrative, yes, but Baelor also literally haunting Dunk. Baelor died from wounds sustained during a Trail of 7, meant to call the gods in to pass judgment, and now Dunk can see one (1) ghost and its his dead husband.
Dunk, of course, never mentions this to anyone and he and Egg still go off and explore the 7 kingdoms like in canon, just with the added commentary of the previous heir to the Iron throne that only Dunk can hear. His poker face improves in leaps and bounds ver quickly. Sometimes family is you, your runaway prince of a squire, and your squires dead uncle. Dunk still never learns how to read or write well, because Baelor can't interact with anything, but learns Dornish and High Valarien and every other language Baelor speaks because I think it would be hilarious.
This also leads into the opportunity for time travel shenanigans, where Dunk does eventually die and then he and Baelor both shoot straight upright some time in the past like, " Wtf?" Could be right before Ashford, that could be funny. Dunk rocking up to the tourney with 2 previously missing princes and Immediately sliding into the crown prince's dms, and it'd being reciprocated????
Or maybe it's earlier, maybe it's the Blackfire rebellion and Dunk slides (sneaks) unaccountably into the logistical nightmare of war and meets up with His prince at Redgrass field, and on one hand Baelor is So happy to have his missing husband back but on the other is now constantly having a heart attack if he looses sight of Dunk because this is Redgrass field! Anyway Dunk kills Damien Blackfire and returns to Kings Landing with Baelor and so many people start questioning this decision that Baelor starts literally growling at people. He skips calm and reasonable and jumps feet first into draconic possessiveness. He straight up bites Bloodraven at one point and Dunk laughs and then makes Baelor wash his mouth out.
Also, for angst potential; the closer Dunk is to death the better Baelor can touch him. Normally it just a cold feeling, the prince of Dragonstone as cold in death as he was hot in life. That time Dunk nearly drowns in canon, its Baelor who pulls him from the water. Dunk gets sick or injured and Baelor worridly nurses him back to health begging him to hold on, to stay with him, Get Up.
Yeah, just Baelor haunting Dunk very specifically.
A post about Baelor Targaryen's hands and their significance for the story. Or, why do I believe Baelor's hands have a storyline of their own? Here's why.
In good storytelling small details matter, and A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms is proof of this. It shows a lot in the way characters are presented. Now, since it's Lyonel Baratheon who's responsible for male nudity (and partially Dunk), the Targaryens, who are the opposite of Baratheon in a sense (especially Baelor) look very reserved. They only show their faces and hands. Needless to say that the show's creators have done a great job here.
Here's the frame that's always worth mentioning. You instantly know where to look, your brain knows, and it's thanks not just to our hero's good looks — it's also thanks to the lighting and values. Artists are taught this. And here the center of immediate attention is not even Baelor's face, it's mostly his hands. And both look fine (how dare he look so fine), but his hands are somehow so particularly fine that we just can't get over them. Nature's been very generous indeed to Baelor Targaryen/Bertie Carvel. The director and the cinematographer have made all the right choices.
So there he sits, playing with his ring absent-mindedly. And he does this thing a lot (probably the actor's choice). The first time we see him, he's eating something (most likely grapes), and he twiddles a grape with the air of a man who just loves to have something to play with in his fingers. Probably a piece of characterisation — because Baelor is a fun guy. But also, his sense of touch is obviously important to him. And I also see this as a part of his general agility and, in a sense, his training as a fighter. Heightened senses — agile limbs — hallmarks of someone who's good with a sword.
But anyway, for some reason these beautiful hands with long nimble fingers become important. We know them, we remember them, we admire their owner.
Fast forward to the last scene where Baelor's talking to Raymun Fossoway.
He's received the fatal blow, he's dying, while still remaining on his feet. And he's obviously noticing some sinister signs — something's not right. But he doesn't say "The headache is killing me", or "I'm getting sleepy", or "I'm cold", though all of these would have been accurate. He says, "My fingers feel like wood." It's the first thing that comes to his mind, something that surprises and unsettles him most of all.
Something that's been important to him for all of his life, an integral part of him is leaving him, and he doesn't know why. He most probably does feel something's gone very wrong by this point, but he cannot know the full extent of the damage. All he knows — he's in pain, he feels weird, and now his fingers feel like wood. For him it's like saying "I don't feel like myself anymore, there is something wrong with me, and I probably need help" without saying it.
Apologies (wife!reader, mentions of losing a child, fluffy ending, platonic and romantic relationships)
"Do you think that mother has gone mad?" Matarys asks his brother and father casually, unknowing of the babe she had recently lost. They had told no one, after all, Valarr only knowing when walking in to the maester checking. Both of them pause, silent.
"... and why do you say that?" Baelor asks cautiously. "She doesn't sing anymore. She's always visiting the old nursery when she thinks no one is looking. She also cried over honeycakes and milk this morning." He noted, not looking up from his sketching.
Baelor grimaces at the mention of her infamous pregnancy craving, turning his head. Valarr straightens and clears his throat. "That is not a reason to think she is mad, brother." "You should see her in the markets, then. I swear she stares at every woman there with this face,"
He vaguely gestures. "It's like... hm, how to describe it," He thinks. "... like when Aerion used to pout over losing a fish." He then snorts. "I even told her to stop sulking like a dog who's lost its..." He pauses, brows burrowing as he recalls all that he told.
He then pauses in some sort of realization, squinting at his father. "... what has happened?" When Baelor doesn't answer, he stands. "Father, tell me what has happened." Valarr too stands, placing a hand on his shoulder with a bitter smile. "Have you truly not noticed?"
He shrugs him off. "Noticed what?" He eyes both of them, now panicking. "Please tell me that my words of jest aren't actually ones of cruelty." Baelor sighs. "Matarys-" "Because I would never jest with mother in such a way if I knew something was wrong. She must know that, yes?"
He takes a step back, continuing, trying to come up with a reason why his family looked so solemn. "Matarys-" "I will fix it." He insisted. "Whatever causes mother such pain, I will fix it. I will not let my harmful words cause her affliction-" He rushes out before they could say.
Valarr turns to his father with a clenched jaw. "Should I run after him?" Baelor thinks, sitting back down in his original position. Taking his silence as confirmation, he turned. "Valarr." He stops, a questioning expression meeting his father's tired one. "... let him be."
So, it shocked the mourning woman when her youngest child bursts in the room, arms full of miscellaneous items. "Matarys, my boy-?" He plops them down on a nearby table, cursing as a pitch of some kind of liquid almost spills. "Matarys, honey," She stands from her seat.
She then jumps when he suddenly turns to her and kneels, bowing deeply. A hand resting over her heart, she kneels in front of her boy and cupped his shoulders. "What has happened-?" "I've brought you honeycakes and milk." He blurts out, confusing her. "I... alright?"
"I've also brought needle, thread, and soft cloth. Surely the woman at the market gave me more than enough – I'm sure she pitied me – but it is all worth it if it means you would enjoy it. I bought it so we could make those quilts you love so much, for a babe." Her heart lurches.
He didn't understand, she knew this. He deserved to know. "Matarys." "I figured that's what you mourn for. I would regularly complain in a dramatic fashion over wanting to be the youngest and not have anymore brother's or men in the family, but it's what you want."
He does seem to hear her. "I will learn from you, maybe that could soften the blow of my dastardly words and action. I will eat cake with you until I grow sick, if that's what you wish. I will clumsily prick myself until I bleed or 'til my fingers grow stiff if it soothes your heart, mother."
He raised his head, a determined expression on his face. "I do not know what afflicts you so, but I do know that my careless words of passing does not make it any better. And so... I," He falters, eyes desperate and lost. "I wish to make amends for it. Please. I never meant you any-"
He's pulled into a tight hug, his head resting on her bosom. She laughs, tears falling, placing kisses onto his head. He still felt guilty, but less than before. He hugs her back, eyes closing softly as he sighs. "Oh, you precious boy of mine." She sniffles, pulling away and cupped his cheeks.
She takes in her youngest breathing babe, taking a deep breath as she felt her bottom lip quiver and a sob threaten to escape. "I'd happily eat cake with you, my boy. I'll teach you how to sew and how to not make a fool of yourself at the market." She teases, getting a sheepish grin.
She kisses his head once more, before standing and urging him to do the same. She fusses over his hair before turning to the honeycakes and milk. "Come. Let us make merry, hm?" Matarys simply grins, helping her sit down. "Does this mean I'm forgiven?" She simply laughs.
She recalls this interaction as she laid in the bath, face covered with dry tears from both joy and mourning. Behind her, her husband helps her in cleaning her back and neck. He takes in her silence, eyes flickering to her face often. She catches his gaze, smiling softly.
"You're staring." "I'm the only one allowed to do so." Baelor retorts, placing a soft kiss to her temple. "... I hope you didn't take Matarys' words to heart, my love. He has your habit of babbling." Scoffing light-heartedly, she swats back at him. "Oh, hush. He meant no harm... he's good."
She finds his hand in hers, gently squeezing. "Just as you are... so very good to me. More than I deserve." Baelor squeezes her hand in return, turning her head to peck slowly at her lips. "You deserve everything, my love. Don't doubt that." Their forehead pressed against one another's.
"I am sorry that I made you feel as though you needed to provide me things I already have." He rasps. "And I am sorry that you suffer so under our marital bond." "Don't do that," She sniffles, nuzzling into him. "I want to be here, with you and our sons. This is perfect... loss or not."
He takes a deep breath. "... I am glad." He finishes in helping her with her bath and gets her dressed. He didn't allow any servants to see her mourning body, ignoring how her aching breasts cried for a babe that wasn't there. He simply helped her throughout it all.
He helps her lay down, pausing at the sight of the almost finished honeycake on the table. He turns to her, lips twitching upward, giving her a questionable look. She chuckles. "Matarys has learned that he cannot out eat his mother when it comes to sweet things." Baelor laughs.
"Oh, I hope he didn't get sick. He's quite the whiner when he falls ill." "He almost did, if I hadn't stopped him." He lays next to her, tense, hands hovering with uncertainty. Rolling her eyes, she guides his hands to her hip and her empty womb. He relaxes. "I'm sorry, my love."
"I know."
Based off the quote from Bridgerton where Violet says that she passes the nursery.
As for Baelor, i enjoy reading him as a very morally complex, but at the end, morally good man, verses the black and white goody two shoes persona that is often pushed on to him.
Because Baelor objectively is a good man, better than his brother. But he still sat by and allowed toxicity to fester within his family. Baelor standing against Aerion and his own brother to fight for Dunk wasn't just him doing the right thing, it was also him coming to terms with the fact that a legacy he had probably held on to so strongly before all of this, was crumbling. The right thing to do, would have been side with Dunk to begin with and bring his concerns to Maekar, regarding Aerion being a loose canon. The right thing to do, would have been to reprimand Aerion far before it got as far as it did, whilst punishing Maekar for allowing his son's awful actions to fester and go unchecked.
While Baelor was kind to and empathized with Dunk, even to the point of being extremely cold and sharp toward Egg (which I like--because it shows us that he is capable of being cruel and cut throat), he still did not overly praise what Dunk did in the moment. He did not commend Dunk for striking Aerion, nor did he excuse he. He simply said, 'I might have done what you did, but I'm a prince'. There are so many ways to interpret that, but none of them overly excused or ignored what Egg did, nor did they put any accountability on Aerion. Infact, Baelor validated Aerion; he validated his anger, he validated the fact that what Tanselle did could be seen as treason against House Targaryen.
Even when Aerion requested a trial of the 7 (and both Maekar and Dunk were equally confused and both actively crashing out in unison), instead of denying him that or even trying to argue with him, he allowed him to trial without any consequence, knowing that it would be a disadvantage to Dunk. And by that I mean, he hardly stood up for him, outside of giving Dunk and his brother a history lesson, he gave Aerion what he wanted. And of course, that is the law, but Baelor never put up very hard opposition against his nephews desires.
This is not at all to say that, he didn't stick his neck out for Dunk because he did, immensely. This was seen by the fact that he did not blame Dunk at all, for any of this. He blamed Egg for it. This also isn't excusing the fact that he gave his life for Dunk, because he did. But joining the fight against his family, IMO, is the result of Baelor realizing that there needs to be a change. That he has been enabling his brother and his brother's son for too long that it has come to this; the Targs have not only lost their way but are falling back into the travesty that was Aegon the Unworthy. Baelor doesn't want a repeat of that, but he sees that by his lack luster actions, that is going to happen. He knows that as much as his brother grumps about his children, he is an inactive/bad father. He will threaten and hit Aerion, but he will stand by him. He too is an enabler; if none of them stood up to Aerion, then their legacy would repeat itself.
Similar to how I mentioned that Egg and Dunk are Maekar's redemption, Dunk is also Baelor's redemption. Dunk is a reflection of everything that a knight and a good man is to Baelor, and being lost in castles, in Summerhall, in Dragonstone, around elites, nobles, royals, etc., Baelor had forgotten that simply because he didn't have to confront that until he saw Dunk vs Aerion. And it was no longer something he could ignore; there was a terror brewing within the household of his brother, whcih inevitably would impact his legacy and threaten his life.
So Baelor is a very good man imo. He is not your typical Targ man, and it's foolish to act like he is a man with ulterior motives. But I actually like this idea that he deals with internal struggles more than the thought of him being a very basic, black and white person. While he was not actively torturing people like Aerion, he allowed it to fester by not condoning his brother's lack of parenting. And of course people are probably wondering 'why is it his problem', not only is he going to be king, but what one unruly prince does, impacts everyone. And it would be absolute hell for Baelor to be king while his nephew who thinks he is a dragon and a true targ is living and breathing. They would've eventually had to kill Aerion I kid you not.
I love that Dunk opened Baelor's eyes, and he shattered the family unit that Maekar and Baelor created. He forced Baelor out of his own space of comfort and compliance. It is because of Dunk, that Baelor knows that if he wants a change, then he is going to have to stand against his family, and his own brother. Because TRUST me, if Baelor survived, things would never be the same between Maekar and Baelor, and Baelor was willing to risk that because he believed in Dunk. And that is far more interesting than him being just a goodie two shoes, because not even that makes sense for what we saw.
Spearhedge is fundamentally two men who are pretty much instantly and intensely devoted to one another and don’t really question it until Baelor dies and Dunk spends his whole life ruminating on it and mourning Baelor like a girl who was widowed on her wedding day
The point here is that there is no way that relationship doesn’t rapidly descend into Dunk and Baelor both yelling “SEVEN HELLS SIT DOWN AND LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU!”
summary: The calm has passed, and the storm approaches. With Dunk lacking numbers for the Trial of Seven, Egg and Elaera seek a resort of the very last.
Either this night will be something for the scribes and made history for every honorable and true reason, or the books will tell of a stag and dragon who bled before the true fight had begun.
or
Just a little thing on how Princess Elaera Targaryen, first born of Baelor Targaryen, first of her name, second in line to the Iron Throne, was appointed the first known lady knight of the Seven Kingdoms by one, shnockered off his rocks, Lyonel Baratheon.
"My head could be taken for this. If I agree, and I have not." Lyonel counters.
"And you would gainsay your knight's oath in denying me." Elaera avers, steady as the rockface of Dragonstone. "The vows themselves attest to it, my Lord."
Lyonel guffaws, and Dornish red bleeds between his fingers from the rim of his glass. "What say you of a man's oath? What is it you know, She-Dragon?"
The Lord slurps into his cups, saying in a garbled tongue, "Honor is a sham in your blood. The words are taken and then you bleed them by the neck– you and your brood," He hiccups, and waves a limp wristed hand. "Nay, your fathers brood. You are the brood. That toehead cunt, Brightflame, he is the brood. The Targaryens breed madness, sowed into the womb."
Elaera does not look down her nose at the drunken fool. It is her right as the royal blood to take his tongue for the foul language spit on her house. Aerion had done so for less. Such is why when she raises her hand, it is not to take Lyonel by the scruff, but to lay a hand at his goblet. He blinks bleary at her sodden flesh, making the storm in lieu of the calm ever evident if the lightning beyond the canopy had not.
Egg clings to the flagon as though it was Duncan's life itself. "She will fight valiantly, my Lord," Boyhood glistens in his eyes, and he pleads as the child he is. "Please, my Lord, Ser Dunk has no one else."
Lyonel looks at the boy as though Eggs presence had slipped from the drunken fog that is his mind. Candleflame ignites in his irises when his head lulls to stare at the princess. Elaera tips her chin, a white strand curled in its wet state falling from her brow, and meets his gaze in resolution.
"Ser Lyonel Baratheon," She starts, and leather squeaks against itself as she takes to a knee, "Lord of Storms End, my oath is yours. I tie my life to your own, if my grandfather should ask for your head after this is done. I will fight in your name against his champion, I will take the sword myself and ask for a trial,"
Elaera swallows, and her fingers press into the flesh of his hand to center herself. Her voice quivers nonetheless. "I kneel before you a princess of the realm and heir apparent, but I beg as a woman whose heart shall be at the feet of the gods come the morn. You have pledged to Ser Duncan, yes, but the numbers are few even still,"
Lyonel looks at her rain drenched self, clad in Targaryen red and black and knelt at his feet like a Septon at an altar. A Targaryen begs to a Lord bellow her station, and in her eyes there is no shame or intolerance for his lack of urgency on this matter but a love in the form of desperation. Not even the rebirth of the royal blood's namesake would compare in wonder to this.
"Does he," Lyonel croaks from his sore throat. "Have you?"
"By sword and soul, I am his." Elaera proclaims without an air of doubt, and Lyonel cannot recall a time he trusted one of her blood before this moment.
The Lord slaps a hand on her knuckles, and gives a jovial jostle at it. "Aye, let us be done with this then. Boy," His voice is a storm now, sobered and stronger as he directs Egg, "My sword, bring it, if you would,"
Elaera cannot help but match the grin of the Laughing Storm when he dips his head to her and says, "I would not want anyone else to have the glory of knighting a Targaryen princess, now would I? Having you in my debt serves as fine a prize as any, and the Skullsplitter fighting in the name of my new friend would serve me well I'd wager."
Elaera takes his elbows when he stands on toppling feet.
"I quite enjoy that half-man." Lyonel's lips brush against her ear as he steadies himself on her shoulder.
Elaera ensures to stare into the deep pools of his eyes so that he sees. "As do I. We are in agreement then. We forget differences long enough to bring Dunk into the morrow alive and breathing."
"Yes." Lyonel mutters. Begrudged, as if he were a petulant child whose mother-hen demands he share his toy. "Agreed.”
summary: baelor loses his memory after the trial of seven. you help him remember everything he forgot, and he falls in love with you again everyday. (2.2k)
pairing: baelor targaryen / fem!reader
contents: fix it fic because i'm a widow in mourning, established relationship, implied age gap, angst, hurt/comfort, a bunch of fluff, canon divergence cw for spoilers for s1ep5, mentions of blood and gore
“Have I told you that I love you today?”
You think you’ve heard that question uttered more in the span of a year than any other — save for, maybe, “How is Valarr?” and “Any word from my brother?” The Trial of Seven had not been kind to any of the knights on that field that day, but least of all to yours. Baelor had suffered a blow to the back of the helm from Maekar’s mace that had not killed him, but had perhaps made him wish that he were dead.
He spent nearly thirty days in a coma, surviving only on honey and water, which had turned him skin and bone. And then, when he finally woke, he spent several more days caught in a cycle of excruciating pain and deep sleep from the milk of the poppy he was prescribed. It took him a week thereafter to make sense of his surroundings in the Ashford Infirmary, and then another to put a name to your face — the woman who had not left his bedside since he woke, whose beauty he could only vaguely recognize.
His head injury had stripped him of his memories, the maesters said, and had prevented him from making any new ones. When the wound finally healed and the medicine no longer clouded his awareness, Baelor could remember only this: the birth of his son, the childhood he shared with his younger brother, and the love he had for you.
He could hardly use his limbs for a time, let alone rule the Seven Kingdoms, so Maekar relieved his brother of his duties. You did not return to your home in King’s Landing when you left Ashford. Instead, you made a new one in Sunspear, on a piece of far-off farmland, not far from where his mother grew up in Dorne. The warmth and the golden yellow sun brought the color back to his face, and made Baelor nostalgic for a time he can no longer remember now.
“Tell me again,” the man says with his head tipped back. He looks up at you as you stand beside his chair, raking the thin blade down the length of his neck. Heavy soap cakes onto the white cloth around his neck, along with the fine scruff you shave off his pale skin.
“I’ve already told you a thousand times,” you laugh. “I think I could recite the Dance of the Dragons better than most maesters at this point.”
The sound of your pretty giggling mixes with that of the rolling waves from the bright blue sea about a furlong away from the porch, and the distant bleating of goats being shooed away from the grape vineyard a mile or so up the hill. Everything smells like sea salt and citrus and soap and you.
Baelor knows he has a hard time remembering his home back in King’s Landing, but he can’t understand why he should care about anything other than the one he shares with you now.
“I should know it, I know…” Baelor hums in a soft voice that borders on melancholic.
He smiles softly to himself as his mismatched eyes dart over your face — memorizing the shape of your eyes, the curve of your nose, and the dip in your cupid’s bow — lest the merciless Gods take that memory away from him, too. He fights back a shiver while you sculpt his greying beard with a blade in your expert hand, taking care of him like you were made to do it, though he struggles to recall why.
“I just… I don’t understand why I don’t remember…” he confesses quietly.
You smile through the pang of grief in your chest and repeat the reminder you have to tell him most days. “Because you got hurt, my love. And the maester said it affected your memory.”
“I got hurt…” Baelor echoes, not quite a question, but not quite a firm statement either.
“Yes,” you nod, smoothing the edge of the blade down the milky white tendons of his neck. “You were defending Ser Duncan’s honor at the trial of seven—”
“Trial of seven?” the older man repeats with a furrow to his dark brows. “There hasn’t been one of those in over a century.”
The statement of fact makes you perk.
“Do you remember the last one?” you press gently, parting from his side to wash the blade off in the basin of warm water beside you.
Baelor thinks for a moment, blue-brown irises tracing the fluffy white clouds overhead as he fights to recall a deeply held memory. “It was… Maegor the Cruel,” he mumbles some moments later. “And Ser Damon from House Morrigen— They called him Damon the Devout…”
He turns his head to the side to flash you a soft smile, full of a quiet pride, as if he himself were shocked at having remembered. You meet his sheepish grin with a wider beam, “Aye, my love,” you nod as you return to his side, brushing the blade gently over his jaw. “That’s right.”
“Pity…” he hums in a monotone, folding his weathered hands across his stomach. “I can remember every battle recorded in the citadel, but not my own…”
“Ser Duncan was accused of hurting Aerion, your nephew, who opted for a trial of seven rather than trial by combat,” you explain, soft eyes flitting from Baelor’s attentive gaze to where you shape the edges of his grey beard. “And when Ser Duncan couldn’t find seven fighters, you stood up for him — like a true knight. And you fought gallantly—”
Baelor makes a noise of protest in the back of his throat.
“A gallant knight would remember fighting gallantly,” he protests. “And I can hardly remember what happened to me.”
“Perhaps it’s best you don’t,” you murmur warmly and turn away. “It was a brutal fight.”
Baelor’s soft voice follows you the short distance to the basin, where you drop the blade and rinse your hands. “Tell me,” he says with an audible, sad sort of smile in his voice. “Of how gallantly I fought, I mean.”
Even with your back facing him, he can see the way your shoulders tense, as if his simple plea were enough to take your breath away.
You swallow hard and fight back the distant nausea that always accompanies the bitter memories. You blink, and suddenly the basin of soapy water becomes bright crimson blood — and the white suds turn into the shards of Baelor’s bone and brain, from where you’d cradled his wound to keep his skull from falling apart. Even now, the scent of a salty sea and dewy grass washes away to the stench of copper you’d smelled in the barracks that day — when the blood was so thick in the air you could taste it.
You shake your head to physically remove the memory from your brain. Your answer is the repeated monotone you find yourself reciting most days. “You protected your men. All of them.” You clear your throat when your voice cracks. “It wasn’t until after it was over, when Aerion yielded from his injuries, that Maekar hit you with his mace whilst trying to get to his son. Hard enough to put you in a coma for a moon’s turn.”
“Of course he did,” Baelor hums with a strange fondness in his voice as he plucks the towel from around his neck, wiping the remnants of shaving cream from his skin. “My brother was always stronger than he realized… Even when we were boys…”
Baelor smiles at you and waits for you to look back at him. You never do.
You just keep dipping your hands into the water, like you’re trying to wipe something from your already clean skin. You’d gained a habit of that since the day you nearly lost Baelor — when you rubbed your hands raw in scalding water because you felt like his blood was still clinging to your skin there, long after it had washed away.
“Forgive me,” he says. “If my words pain you— I mean no offense.”
“Stop that,” you scold, features twisting in offense as your head snaps in the man’s direction. You close the brief distance between you to snatch the towel from his fingers, drying off your hands with a quiet smile. “I know you don’t, Baelor. You’re too kind for any of that.”
You sit gingerly across his thighs and dab diligently at the soapy spots he’d missed on his neck. Your soft lavender scent mixes with the spiced oils he’d bathed in that morning.
Baelor’s mismatched eyes soften with affection as he cradles your waist in a pair of wide, sturdy hands. “If only I could remember… Then you wouldn’t have to carry it all… And I wouldn’t be such a burden to you.”
You flinch, as if his words have found you like a physical blow to the stomach.
“You’re the furthest thing from a burden, my love,” you tell him, stern but no less soft with him. “I wouldn’t want you to remember any of it, anyway. I’ll happily hold the memories for the two of us…”
“You were there, yes?” he wonders then.
You nod wordlessly, not trusting yourself to speak.
“And you saw it?”
“I saw all of it,” you answer, slightly strangled by the burning tears you fight hard to blink away. Your glassy eyes remain on the towel in your grasp, lacking the strength to meet Baelor’s gaze. “I ran to you in the barracks when it was over… I didn’t let go of you for two days— they had to transport both of us to the infirmary together…”
You exhale a sharp exhale through your nose, as if you mean to laugh, though the smile doesn’t quite match the sadness in your eyes.
“Eventually, my body gave out from exhaustion, and Maekar carried me out,” you sigh. “I’m pretty sure I slapped him for it when I woke up, but… That might’ve just been a dream— I’m not sure.”
Baelor’s lip twitches in a faint smile, half-hidden beneath the cloth you press to his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs beneath it.
“For what?”
“You shouldn’t have had to see that— You shouldn’t have had to see me like that.”
“Perhaps not,” you shrug. “But you’re here now. And you’re getting better every day. And that’s all I really care about now.”
You drop the towel into your lap and cup Baelor’s bearded jaw in your soft palms, brushing the trimmed edges with your thumb. There’s a distinct sort of tenderness in the way you hold him, like you’re savoring the way he feels against you — his coarse scruff in your delicate palms, the warmth beneath his pale skin, the way his chest rises and falls beneath you with even breaths. Alive.
“Any word from my brother?” he asks, the third time that morning.
“Not yet,” you smile. “He was here three days ago to check in on you, remember?”
Baelor’s brown-blue eyes dart back and forth between yours, going glassy as he struggles to recollect the not-so-distant memory. He swallows hard, half-embarrassed, and shakes his head. “I… I think I’m having some trouble remembering…”
“That’s okay,” you tell him, scratching gently at his scruff. “That’s why I’m here. To help you remember.”
“And we’re…” he trails off, brows lowered in curiosity. “We’re married, yes?”
Your smile widens. You nod once, proud and visibly giddy. “We are.”
“You poor thing,” he scoffs a quiet laugh that mixes with your lighter giggling. “What did you do to the Gods to end up cursed with an old man like me?”
“Must’ve been something nice, I’m sure,” you lilt and curl your arms around his shoulders. Your fingers rake through his short grey hair, tracing lightly over the healed wound at the top of his neck, where the base of his skull dips in. “Considering they saved you for me… I wouldn’t exactly call that cursed…”
Your words trail off as the tip of your nose traces the bridge of his. You close the minimal space between you to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. When you pull away, you catch a flicker of something flashing across his face — like he’s seeing you for the very first time.
That was, perhaps, the only good thing to come out of all this, watching Baelor fall in love with you again every day.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” you giggle.
“Have I told you that I love you today?” Baelor wonders, for the hundredth or so time that day.
“You tell me every day, Baelor,” you grin. “But I wouldn’t mind hearing it a few more times…”
You lean in to kiss him again — a longer and more languid thing this time. Baelor exhales a heavy sigh against you that fans across your cupid’s bow. He prays your kiss leaves a mark on him, like hot sealing wax on a love letter. He wants you to mark him with your touch — to burn him, to stamp him, to brand him — so that he’ll have something to remember this moment by, before it’s gone again forever.
❛ lord i'm 500 miles from my home ❜ — ser duncan the tall
pairing: dunk x elaera targaryen (oc)
summary: the tale of knight and princess is as old as the sun, but the sun burns even the purest of things.
a/n: this is my own oc! details are purposely kept aloof because I might potentially expand on Dunk and Elaera's story in a series
"Your hair is longer."
The summer is kind this morn. The air is fresh and free, and the soil does not weep with sky tears. This year's storms had been a ruthless war waged on their heads. Fortunate for the farmers, discarded by the highborns in their homely grandeur, and cursed by the hedge knight and his squire.
Today is gentle, such are the fingers weaving through Dunk's hair. The nails of them scratch leisurely at his skull and he knows the boy best be up by now tending to the horses, but this moment hangs like a baited hook before the foolish trout. The truth of it, what lies beyond, is nothing short of agony. The boy can sleep, and Dunk thinks he'd like to stay here beneath this tree until his days have run dry and the earth claimed him.
"Is that a bad thing?" Dunk doesn't open his eyes, but he feels lips ghost against his forehead.
"No," She plays at the roots. He can hear the smile in her words, he can see it in his mind. He had never stopped seeing it. Elaera kisses his temple, and there is a yearning bellow in his bones to crane his neck so that she may kiss his lips instead. He doesn't dare.
She chuckles, and it is joy itself in Duncan’s heart. "I wouldn't deny you."
Dunk's fingers curl into his tunic in synchronicity with the aching cavern between his ribs. He can almost feel the bones cave flush with his heart. Elaera pets her fingers in drawn out strides along his cheek. Skin is now prickled in stubble that shines in the sun. Egg himself has grown the first few sprouts.
The boy is ten and five now, and he stands at Duncan's shoulders. He'd scolded Egg for it, as though his growing was of his own will. Truth was, Dunk didn't rightly take to the dawning reality of Eggs maturing. It made him feel as though his feet fought for their grip upon salt spray and waves on a ship deck.
"Parenting is grief in and of itself," Elaera says.
"I'm not his father." Dunk deflects. Elaera snorts. Such a noise would be declared improper coming from a princess. Dunk only wishes to hear it again.
"You gainsay what is clear as the sun is bright in the eyes of anyone."
Dunk does not speak of dreams. Be it for the sake of the boy, and his family's curse of them, or for the sake of his own hide he does not know and he does not let his own linger. Sometimes, though, he will let the desperately held together cracks take in the light of day. To allow himself the thought of a girl stood high as his shin by three years of age, with the dark hair of Dorne with perhaps a shock of white hair, and eyes of blue sea. His own or Elaera's, he does not know. Perhaps the breeding of both, or perhaps neither and the girl would have shared Baelor and Valarr's mismatched colors.
He liked that thought, Duncan decided suddenly. A tie between granddaughter and niece, grandfather, and uncle. Elaera had great love for her brothers and father, it would make all the sense if such a grand thing was shown in—
Duncan clears his throat at the jump. The silks whisper like phantoms against the back of his skull as he shifts where it lays in her lap. The thought of daughter and the claim of ours sits heavy upon him. He thinks now of two different colored eyes, blue and brown, father and son. He thinks of the youngest, Matarys, with eyes of green from Lady Jena. Or so Dunk would like to think as Elaera thought beautifully of her mother. So would he, then. (He was the only one who might remain to do so.) Duncan had the tragedy and privilege of meeting Matarys only once before— well.
The cracks of his sorrows only cling to the light, and for the briefest of moments Duncan thinks of the hand in his hair with a ring on its left finger– the one meant to be wedded– placed with his own vows and his eyes snap open. He blinks against the sun. The sparrow in the branches sings. Elaera smiles, Duncan blinks. His hand rests at the hollow of her neck and he half expects something foul and exposed to rest against his palm when it drifts to the back of her skull.
He feels only waves of dark tresses. He rubs them between his fingers.
"You will catch flies," Elaera murmurs in the light. She is the light. Dunks brows pinch, and her index taps at the fat of his bottom lip. He feels his drying tongue then, and snaps his jaw shut promptly. Always the fool in her presence.
"Your fool." Dunk rasps before he can stop it. Something familiar climbs into his throat, a cry he'd wept many times since smoke and ash took to the sky and much before then. He thinks of a tourney field, and mud. The terror and grief of a father undeserving of what had come upon him, and a hedge knight feeling his will bleeding through his fingers despite the last taken breaths that day not being his own. Elaera smiles, again. She's done it much beneath this tree. It's how Dunk cherishes to think of her in her embodiment of embracing solace.
"My knight." She corrects tenderly.
"Yours," Duncan weeps, and her touch is a ghost on his skin with the memory of warmth like dragon fire. His brow is soothed down onto her collarbone, and her hand lays at the nape of his neck. He clutches onto her as though she is a light in the prowling dark, as though she is his.
She could have been.
She was, something whispers.
"I love you." She whispers against the shell of his ear, and Dunk can smell the rain and feel the soiled earth beneath their feet. He can see her: hair of deep Martell brown and Targaryen white plastered to her forehead with the rain, body soaked to the bone. It was nowhere for a princess, to be in the rain for a hedge knight. But she, then, had not been a princess nor he a knight. They were a man and woman with tied souls and synchronized hearts, and her vow was made to protect the sanctity of his life and her fate was sealed under the clouds.
She hadn't said it, hadn't dared to in the morose hours before the Seven would have his life at their feet, and still Duncan had never felt it more deeply in his bones. He wishes he would have said it anyway.
He'd wished much when he'd woken to a world where a woman worthy of anything and everything was dead, and her man was alive with half of his heart in her chest. He'd wished it was him, so that he did not have to bear witness to Prince Baelor Targaryen sitting vigil at his daughter's side after the Silent Sisters had taken her. Baelor had not been bid to follow, looking upon the dead was unbecoming of the order. Still he followed, and no one had been keen to stop him.
Dunk hadn't known if it was mercy or punishment, when the prince summoned him. It was neither, he'd come to realize, but an understanding of shared grief. Baelor hadn't let them wrap Elaera's body yet. He had allowed Duncan a moment he would never have again. A moment to cradle a memory in his clutches and vow to perish before allowing something to take it. From the shape of her nose to the curve of her lips, he would remember. In that regard, never would she be truly gone.
"Perhaps it would be best, your grace, to..." Dunk had swallowed. He remembers how rotten he had felt in that room. "To leave her to rest,"
Baelor had finally looked at him, then. Dunk had expected to see the breaking of the Soul of Chivalry to make room for rage in the cracks. Agony is a far worse thing to have been faced with, Duncan came to see, and had assumed; because it is the only descriptor he could fathom when he had looked into Baelor's eyes. But the word was as empty a meaning in the moment as a prayer at a dead woman's feet, because there was something lost within the prince that would never return.
Dunk had cast his eyes away, to sunkissed skin against alabaster flesh. A cold hand that had held his own once, and never would again. Baelor would not wound the boy with his stare for long, and having torn his eyes away from Elaera's body was something too painstaking to bear any longer. Baelor's tongue had been led in his mouth and he thought it a good thing, because otherwise he would have screamed.
"I'd thought I was born with purpose. I thought," His words moved the quiet of that dark sanctum. His fingers, with nails dirtied in a blood he could not will himself to rinse, twisted a ring on Elaera's finger. "my duty as a reason for life. To cherish my breaths because I had duties to the realm,"
Something light had flitted across his face, something that tugged lazily at the corners of his mouth. "Then, I found my Jena, and I'd realized quickly how lonely I had been. We married without my father and mothers blessing during my Royal Progress for a suitor in my youth, and it was the most life I had lived in only a weeks time,"
Dunk recalls Baelor staring at the face of his daughter, but his mind was far off to a home he could never return to again. "And then we were told Jena was with child. I had never felt fear as I felt it that day. I realized that I would burn the realm I'd sworn my life to for a child I hadn't known existed hours prior,"
The air had been stolen from the chambers with but a sentence spoken from a grieving fathers lips. "And now she is dead," His eyes lifted to Duncan's once again that night and it had seemed to take all of his will. "My daughter is dead, Ser Duncan. She is my purpose, she gifted it to me, and I will fulfill it only when I draw my last breath. I was the first thing she saw entering this world, I was the last thing her eyes saw before she fell, and so will I be the last one to protect her until she is on that pyre in the morrow."
Dunk had found himself in company with the Hand of the King for a final time when paths led solemnly to Kings Landing and their bellies had gone hungry, and Egg willed himself to convince Dunk that facing the opposite side of his coin was better than starving.
"My daughter gave her life for you, Duncan," Baelor had said when Dunk would not meet his eyes within the fire glow in the prince's solar. "I would not dare dishonor my girl in hatred for you, because her sacrifice for your life said everything she did not. Do not bear it in grief nor in guilt, Ser. Carry it with honor."
They had left in the morrow, and Baelor had smiled in their parting. Something had been lighter in him, and it was cast upon Dunk like the first rays of sun in the wake of Spring after Winter.
They would hear of the Great Spring Sickness while leagues away, across the sea. Dunk would never see Baelor again.
"You've woken up late, Ser," Egg would say, when he'd shaken a hand on Dunk's chest to rouse him. "Not woken at all, actually, I've done it for you. If it were me I'd have been offered a clout in the ear and you'd not have done it as you so like to threaten you will, but I'd be scolded all the same."
Egg would stoke the fire and speak of breakfast. Dunk would only sit with the tree at his back, and lose himself in thoughts of silk draped knees.
"What kept you, Ser Duncan? Did you have trouble finding rest?" Egg would concern himself, even as he wolfed down a plate of wheat bread and last night's pheasant in his teenaged appetite.
"I was dreaming." Duncan would say, and that would be that. The sun would grace their backs for that day in kind rays, and the breeze would soothe their reddened skin. Dunk would thank a woman who he knew could not hear it, but the wind danced at his feet and swept his hair when the thought came. A warm hand, and the soothing scratch of nails.
She had always listened in silence—first to the adult conversations in the living room, then to his lectures on troubadours and courtly love. One autumn night, he stopped his car by a dark road, and twenty minutes of terse dialogue changed everything.
I fell for Professor Baelor propaganda and I feel completely normal about it. What I'm about to describe may seem a little bit strange and old-fashioned, but just let me dream.
She had always known she didn't belong to her generation—a knowledge that came to her long before she could put it into words. From early childhood, she was drawn to places where voices were pitched lower and laughter was rarer, and for that very reason, more meaningful. While her peers chased a ball in the yard or traded secrets in the sandbox, she would sit quietly in the corner of the living room, hugging her knees to her chest, and listen. She listened as the adults spoke of politics, of loss, of love, of the price of petrol. Many words were beyond her, but she absorbed the intonations, felt the tension or tenderness in the pauses. It was like reading a book in a foreign tongue: you don't grasp the meanings, but you can guess the music of the text. Her parents would often notice her intense focus and smile: "There's our little philosopher, eavesdropping again." But she wasn't eavesdropping—she was bearing witness.
With age, the fog of incomprehension lifted, and by the time she turned fifteen, she could hold her own in a conversation about the vagaries of fate or the complexities of running a small business. She remained shy, her voice soft, but her interjections—rare and precise—would make the adults fall silent and exchange glances of surprise.
At sixteen, her world suddenly expanded when she came across a record of lute music. That sound—dry, achingly poignant, as if antiquity itself was speaking directly to her—pierced her through. She began collecting old recordings, sketched viols and harpsichords in her notebooks, learned the difference between a Renaissance and a Baroque lute. She even persuaded her parents to buy her a lute and taught herself, but quickly realized: music would remain her secret, not a public hobby. The world of musicians seemed too precarious and unpredictable, and her parents gently but persistently steered her towards a "proper" profession: "Languages, dear, are the key to everything." She obeyed and enrolled in linguistics, deciding that if she was to earn a living with words, she would do so pragmatically: translating documents, conducting negotiations, working with texts. But her heart, schooled in listening, yearned for something else. So when the time came to choose an elective, her hand instinctively reached for "Medieval History." It seemed a safe compromise: a hobby that didn't commit her to a career.
She was wrong. The elective became her secret addiction. And the reason was not so much the subject itself—though knights, plagues, and cathedrals genuinely fascinated her—as the man who taught it.
Professor Baelor would appear in the lecture hall soundlessly, as if materializing from thin air, and from the very first second, he filled the entire space. He was not young, yet not old—time seemed to pass him by, leaving only a trace of distinguished grey. His voice, soft and deep as a cello, would make students freeze at their desks. When he spoke of troubadours or courtly love, it felt as though he himself had witnessed those times. But what captivated her most were his hands. Long, pale, with slender joints, they constantly toyed with his rings—on his index and ring fingers, two antique bands glinted: one with a cloudy green stone, the other, darkened with age, resembling a signet. He would turn them slowly, thoughtfully, and that movement hypnotized her more than any words. It was so unlike the rough men in her circle—her father's friends who slapped backs and told loud jokes. In Baelor, she sensed mystery, a power that needed no display.
The discussions in his seminars were an event. He could pose questions in such a way that even the silent ones began to argue, forgetting their fear of being wrong. The room would heat up, the air vibrating with ideas, and only Baelor remained calm, a faint smile at the corners of his lips, conducting this chaos with a mere glance. And she, as always, was silent. It seemed to her she had no right to speak in this world he was unlocking. She was merely a listener. His listener. Sometimes, when he recited passages from ancient ballads by heart—and he read them superbly, in Old English, in Old French—she would close her eyes. His voice enveloped her, seeped under her skin, touched something within her whose existence she hadn't even suspected. In that voice was a seductive gentleness: listen to me, follow me, trust me—and you will know what is hidden from others. He was not just a teacher; he was the key to a mystery. And every student in his course, even the laziest, would suddenly burn with passion for the subject, writing brilliant papers, scouring archives. It seemed like sorcery.
How did he do it? How could an ordinary man, with just the timbre of his voice, just the turn of his head, hold forty people in thrall, making their hearts beat faster? He reminded her of an old-school commander—not the loud and brutal kind, but the one who leads troops into battle by his very calmness in the face of death.
But he was not ordinary. She understood this fully one evening. She was returning from work—she had a part-time job as a proofreader at a small publishing house specializing in academic literature, and also helped out at a local second-hand bookshop called "Pagina," tidying up crumbling folios and chatting with fellow bookworms, much like the one she herself was becoming. The money was meager, but the smell of old paper and the silence of the reading room soothed her. And so, passing by the university garden, she saw him. Baelor sat alone on a bench, gazing at the sunset. He didn't notice her, and she didn't call out to him. But in that fleeting, stolen glance, she suddenly saw not the professor, not the master of minds, certainly not a magician. But a man. Tired, perhaps lonely, staring into the distance with the same wistfulness with which she herself often gazed into the darkness of her room. He was not just a voice and not just a mystery. He was alive. And in that second, her quiet, cherished infatuation ceased to be mere admiration and became something else.
Baelor lived in a small but surprisingly cozy house outside the city. The drive to the university took exactly one hour—no more, no less—and this time had long become a kind of ritual for him, a voluntary seclusion between two worlds. He never considered moving closer to the center, though colleagues often advised him to save his energy and petrol. But in the silence of the empty highway, especially late in the evenings, when the sparse streetlights picked out only the wet asphalt and vanishing lane markings from the darkness, he found peace. In those hours, the road belonged to him alone, and the steady hum of the engine became music, conducive to deep thought or, conversely, to thinking of nothing at all. Returning home, his first task was to put the kettle on, brew some milk oolong in an old ceramic mug chipped on the inside—its soft, creamy sweetness always soothed his nerves after a long day—perch his thin-framed glasses on his nose, and immerse himself in reading.
But this evening, everything was different.
He was returning later than usual; the departmental meeting had dragged on, and now the hand on his watch was lazily crawling towards eleven. Past the window flashed the sleeping suburbs, the occasional petrol station with its sickly yellow light, and then, suddenly—a pub. Noisy, packed with young people, a muffled roar of music and laughter escaping through its open doors. Baelor was about to accelerate, to get past this blot of chaos as quickly as possible, when his gaze picked out a solitary figure from the darkness. A girl was walking along the roadside, almost hugging the bushes, her steps seeming unnaturally distinct in the blurred glow of the streetlamps—an orange-yellow light, harsh, mercilessly plucking every silhouette from the night.
He recognised her by her walk. Or rather, first by her shoes: little vintage-style heels with a sturdy heel, which made that same delicate, charming click-clack when she entered the lecture hall. He always heard that sound, even without turning towards the door. Then, by the enormous bag that seemed to hang from her shoulder defying the laws of physics and gravity. How many times had he caught himself thinking: how can one person carry so much? But every time she sat down at her desk and began to extract notebooks, tattered books, crumpled sheet music which she vainly tried to smooth with her palms from the depths of that bag, a slight smile touched his lips. She was like a walking stationery supply, ready to help anyone: if a groupmate suddenly ran out of paper for notes, she would silently hand over a spare notebook; if another's hair tangled in the wind, she would already be pulling out a comb. She did it without fuss, without any desire to please, simply because she knew no other way.
Baelor would involuntarily let his gaze linger on her longer than he should have. He liked her style—old tweed jackets, turtlenecks, soft woollen skirts. She dressed as if she had stepped out of a photograph from the middle of the last century, and there was such natural elegance in it that he, who himself preferred classics—cashmere, trousers with creases, even the occasional cardigan—felt a kindred spirit in her. "Charming," he would think, watching her adjust the slipping strap of her bag. "Utterly, dreadfully lovely."
And now this girl, whom he was used to seeing in the safe space of the lecture hall, stood alone on a dark road, a couple of blocks from the noisy pub, and looked lost. Or just tired. Or heaven knows what else. Baelor didn't deliberate long; he pulled over smoothly, rolled down the window. The autumn wind immediately rushed into the car, bringing the smell of wet leaves, exhaust fumes, and a barely perceptible hint of her perfume—something old, with jasmine and, it seemed, citrus. The streetlight fell on his face, and he saw her freeze, recognising him. Her eyes widened—so dark, almost black in that light—and a whole sea of emotions reflected in them: surprise, disbelief, and a slight fear.
They were silent. A second, another, a third. The pause stretched, becoming almost tangible, dense, like that same autumn mist that was already beginning to rise from the ground. Baelor suddenly became acutely aware of the absurdity of the situation: a professor, a man no longer young, stopping at night beside a student. What would she think? He was about to say something awkward, apologise and drive off, but her lips curved into an embarrassed smile, and he knew there was no turning back.
"Good evening," he breathed out, and immediately, as if ashamed of his own boldness, shifted his gaze to the dashboard, pretending to check his speed.
"Good evening, Professor," came a quiet voice, and there was not a trace of mockery or coquetry in it, only a warm recognition that, for some reason, made Baelor's heart skip a beat.
She had called him Professor. She hadn't met him with frightened silence, but had addressed him precisely like that—formally and yet intimately, letting him know they were acquainted, that she was not just a random passer-by. He looked up and met her gaze. And at that moment, under the harsh orange light of the streetlamps, in the noise of the quietening city, they both felt that there are no coincidences.
"Can I give you a lift?" His voice was soft, but with that special, respectful intonation she knew so well from his lectures. He looked at her through the lowered window, and in the lamplight, his odd eyes—one dark, one blue—gleamed almost cat-like. She surely had a long way home, and with that enormous bag, which seemed with each minute to pull her fragile shoulder closer to the ground. He saw her shift her weight from one foot to the other, and that gesture stirred in him an unexpected desire to help—not out of politeness, but from something deeper, almost instinctive.
"Are you sure it's no trouble?" She adjusted the slipping strap, and her soft short coat opened for a moment, revealing a navy-blue turtleneck. She leaned closer, resting her palm on the car door, and now only a few inches of night air separated them. Baelor caught a delicate scent—citrusy, with a bitter hint of bergamot, as understated and elegant as the tweed jacket she usually wore in his classes.
"No trouble at all. Where to?"
Her face lit up with a modest, slightly embarrassed smile, and in that smile was so much sincere joy that Baelor forgot where he was for a moment. She was clearly hesitating—her feet, accustomed to heels and long walks, were aching mercilessly today, forcing their owner to take a reckless step she would never have dared in her right mind. But the autumn night was conducive to recklessness. She gave the address—quietly, almost apologetically—and he immediately nodded, without even glancing at the satnav.
He had to turn around in the middle of the deserted road, right before the entrance to the highway he had just come from. She felt a pang of awkwardness: so they weren't going the same way at all. But Baelor executed the manoeuvre with ease, barely glancing in the mirrors, as if he had spent his whole life making U-turns for random strangers. He couldn't leave a lady in distress at such a late hour. In fact, at any hour of the day, he would not have allowed himself to drive past if he saw help was needed. It would have been a violation of his own, long-forged principles—chivalrous, gentlemanly, call them what you will. He had grown up on stories of courtliness and believed in them still, even when the world around had long since given up on such niceties.
The door clicked shut, and the car's interior filled with her presence. A delicate, unobtrusive fragrance mingled with the smell of the old leather seats and his own cologne. Baelor suddenly became acutely aware of how long it had been since he'd had a passenger in his car. Especially one like this. She sat beside him, fastening her seatbelt, and that sound seemed extraordinarily loud in the silence that had fallen.
"Thank you, Professor," she said, adjusting the bag she had placed on her lap, as if using it for protection. "I realise it's out of your way. If you'd like, you can drop me near the tube station, I can manage the rest myself…"
"Absolutely not," he interrupted gently but firmly. "I'll take you to your door. At this hour, the tube is no place for a girl with such a heavy burden." He glanced at her bag and couldn't suppress a smile. "Are you carrying bricks in there?"
She raised her eyebrows in surprise, then laughed—quietly, a little breathlessly, as if unaccustomed to laughing in front of others.
"Almost. Books. Sheet music notebooks. And, apparently, I also thought it necessary to put a thermos of tea in there today."
"A thermos," Baelor repeated with a warm chuckle, steering onto the main road. "A worthy assortment. You seem to be the only one in my course who never parts with notebooks and paper editions. I've noticed."
She felt a flush creep up her cheeks; she was embarrassed. So he had noticed after all.
He noticed not only her bag and little shoes.
"I… yes, I don't like e-books. It's not the same feeling. And with notebooks, it's convenient to draw diagrams," she faltered. "I mean, take notes. Although I do have diagrams on medieval philosophy too."
"Medieval philosophy is always diagrams," he agreed, a friendly irony colouring his voice. "Especially when you get to the debates about universals. You can't make sense of it there without arrows and circles."
They both smiled, and the tension that had hung in the air since she got in began to dissolve. Past the window floated the occasional streetlamp, the dark shop windows of closed stores, the silhouettes of trees. The city was falling asleep, and only his car hummed softly, tyres whispering on the damp asphalt, occasionally witnessing late-night pedestrians and a few couples in love heading home after youthful revelries.
"And why were you alone near that pub?" Baelor asked, careful not to let the question sound like an interrogation. "If it's not a secret, of course."
"A friend invited me to celebrate her birthday," she shrugged, returning to memories an hour old, where guys and girls from her group had taken turns congratulating her friend Natalie. Tomorrow was a day off for everyone, so no one was in a hurry to leave, planning to stay until closing time. But she couldn't allow herself that. She felt a strong pull towards home, towards her tiny apartment crammed with books, flowers, and musical instruments of various sizes and complexities. "I stayed for an hour, congratulated her, and left. I'm not very fond of noisy companies, to be honest. But I do love walking home. Only today, apparently, I overestimated my strength."
"I understand," he nodded. And he truly did understand. "Sometimes I leave the city during rush hour just to have some silence. In a car, you know, there's a particular kind of solitude—when you're alone, but not lonely. You drive and you owe nothing to anyone."
She looked at his profile—chiselled, with a slight shadow of fatigue under his eyes—and thought that he seemed to have just said something very personal. Or was she only imagining it?
"Do you have a house in the countryside?" she asked, remembering that he always left immediately after classes, never lingering at the department. Only today had been an exception.
"Yes, a small one, old, but very dear to me. An hour's drive, and I'm in another century. A stove, a garden, silence..." He turned his head slightly, glanced at her briefly, as if wanting to see her reaction. "You would probably appreciate it. There are many old things there, books… And sheet music, I think, as well. Only I don't remember for which instrument. I must have bought it long ago, and why—I don't even know myself."
She listened to him with that particular attention with which she usually absorbed every word in his lectures, but now there was no academic focus in it—only quiet, personal curiosity.
"I've seen you sometimes bring sheet music to class," he continued, and in his voice was a soft interest. "Do you play?"
"A little. The guitar," she admitted, and her voice became very quiet, as if she were sharing something intimate. "And I try to decipher old lute tablatures, but it's not easy."
Baelor gave a barely perceptible start. This girl, with her endless bag and tweed jackets, seemed not to belong to their century—just as he himself did not. He, who had never given in to his son's pleas to buy a "normal, modern" phone, drowning in apps and notifications; he, who wrote essays by hand, smudging his fingers with ink, because only then did thoughts fall onto paper correctly; he, who in the mornings listened to crackling vinyl and the announcer's voice on an old radio that had once belonged to his grandfather. Baelor suddenly felt, with sharp clarity, that unspoken closeness that arises between people who recognise a kindred spirit in each other. And it had taken only a few words for this feeling to take root. With a student. Baelor! — he mentally admonished himself and immediately felt embarrassed by his own thoughts, as if they might become visible through his skull.
He coughed, hiding his awkwardness, and instinctively reached for the gearshift, though the road ahead was empty and straight.
"The lute," he repeated, savouring the word. "You know, it has a remarkable history. In the Middle Ages, it was considered the instrument of the troubadours, the voice of courtly love. And then it almost vanished, giving way to the harpsichord, the guitar…" He glanced sideways at her.
She was silent, but he felt she was listening with bated breath. He suddenly wanted to know more about her than the random observations from the lecture hall allowed. To ask if she was from here or had come from another city, to learn why she had chosen his classes, what her major was, and what else she was passionate about…
"And why the lute in particular?" he asked, turning into a quiet residential district where houses no longer blazed with shop windows but only flickered with rare yellow lights. "Not the piano, not the violin—but this… this almost forgotten voice?"
She pondered, and the pause lasted just long enough for the answer to be honest, not perfunctory. She truly delved deep into this question. Why had this—as he called it, this forgotten voice—become her companion in life? Perhaps because she herself wanted to be heard, and by showing interest in an instrument everyone had forgotten, she was projecting her own thoughts onto the subject. But who would hear and save her? Who would play upon the strings of her soul and make her feel something, anything?
"I heard it once in an old recording," she began quietly. "Back in school. It was some medieval ballad, I don't remember which anymore. But the sound… it was such…" she faltered, searching for the word. "As if born not from outside, but from within. As if time disappears. I spent a long time afterwards searching for what instrument it was, listened to everything I could. And when I found out—lute—it felt like I had discovered something very personal. Silly, isn't it?"
"No," Baelor replied quickly, and more softly than he should have. "Not silly at all. I know that feeling. When a sound becomes more than just a sound."
He said this and was himself surprised at how easily the words had slipped out. Usually, he did not allow himself such raw frankness with strangers, as if afraid the wind would carry the words away before he could even understand why he had uttered them at all. He was accustomed first to testing the ground beneath his feet—every pebble, every unevenness—before stepping onto it without hesitation, trustingly and openly. Though he could create with people an illusion of easy friendliness, a readiness to converse about anything, behind this transparent screen always stood a man immensely careful, guarding his inner space like a garden behind a high fence, knowing the true worth of every hour, every minute of silence. But she… she somehow didn't feel like a stranger. This sensation—frightening and alluring—was taking root within him with every glance she stole, every word she uttered almost in a whisper.
They fell silent. And this silence was filled with something fragile, warm, almost tangible—as if between them hung a light haze woven from unspoken things and mutual curiosity. The car hummed softly, lullingly, tyres on asphalt; past the windows, like watercolour strokes, floated low houses with front gardens; somewhere in the distance a dog barked hoarsely but somehow domestically, and this sound only underscored the fragility of the moment. The city now seemed not a hostile nocturnal emptiness ready to swallow a solitary traveller, but a carefully painted backdrop for their conversation—a backdrop behind which someone had solicitously arranged the halftones and dimmed the lights.
"We've arrived," Baelor said quietly, almost apologetically, stopping by an entranceway submerged in the thick, inky shadow of old linden trees. The engine fell silent, and in the ensuing stillness, the slam of a vent window somewhere above could be heard.
Slowly, as if reluctantly, she shifted her gaze from the dark doorway to him, and in the depths of her eyes something elusive flickered—regret, it seemed. And indeed she did regret, with all the fullness of her still young but already weary heart, how fleeting this dialogue had proven. A dialogue with a man she secretly, almost reverently admired, whose lectures had always seemed to her not mere lessons but revelations. And now it turned out she had been noticed by him among hundreds of other female students—seen, distinguished, remembered, though all these months she had lived with the bitter certainty of the opposite.
The conversation had been sparing, woven more from pauses than from phrases, yet so meaningful, so filled with subtext, that for both of them it had become that very seed from which, perhaps, something more than mere mutual sympathy might one day grow.
"Thank you, Professor… Baelor," she breathed out, and this name, spoken in her voice—slightly husky, tired—sounded extraordinary to him, like a long-forgotten but beloved melody. "I… I don't even know how to thank you. Words, it seems, are no longer enough."
"No need to thank me," he replied, and in his odd-coloured eyes—the eyes of a man who had seen many different dawns and sunsets—reflected that same poignant, luminous weariness that had long since settled in her soul too, like a quiet but constant guest. "Take care of yourself. And… perhaps, sometime…" he faltered mid-sentence, suddenly feeling not like a professor with years of experience and the weight of lived years, but an uncertain boy, inviting a girl to dance for the first time in his life. "If you'd like to look at those sheets I mentioned… perhaps they might be useful… I could bring them to the university. Or… wherever is convenient for you."
She smiled—that same modest smile that, time and again, made something deep inside him grow warm, beneath his ribs, in that place where, as poets say, the soul resides.
"I would very much like that," she whispered, and in that whisper was so much promise and gratitude that for an instant it seemed to him the autumn evening had grown warmer.
She slipped out of the car into the embrace of autumn's chill—sharp, smelling of decaying leaves and woodsmoke—and immediately wrapped herself in her soft, slightly oversized coat. He watched as her light, almost weightless figure glided through the shadows, flashed as a pale spot in the dark entranceway, like a moth flying into the night. Only when the heavy door closed with a drawn-out creak, its echo reverberating through the empty courtyard, did Baelor finally allow himself to exhale—and then inhale the air that, it seemed, she had just been breathing.
The interior of his car still carefully preserved the warmth of her presence, the barely perceptible but so poignant scent of citrus mixed with the sweet note of jasmine. He sat for another minute, perhaps two, gazing at the window on the third floor that had lit up with a warm, cosy glow. There, behind the glass, a silhouette flickered—she took off her coat, adjusted the curtain. He suddenly desperately wanted to believe that she too, at this moment, standing by the window, was looking down at the dark street, at the solitary car frozen under the linden trees.
But he only slowly, as if reluctant to part with this instant, turned the car around and drove into his silence—outside the city, to where only the stove, old books with yellowed pages, and endless reflections, viscous as evening mist, awaited him. Reflections provoked in him by one single young woman. Just a student. But somehow now, in this empty car, on this deserted road, that "just" held no significance whatsoever. Only she mattered. And that tenderness, which he had neither expected nor summoned, but which had come— and remained.
The first lecture after that night was strange. Unusual. The world seemed to have acquired other, hitherto unknown tones and colours—deeper, more poignant, as if someone invisible had slightly adjusted the lens, and the picture had become more dimensional than before. Shadows fell quite differently than they should have according to the laws of the time of day—they spread softly at her feet, embraced corners, hid in the folds of clothing. Morning coffee tasted sweeter than usual, almost cloying, though she hadn't added a gram of sugar—simply because, rushing to close the lid of her cup before leaving home, she had left a light, barely noticeable kiss on its smooth white surface. The lipstick mark had long since faded, but the warmth seemed to remain, dissolving into every sip. Even the breakfast cereal—ordinary, tasteless, which she ate only out of habit—seemed extraordinarily crunchy today. And the overcast weather, which usually brought melancholy and a desire to wrap herself in a blanket until evening, suddenly became immensely fitting for her pensive, melancholic mood—as if the sky outside echoed her inner state, demanding neither cheerfulness nor a false smile.
She arrived at his class a little earlier than usual—a good twenty minutes, at least—and took her customary seat by the window, which overlooked the inner university courtyard with its bare, chilled trees. Their branches, stripped of leaves, reached towards the grey sky like hands frozen in prayer. Several students were already sitting in the lecture hall—someone leafing through notes, someone whispering, someone simply staring at their phone, scrolling indifferently through a feed. She was not alone, but the space around her seemed to have died out, fallen still, forming an invisible cocoon of silence. And this silence held its peace until he appeared in the doorway.
Baelor entered unhurriedly, slightly slower than usual, as if giving himself time to get reacquainted with this place. He paused for a moment, letting his gaze sweep over the room—his domain, his small world where he was both king and sage, and even, in some ways, a creator. And when his eyes, gliding over faces, met hers, something flickered in them. They smiled at the sight of her—she could clearly distinguish that soft, barely perceptible light in his odd-coloured eyes, or perhaps she simply wanted to believe she could. But she herself allowed only a barely noticeable nod in greeting—restrained, almost invisible to outsiders. And in that gesture was so much secret understanding, so much shared mystery, that it took her breath away. Between them now existed something more than just a professor-student relationship. A certain secret, fragile and elusive as the first ice on puddles, which they were destined to carefully preserve, shielding it from prying eyes and superfluous words.
The lecture began. But Baelor conducted it differently this time—more disjointed, less confident than usual. Phrases broke off, thoughts meandered, and once he even faltered mid-sentence, freezing with his mouth open in the middle of a complex term he undoubtedly knew by heart. This did not escape the attention of others—a light, puzzled whisper rippled through the room, someone raised their eyebrows in surprise. But not her. She sat motionless, her head slightly tilted to one side, watching him with that particular attention that turned everything inside him upside down. Why had the professor, eternally composed, concentrated on the subject at hand, suddenly become so distracted today, as if floating somewhere in the clouds?
He himself would like to know the answer to that question. Somewhere deep, in his subconscious, at the very bottom of his mind, he perhaps did understand the true reason for his state. But could he admit aloud—even to himself—that the mere sight of her, one single look from those calm, interested, infinitely deep eyes, was enough to knock him off his usual track, destroy years of built-up concentration, turn a lecture into a chaotic stream of fragmented thoughts? That he, a professor, author of numerous articles and books, suddenly felt like a boy stepping up to the blackboard for the first time? That she acted upon him like a quiet but irresistible force, against which any reasoning of the mind was powerless?
In his leather briefcase, standing by the lectern, the sheet music had been resting all this time. Old, yellowed at the edges, with faded ink and pencil markings made by an unknown hand many decades ago. The very same sheet music he had mentioned back then, in the car. The ones that had haunted him all these two nights, which he had spent sorting through old stacks of books, sifting through dusty folios and his own manuscripts, covered in his elegant, slightly old-fashioned cursive. He had searched for them especially for her—spent half the night in his study, by the light of his desk lamp, while the wind howled outside and firewood crackled in the fireplace. And now they lay close by, almost pulsing through the leather of the briefcase, reminding him of themselves with a heavy but pleasant burden. A promise. Hope. A chance for another meeting, another conversation, another moment of silence filled with something greater than mere words.
Baelor did not give her the sheet music that day. It remained lying in the leather briefcase, reminding him of itself with a heavy, tormenting weight. But he never stopped carrying it with him throughout the week, every morning transferring it from bag to briefcase and back again, feeling its presence somewhere nearby with each lecture, almost beneath his heart. And only by a happy coincidence—or perhaps by the will of that invisible force governing such encounters—did he come across her in the library. She was sitting in the farthest corner, by a pointed window, nestled in a deep leather armchair, her face hidden behind an open book, as if she were hiding from the whole world behind a paper screen. He recognised her anyway. Those little shoes. Small, elegant, with a buckle on the side.
He almost crept up to her—soundlessly, carefully, trying not to disturb the special atmosphere of concentration that enveloped her. Rays of sun, which had peeked out from behind the clouds, fell obliquely through the pointed window, drawing long golden stripes on the floor, and he caught them on himself as he approached. Then he paused by her table, took the sheet music from his briefcase—old, yellowed, with faded ink—and placed it quietly, almost reverently, on the small table beside her armchair. His movements were soft, fluid, as if he were afraid of shattering the crystalline silence of that place.
Immersed in her reading, she didn't immediately sense another presence nearby. Only when his shadow fell across the pages, blocking the sunlight, did she frown, slowly lower the book from her face, and look up. And at that same moment, she started—with her whole body, her entire being, as if struck by thunder. The book nearly slipped from her weakened fingers. She hadn't expected to encounter Baelor here, in this quiet haven of book dust and solitude. But this meeting—she understood it at once, as soon as the initial fright subsided—was undeniably pleasant. Her heart skipped a beat, then began to race.
He merely nodded in greeting—brief, restrained, masculine. And a soft, almost shy smile touched his lips, making the wrinkles around his mouth appear sharper, deeper, rendering his face simultaneously older and more handsome. Lowering her gaze to the table, she discovered beneath his fingers—those long, nervous fingers—the very sheet music. The sheets he had mentioned back then, in the car. The ones that had haunted her all these days.
"You brought them after all," she breathed, her voice trembling with surprise and gratitude. She placed her hand on her heart—a sincere gesture, almost childlike—delighted by such a gift. And a gift it certainly was, nothing less. Everything that came from his hands acquired special weight, special meaning. He was giving her something that belonged to him with such astonishing ease, as if these sheets meant nothing to him. But she sensed: they did. Otherwise, why would he have kept them at home? This realization made her chest ache—sweetly, anxiously, poignantly.
"I couldn't not do it," he replied quietly, looking directly into her eyes. "I couldn't forget..." The last words hung in the air, unfinished, cut off mid-sentence. Though Baelor hadn't planned to continue—not now, not here. But the truth was simple to the point of despair: he couldn't forget her. Couldn't forget their conversation, her voice, that scent of citrus that now seemed to haunt his every step, appearing from nowhere at the most unexpected moments—in empty corridors, in the car, even at home by the fireplace, when he was utterly alone.
Her face suddenly softened, losing that wariness that always appeared when meeting strangers. It took on a strange, slightly sad, almost resigned expression, though a small, timid smile continued to bloom on her lips. She understood. She understood everything without words.
"I was actually about to finish," she suddenly said, carefully setting the book aside, as if parting with an old friend. "I was thinking of going to a café, getting something warm to drink..." She hesitated for a moment, gathering her courage, and raised her eyes to his—eyes in which a sudden boldness, surprising even herself, was swimming. "Perhaps... you'd join me for coffee? I could look at the sheet music more closely, and if they... if they seem unsuitable, I could return them right away. So as not to keep you waiting."
He froze. Stood still as a statue in a museum hall, only somewhere deep inside everything trembled and stirred. He was clearly hesitating. Thoughts darted like frightened birds: a professor and a student in a café—what would people think? What would students say if they saw? His reputation, his years-long image of a composed, inaccessible man—all of this suddenly loomed before him, ready to collapse from one careless move. But she looked at him with such open, such sincere hope, as if this invitation had cost her dearly, as if she had overcome her shyness and now awaited his verdict. And in that gaze, there was not a shadow of doubt about the inappropriateness of the situation—only a desire to prolong the moment, only quiet joy that he was here, beside her.
He glanced at his wristwatch—old, with a worn leather strap, inherited from his father. The hands showed a quarter to four. Somewhere in the depths of his memory surfaced a vague reminder of another scheduled departmental meeting, but it seemed so distant, so unimportant now, in this library bathed in slanting sunlight, under her attentive gaze. He pondered briefly, pretending to weigh all the pros and cons, though his heart had long since made its decision.
And then he nodded in agreement.
They sat in a small café on the outskirts of the city, where she had suggested going to avoid random glances from acquaintances. They ordered coffee—espresso for him, cappuccino with cinnamon for her. They spoke first of the sheet music, of music, of the old manuscripts he collected. But then the conversation imperceptibly drifted into other channels—into the personal, the intimate. She told him about her childhood, about her first music teacher, about how at sixteen she had wanted to drop out of school. He listened without interrupting, and in his odd-coloured eyes reflected something long forgotten—youthful enthusiasm, the ability to marvel at another person.
The coffee had long gone cold; the waitress had twice approached to ask if they wanted anything else. Outside, darkness had fallen, streetlights had ignited, and the asphalt glistened from the recently ended rain. When they finally stepped outside, the cold air struck their faces, sobering, but inside both of them burned a pleasantly searing, inextinguishable fire.
"May I walk you home?" he asked, considering it his duty to do so.
She smiled and silently nodded. Thus began their first walk—long, unhurried, across the entire city, past sleeping houses and rustling trees. And when they stopped at her entranceway, he suddenly realized he didn't want to leave. Not now. Not ever.
"Tomorrow..." he began and faltered. "Tomorrow will you come to the lecture?"
"I will," she answered simply. "And after... perhaps we could have coffee again?"
"With great pleasure."
They didn't start seeing each other immediately—no. It happened differently: slowly, cautiously, they grew accustomed to one another, came to know each other's souls.
At first, there were only those chance (or perhaps no longer chance) encounters in the library. She came there more often than usual; he found reasons to drop by between lectures. They exchanged a few words, smiles, glances—and parted, carrying the warmth with them. Then came the tea gatherings in the café—once a week, then twice, then on Wednesdays and Fridays it became a tradition about which both remained silent, but awaited with bated breath.
He was in no hurry. Baelor never knew how to rush when it came to what truly mattered. And she—sensitive, attentive—valued this unhurriedness in him, this ability to be near without demanding anything but her presence.
Their first trip outside the city happened in late November. He took her to see the frozen lake near where his house stood, and they stood for a long time on the wooden bridge, watching the sun set behind the tops of the pines. There, for the first time, he took her hand. Simply took it—silently, firmly, as if afraid she might disappear, dissolve into that transparent air. She didn't pull away, only squeezed his warm, reliable palm a little tighter.
The first kiss happened in his house, by the fireplace. She had come to listen to his collection of records, which he had been gathering since his student years, and fell asleep in the armchair to quiet music—exhausted from preparing for exams. He covered her with a blanket, sat on the floor beside her, and watched for a long time as the fire played across her face while soft music filled the room. And when she awoke, opened her eyes and met his gaze—he crawled over to her on his knees and kissed her. Gently, tenderly, as if asking permission. She responded.
What followed was that which is not spoken aloud but remembered by the skin: his fingers, studying her hands and body like a musical staff; her whisper in the darkness of his bedroom; long conversations towards morning, when it no longer matters who you are or how old you are—only that you are here, that you both breathe in unison.
They didn't publicize their relationship. He remained a professor, she a student. But between them existed an unspoken rule: beyond the threshold of the university, their own world began. A world without lectures and grades, where there was only tea or coffee, old records, her laughter, and his smile—which no one but her had ever seen so open, almost boyish.
One day after a lecture, everything changed. Irrevocably. Irreversibly.
She had stayed behind to help him with papers—or so she said. In truth, both were seeking a pretext to remain near each other a little longer, for a few more minutes of this searing, tormenting presence of one another. His office was in creative disarray: stacks of student papers towered on the desk, books lay on the windowsill, pens scattered across the table. She was sorting through some manuals, he was organizing old syllabi—and suddenly their hands met over a folder.
Met—and froze.
She looked up. He was gazing at her as never before. In that look, there remained neither professorial restraint nor habitual gentleness. There was hunger. There was that frightening, extraordinarily powerful passion she had read about in books but never thought she would experience herself. And certainly not—with him.
She stepped closer. Herself. Brave to the point of madness, to the point of trembling knees.
He kissed her as if he had waited his whole life for this—greedily, deeply, almost desperately, while her back pressed against the cabinet door, feeling the wooden surface cool her shoulder blades through her thin blouse. Her legs weakened with each moment, buckling, and only his hands—hot, strong, assured—held her at the edge of the abyss. One hand on her waist, the other lower, bolder, more insistent. She arched towards him, bit her lip to keep from moaning, but he caught that moan with his lips, muffling it, absorbing it into himself.
And then he, disregarding all rules of propriety, his status, the student papers scattered across the desk—swept them to the floor with one broad motion. Papers fanned out across the parquet in all directions, white sheets covered with others' thoughts, others' hopes—they couldn't have cared less. There was only her. Only the two of them in this cramped office, flooded with pre-sunset light.
He bent her over the desk—carefully, tenderly, but authoritatively. His fingers touched her back, found the clasp of her bra. A click—and the delicate lace fell somewhere downwards, onto the heap of now-insignificant papers. She gasped at the coolness of the air and the heat of his palms simultaneously. And he, pausing for a moment, gazed at her, bared to the waist, as if before him stood not a woman, but the greatest work of art.
"How beautiful you are..." he breathed, lost for words.
He pulled down her skirt with particular care, almost reverently. His fingers, accustomed to the most delicate touch upon documents and manuscripts, now touched her skin, her thighs, and these touches made one want to weep—from tenderness, from the strength of feeling, from the very fact that all this was happening. He seemed afraid of tearing the fabric of her skirt, removed it very cautiously—not because he valued the garment, but because he knew: she wouldn't thank him later. They both wanted to preserve this moment as perfect, to play it without a single false note.
Then they both threw caution to the wind. To the fact that his colleagues might be just down the hall. To the fact that the office door wasn't properly closed. To the age difference, to their statuses, to "what people might think." All of it burned in the fire that blazed between them, leaving only one thing: him and her. His lips on her neck, her fingers in his hair. His whisper, full of tenderness and desperation. Her name, falling from his lips like a prayer.
And when it was over—when they, exhausted, clung to each other amidst that chaos, amidst scattered papers and books pushed into piles—she raised her eyes to his and smiled.
"I regret nothing," she whispered. "Do you hear me? Nothing."
He pressed her to him, burying his face in her hair, inhaling that same citrus scent that had haunted him for so many months. And for the first time in years, he felt truly alive.
She was in her fourth year when he first said "I love you." Not in bed, not in a moment of passion, but in the morning, in the kitchen, when she, sleepy, wearing his shirt, was stirring oatmeal. He said it—and froze, as if frightened by his own boldness. She came over, embraced him from behind, pressed her nose between his shoulder blades.
"I know," she whispered. "Me too."
And so their feelings flowed on: slowly, warmly, deeply, like a bottomless pool. Meetings at her place when her roommate was away for weekends. Evenings at his, with the fireplace and wine. Joint trips to small towns where no one knew them. Her graduation, where he watched her from the back rows and for the first time in many years felt not like a professor—but simply a man, infinitely proud and infinitely in love.
And then came the night after her defense, when she arrived at his place with her diploma and a bottle of champagne, and they drank on the floor, staring at the ceiling, and she suddenly said:
"Now I'm no longer your student."
He turned his head, looked at her with a long, attentive gaze.
"You never were," he replied. "You were simply... mine. And I was yours. From the very first moment we spoke."
What A Wicked Game You Play // To Make Me Feel This Way (ONE-SHOT)
Sent by your father to seduce one of the young Targaryen princelings, you slip into the wrong tent, and find yourself face-to-face with the heir to the Iron Throne. One night of wine, Valyrian poetry, and forbidden desires changes everything.
AO3
A/N:
I said I didn't like writing smut… And then I wrote a smut (poorly, probably). Honestly, I have no idea where this came from or what possessed me.
WARNINGS/TAGS:
SMUT | ORAL SEX (F RECEIVING) | UNPROTECTED P IN V SEX | OLDER MAN/YOUNGER WOMAN | POWER IMBALANCE | STRANGERS TO LOVERS | FLUFF | NO USE OF Y/N
WORD COUNT: 9.5k
The storm had been worsening by the minute.
It had come from nowhere, as storms often did in the Crownlands – one moment the sky had been deepening to the purple hues of dusk, and the next it was black and roiling, spewing fat droplets that quickly escalated into a deluge. Within minutes, the Kingswood practically became a swamp, and the vast encampment within it erupted into barely organised chaos, with nobles and servants alike scrambling to ensure their tents and pavilions were safe from inundation.
Careful not to slip on the sodden boardwalks, you pulled your cloak tighter around yourself, the wool already heavy with rainwater, and tried not to get sucked in by the merriment that could be heard from inside all the warm, softly-lit abodes you passed, full of lords and ladies and knights all already deep in their cups in anticipation of Prince Valarr’s nameday hunt tomorrow.
You didn’t have time for socialising – not of that kind, anyway.
Your father’s instructions still rang in your ears, measured and deliberate, if not a little slurred:
Find the black and red tents. The Targaryen princelings. Make yourself... Available.
There was no need for further specifics; the implications were clear enough. Your sister had already been married off to some ageing lord in the Reach. As the late-blooming spare that had been left behind, you were the one he could afford to gamble with. If a Targaryen prince took a liking to you, if he bedded you and left you with child, or better yet, if such a scandal could force a marriage... Well, that would be quite the elevation for your family, wouldn’t it?
You swallowed down the bitterness rising in your dry throat and focused on the task at hand. The camp was a labyrinth, scarcely lit by struggling torches and braziers that hissed and steamed at the downpour attempting to smother them. Somewhere amongst the mess were the royal tents, and within those prestigious walls of canvas and rope, your father hoped, were some bored and restless princelings ripe for seducing.
Stomach churning, you kept walking, kept weaving, until your eyes landed on the dripping banners that held the three-headed dragon, red on black, the evening’s new gloom adding to their intimidation. Unwanted, your heart kicked hard against your ribs at the sight.
The Targaryen tents were noticeably larger than the others, naturally, and arranged in a tight and separate cluster away from the rest of the circus. You slowed your approach, expecting guards, expecting someone to stop you, but either the storm or the drink had driven everyone away. The entrance to the tent nearest to you flapped loose in the breeze, almost like it was beckoning you in.
You hesitated. This was madness fit for a Targaryen. If it went wrong, far more lives than just your own would be forfeited.
But your father’s face surfaced in your mind, that look of cold calculation as he all but discarded you. You thought of your mother, who’d said nothing to put a stop to it.
You stepped forward and slipped inside, before what little courage you had could desert you.
The warmth hit you first, a wall of it scented with wax and parchment, leather and smoke, something vaguely spicy. The braziers glowed low in the tent corners, and candlelight danced from lanterns hung high, casting everything in a soft haze.
However, for a royal tent, the interior was not as you expected.
You had imagined opulence, excess – bejewelled goblets and silks draped over every surface, the ostentatious wealth of dragon kings laid bare while the lowest in their kingdom grew restless and hungry. And there was wealth within, to be sure. The dark wood furnishings were finely carved and polished, the chairs and couches piled high with plush cushions, and the bed was decorated in silks so deep a red they were almost black, and furs thick and lush enough to see even a Dornish man through the coldest winter. But there was a simplicity to it all, an understated quietness to the elegance that surprised you. It felt minimalist, almost practical.
Except for the desk in the middle of it all.
Covered in parchments and books, inkwells and quills, and half-burned candles. You drifted towards it unthinking, curiosity overriding caution, your eyes skimming over the scattered pages. Personal letters, by the look of them, written in a precise and delicate hand. You peeled your gaze away, not daring to pry any further than you had already, and lingered on the books instead.
So many haphazard stacks, most of their spines cracked and covers worn. Histories, mostly, it looked like. Accounts of battles and kings long dead. Then, as if proudly placed atop a blank sheaf of parchment, lay something older, smaller.
You reached for it, fingers careful as you lofted it close and eased it open. The etched leather cover had been softened with age and use, the pages inside yellowed and fragile as you turned them. A painted wooden bookmark slipped free from within it, clattering softly onto the desk. You froze instinctively, heart racing as you glanced towards the tent entrance, but still there was no one there.
With slowing breaths, you turned your attention back to the bookmarked page. The handwriting was beautiful but difficult to decipher, the ink faded in places, and there were words – sometimes whole sentences – written in a script you recognised but couldn’t read. Valyrian, you thought. Or something close to it. You squinted at the glyphic text, trying to parse meaning from the shapes, but the fragments written in the Common Tongue had more to say: war, ruling, strength, blood, family.
It appeared to be a personal accounting of some sort, or perhaps a diary.
You were so absorbed in its tale that you barely registered the footsteps outside, or the rustle of fabric from behind you. It wasn’t until someone spoke that you realised you were no longer alone.
“It is a rare thing,” A man’s voice came low and smooth, touched with amusement, “For a whore to read.”
You spun around dizzyingly fast, clutching the book to your chest as your damp skirts whipped heavy through the air, your heart lodging itself somewhere in your throat.
He stood just inside the tent entrance, rainwater dripping from the edges of his cloak. With his short dark hair and neatly trimmed beard that was more salt than pepper, he was not the young target you had been aiming for. He was handsome though, at least, with his broad frame held in a way that exuded confidence and power, and mismatched eyes – one pale and one dark – fixed on you with an unexpectedly quiet intensity.
He seemed curious, almost intrigued, rather than furious at finding an intruder in his tent.
You swallowed around the lump in your throat and begged your voice to remain steady, “How fortunate, then, that I am not a whore.”
His lips twitched upward, just for a second, “Then what are you?”
You hesitated, weighing your options, deciding on something at least close to honesty, “A nameday present.”
That earned you a raised brow, his features sharpening with amusement as he stepped closer.
“I’m afraid it is not my nameday,” He admitted, his tone still light, entirely ignorant of how hard your stomach dropped.
“Ah,” You nodded slowly, forcing a smile in an effort to salvage something from the mess being created, “It would appear I’m in the wrong tent – forgive me, my lord.”
You moved to walk past him, to flee before someone called for your head, but he shifted into your path, halting you. Not aggressively, not threateningly – just enough to make it clear he wasn’t ready for you to make yourself scarce just yet.
He shot you a crooked smile, “Not so fast.”
Your pulse raced faster than you thought possible. This was it. He was going to call the guards, have you dragged through the mud, whipped bloody. You opened your mouth to apologise, to beg, but he moved closer before you could, entering your space seemingly with little thought for propriety.
Tilting his head, he considered you for a beat before his hands found your damp shoulders, your arms, your waist, patting you down with a thoroughness that felt unnecessarily precise.
“I’m unarmed,” You hurried out when he came to rest at your thighs, fingers lingering long enough for a heat to crawl up your neck.
“One can never be too careful,” He mused, apparently satisfied at your lack of threat, and backing up just enough that you could breathe again without inhaling the scent of him – the spice and leather made sense now. His voice dipped lower, the gravel in it lending it some bite, “You claim you’re no whore, yet you sneak your way into a man’s tent when he is unawares.”
Air hitched hard and fearful in your throat, but when you met his gaze again, there was still no sign of the anger you were expecting. He was teasing you, and something bold and wild within you coaxed you into obliging, “I wouldn’t call it sneaking.”
“No?” He chuckled, finally looking away from you just long enough to palm away the droplets that clung to his features, “What would you call it?”
You paused, but couldn’t think of a clever answer quick enough.
Still enjoying himself, he pressed you again, “Who are you?”
“My father is brother to Lord Piper of Pinkmaiden,” You nodded, mostly to yourself, feeling neither happy nor particularly prideful at admitting to such a lowly status.
“You’re a long way from home,” He pointed out after a moment’s consideration, his expression growing briefly distant as he no doubt tried to recall all the branches of your family tree. Either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring your obvious distaste, he continued, “And what business does a lady of the Riverlands have in a stranger’s tent?”
“I believe my father’s instructions were to entertain the handsome, young princelings in the black and red tent,” You blushed, voice holding surprisingly steady as you took him in again, “But you are no princeling.”
He huffed out a sharp, breathy laugh, his eyes twinkling, “Is that so?”
There was something familiar about those eyes, you were beginning to realise, something stirring at the back of your mind, “Your eyes—”
“Tell me,” He interrupted quickly, flicking his gaze away from you, “Had you found who you were looking for tonight – or, rather, who your father had you looking for – then what? Why would he send his most precious prize into the dragon’s lair?”
His hissed precious prize almost made you wince, the words landing heavier than they should have. Keeping your tone light, you tried to brush it off, “The same reason as any other lord, I suspect – to foster alliances, though I do believe he would also settle for a scandalous and hastily arranged marriage.”
“Quite the reacher, isn’t he?” His expression shifted, something darker flickering across his face for the first time since you’d met him. There was a pointed judgment there, weighing heavy, not directed at you but rather in alignment with you. At least, that’s what you hoped.
“Second son,” You announced dryly, “Lots to prove.”
Your attempt at nonchalance did its job of pulling him from whatever displeasing place his thoughts had carried him to, and he huffed out another quiet laugh, “Well, I’m terribly sorry to have to disappoint him, but I’m afraid you won’t be getting married tonight.”
“That’s a shame,” You blinked slow, unable to keep from smiling when he took half a step closer.
For a moment, neither of you had anything more to say. The rain continued to hammer against the canvas overhead, the wind picking up outside and whistling through the treeline, but inside the tent it remained warm and almost stiflingly close, the air thick with something you didn’t dare name. He was still watching you, his mismatched hues still curious and heavy, pinning you in place, exposing you in a way that had little to do with the thin, damp fabric of your dress.
Just as he opened his mouth, as if to speak again, fate interrupted:
“Your Grace?”
The male voice came from outside the tent, muffled by the storm but clear enough to rip right through the moment. The man before you shifted noticeably, the amusement draining from his expression, replaced by something that almost looked like regret.
He sighed, his shoulders sagging as he reached for the clasp at his throat, shrugging his cloak off, and that’s when you saw it.
The pin.
Heavy, ornate, wrought in the shape of a hand.
The Hand of the King.
Not for the first time tonight, your stomach dropped, the world tilting threateningly in your vision. You looked up, met those mismatched eyes, and the pieces snapped into place with a violent clarity.
Baelor Targaryen – Prince Baelor Targaryen. The heir to the Iron Throne.
And you had just spent the last ten minutes flirting with him.
He saw the realisation hit, watched the blood drain from your features, and you could’ve sworn his expression softened for a heartbeat, before the mask slipped itself on. He pitched his chin towards the entrance of the tent, tone far firmer than it had been, “Come.”
A man ducked between the tent flaps. A Kingsguard, by the look of him – white cloak, polished grey-white armour, his short dirty blonde hair darkened by rain. He glanced at you briefly, his eyes widening with alarm before snapping to the prince.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” The knight said quickly, “I did not realise you had company.”
“Worry not, Ser Donnel,” Prince Baelor half-heartedly waved him off, moving to hang his cloak on a hook stand nearby, “I presume you have news of my sons and their cousins?”
The knight nodded, shifting awkwardly on his feet, “Yes, they’ve taken shelter at an inn on the outskirts of the Kingswood, and hope to be with you on the morrow.”
“Very well,” The prince winced, breathing out his disappointment. He paused in afterthought, head tilting with consideration as the knight bowed, making to leave again, “Ser Donnel?”
Ser Donnel froze, straightening, “Yes, Your Grace?”
“The lady is my esteemed guest. To speak ill of her – to anyone – is to speak ill of me, do you understand?”
There was a lengthy beat of tense silence, before Ser Donnel nodded again, keeping his expression carefully neutral as he regarded the two of you, “Yes, of course, Your Grace... My lady.”
And with that, he was gone, slipping back out into the storm.
You stared at the empty entrance, your mind racing. This was a disaster. An absolute, horrifying disaster. Your father had sent you to seduce a princeling, some untried boy that you could mayhaps wrap around your finger. Not the heir to the Iron Throne. Not the man who would think nothing of having you executed for your treasonous indiscretions.
“I should go,” The words tumbled out of you, your voice strangled. You moved towards the entrance, desperate to put as much distance between yourself and this catastrophe as possible, “Pardon my intrusion, Your Grace.”
“Wait,” His hand caught your wrist, gentle but firm. He stepped in front of you, blocking your path once more, and when you looked up, you found him smiling – that same crooked, teasing grin, “You came here seeking a prince, did you not? Though, granted, I am neither young nor handsome.”
You blinked hard, conflicting emotions rising within you, “At least you must certainly have been entertained, watching me make a fool of myself.”
“I do not think you a fool,” He admitted quietly, his expression sobering. He released your wrist, but remained in your space, eyes flitting around your face as if he were trying to read your very thoughts, “Brave, yes. Intriguing, definitely. But no fool,” He hesitated, the hand that had held onto you twitching at his side, “And I apologise for making you feel like one. It’s not very often I get to be alone with someone who has no idea who I am.”
The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, and for a moment, you were at a loss for what to say, what to do. This was so far off course from what you had planned. You had to leave.
“It is I who must apologise, Your Grace, for taking up so much of your time. I’ll not disturb you further,” Something brave – or something mad – sparked within you, and you dared to step around him, dared to call his bluff.
“I could order you to stay,” He said, a hint of that earlier amusement creeping back into his tone as his eyes followed you, “If you’re going to continue to suddenly be so deferential.”
You scoffed without fully meaning to, which only seemed to make him light up more, “I would have thought the Hand of the King had more important things to do with his time.”
“You think my sons and nephews would be more entertaining, is that it?” He leaned in slightly, his voice sharp but jestful, “Perhaps easier to manipulate? Forgive my forwardness, my lady, but you do not strike me as someone afraid of a challenge.”
Your breath caught. Had you really been so easy to read? And yet, he was still teasing you – no, challenging you. Open, unoffended... Eager. And despite everything – despite the fact that this was probably one of the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms – you felt something warm spark in your chest. Something reckless.
“No,” You breathed, meeting his gaze, “No, I’m not.”
His smile widened, “Good.”
He moved away then, at last, crossing to a sideboard laden with bottles and goblets and glasses in varying colours and shapes, and you watched as he poured two glasses of wine. Dark red, almost black in the dim candlelight. When he turned back, he held one out to you, and after a moment’s hesitation, you took it.
“To unexpected company,” He toasted, raising his glass.
A smirk tugged at your mouth as you clinked your glass against his, “To wrong tents.”
What sounded like a genuine laugh bubbled out of him, a startling sound that you suspected few got to hear. It settled gentle between you, like a secret shared, unburdened.
After a long first sip, he gestured towards the seating area near a brazier, and you followed, about to sink into the plush couch when the weight of your cloak pulled hard at your shoulders, the damp wool heavy and cold. Before you could move to adjust it, Baelor was there, his fingers deft as they worked the clasp at your throat.
The cloak eased away, and he lifted it carefully, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. You felt exposed under that look, acutely aware of the way your dress clung to you, still damp and thin from the rain.
“Better?” He asked as you sat down, moving to hang your cloak up beside his own.
You nodded silently, not trusting your voice as he came to sit next to you, immediately angling himself towards you, as though having his attention anywhere else was not an option.
For several minutes, the two of you simply sat there, drinking and listening as the storm raged on outside. And then you remembered – the book. You were still holding it, clutching it tight within your fingers like a lifeline.
“You were reading,” Baelor smirked, following your gaze, “Before I disturbed you.”
“I...” You stared down at the worn leather cover with its scale-like etchings, suddenly embarrassed, “I didn’t mean to pry. I just—”
“It’s alright,” A wave of his hand cut you off, “I’m curious, actually. What caught your attention?”
You opened the book carefully to where you vaguely recalled the forgotten bookmark had lain, and held it out for him to see, “The handwriting is beautiful, but I couldn’t read most of it. Some of it is in Valyrian, I think?”
“Very good,” He nodded, his expression shifting to something almost wistful, “My great, great grandmother’s diary. She wrote in the Common Tongue, mostly, but certain things – private things – she recorded in High Valyrian.”
“Private things,” You repeated, intrigued, “Like what?”
He leaned in, a conspiratorial smile pulling at his features that had your breath catching, “Things not meant for prying eyes.”
Scoffing, you shook your head, hoping to distract from the heat spreading across your cheeks. But you were still curious, and so the next words to tumble out of your mouth were poorly planned, and utterly ridiculous: “Could you read some of it to me?”
Baelor’s brow raised, looking entirely too pleased with himself while you floundered. You were sitting in a tent with the heir to the Iron Throne, asking him to read to you like you were some lovesick girl.
If he picked up on the absurdity of the request, he was gracious enough to not needle at it, “I’m a tad rusty... And I shouldn’t really be so readily revealing family secrets.”
“I wouldn’t be able to understand you anyway,” You pointed out quickly, “I just want to know what it sounds like.”
He studied you for a long moment, his mismatched gaze unreadable as he scooted closer, your pulse spiking when his fingers grazed yours as he slid the book from your grasp. He flipped through the diary with the same delicate touch you had used, before settling on a page, his eyes scanning the text. And then he began to read, aloud, to you.
The Valyrian flowed from him like warm honey, smooth and confident, each word rolling off his tongue with a practiced ease that belied his claim of being rusty. As expected, you didn’t understand a word of it, but gods, it was beautiful. The cadence of it almost hypnotic, the way his voice dipped and rose, the slight rasp that edged certain syllables... It stirred something low inside you, something that felt dangerously addictive.
You found yourself leaning closer, drawn in in the face of all propriety, and when he glanced at you, there was something dark and knowing in his look.
He read for several minutes, several pages, his voice never faltering, and you sat there, entirely transfixed, until he finally stopped, closing the book with a soft thud.
Smirking, his attention returned to you, “I did not think you would be so easily pleased.”
“Neither did I,” You admitted sheepishly, swallowing down another sip as your mouth suddenly went intolerably dry.
With his hummed chuckle, the air between you shifted, thickened, and you became painfully aware of how close he was. Close enough that you could see the flecks of contrasting colours in his irises, the little scar to his brow. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him.
“Could you read some more?” You tucked your chin down, voice barely above a whisper.
“More?” He cocked a brow at you, setting the book aside and leaning back just a hair, his gaze sweeping over you in a way that felt deliberate, assessing, “You didn’t come here tonight just to have a prince read to you.”
He didn’t wait for you to respond. Standing, he plucked your near-empty wine glass from your fingers and moved to refill it, except that he didn’t immediately sit again when he returned, looking down at you with that same infuriating smile, “Let’s make this interesting – a quid pro quo, if you like. You answer my questions, and I’ll read to you some more.”
Pretending to weigh up the offer, you took a long sip of your new wine, this one hitting quicker and harder than the last, “Very well.”
“Good answer,” Baelor took a sip of his own wine, before rejoining you on the couch and cutting straight to the chase, “How old are you?”
You bristled, taken aback, “How unexpectedly impolite of a prince... I’m old enough.”
Your chiding bought you another laugh. He settled back into the cushions beside you, his features softening, “How confounding, that no man has claimed you as his wife yet.”
“The second daughter of the second son of a vassal house is hardly a prize,” You mused flatly, swirling the wine around in its glass.
“I disagree,” There was something in his tone that had your eyes snapping up to his, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.
The words hung between you, and the way he was looking at you – steady, sincere, without a trace of highborn mockery – made your chest tighten in a way you hadn’t expected.
You took another sip of wine, intending to steady yourself, but the warmth of it spread through your limbs, loosening the last of your caution. The conversation began to flow easier after that, though you noticed the balance had shifted. Where before he had been the one asking questions, poking and prodding, drawing answers from you with that infuriating precision, now you found yourself inadvertently turning the tables.
It started innocently enough – a question about his sons, about the hunt tomorrow. But his answers came clipped, deflecting, almost solemn. His gaze would drift, and between scattered sips of wine, his fingers would move almost absently around themselves, pulling your attention.
The rings.
Two of them, one for each hand. He twisted and twirled them as he spoke, in a restless motion that seemed entirely unconscious, making their jewels catch in the candlelight. It was subtle enough, easy to miss if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, but once you did notice it, you couldn’t stop.
He did it again as he deflected another question about his duties as Hand, and again when talk shifted to his eventual role as king.
“I’m sure my sons would have made far better company,” He pondered lightly in a quiet moment, but you caught the edge beneath the words, the self-deprecating smile that he tried to mould into something else, “Younger, certainly. Easier on the eyes... More entertaining for a lady.”
“You’ve said that twice now,” You pointed out, emboldened by the drink and the easy intimacy of your surroundings, “About not being young or handsome or entertaining enough.”
He blinked, his fingers stilling for a fraction of a second, before resuming their spinning, “Have I?”
“You have,” You set your glass down with a sigh, angling yourself towards him more fully. The couch had seemed large enough when you’d first sat down, but somehow the space between you had diminished without either of you realising or acknowledging it. You continued to prod, “Why? Why would a prince of the realm be so unkind to himself?”
He huffed out a quiet, empty laugh, “Perhaps because it’s true.”
“Is it?” The question poured out alarmingly quickly, earning you an unexpectedly sharp look.
For a moment, you thought he might shut you down entirely, retreat behind that princely mask. But then his shoulders sagged, and he leaned harder into the cushions, his weary eyes drifting towards the crackling brazier as his fingers spun endlessly on.
“In my position, everyone expects you to be a certain way – ready, perfect... Better than you are, better than what came before,” His voice came quieter, more contemplative, “With all those roles and titles, rules and expectations, how can a man even tell who he truly is?”
Though his gaze seemed weighted and lost in the simmering flames, the rings spun faster, in a nervous and agitated tempo, and before you could reckon with the movement, you reached out and placed your hand over his, finding the metal bands cool under your skin in spite of all his fiddling.
He went very still, his eyes dropping to where the two of you were joined.
“You don’t have to do that,” You pushed softly, your thumb tracing his knuckles.
The tent felt impossibly quiet all of a sudden, with even the storm outside fading into a distant murmur. You could feel the rough warmth of his skin beneath yours, the faint tremor in his fingers as they were finally forced into stillness.
“Force of habit,” He mumbled, voice rough as he cleared his throat.
You smiled, “I noticed.”
“You’ve been watching me,” It wasn’t a question. There was something raw and unguarded in his expression that made your breath catch, and his hand shifted beneath yours, turning to curl around your own, “Why?”
You should have pulled away – decency and deference practically compelled it. You should have laughed it off, deflected the way he had been doing for much of the evening. But the wine had loosened your cares, made you reckless, and the way he was looking at you – like you were something unexpected, precious – made it impossible to lie.
“Because watching you is easy.”
His features shifted with a flicker of something deeper. His thumb brushed over your wrist, a slow and deliberate graze that sent heat crawling up the veins in your arm, and suddenly the inside of the tent felt a little too quiet, too close.
“You didn’t come here tonight looking for me,” He sighed with almost bitter resignation, “You came looking for some impudent, impatient princeling you could wrap around your finger.”
You nodded in quiet agreement, and let the moment have its way with you, “I did... But I’m glad I found you instead.”
The words landed between you like a spark to kindling.
For a stuttering heartbeat, neither of you moved, even to breathe. And then, slowly, carefully, he released your hand to reach up, his fingers brushing along your jaw before tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was feather-light, as if you were the most fragile thing in the world; it made your heart race all the same.
He leaned in.
Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your lips, close enough that you could see the way his pupils had blown wide, almost swallowing up the mismatched hues of his irises. Close enough that if you tilted your head up, just a fraction...
He stopped, and you could feel the tension radiating off him – want warring with restraint. His eyes closed tight, his jaw clenching with indecision, and you thought for a second that he might let it happen, he might kiss you anyway. But then, agonisingly slowly, he retreated from you.
The loss of him felt like a physical ache, settling unnervingly cold even with all the wine and candlelight.
He wasn’t looking at you anymore, his attention returning to his rings with their twinkling little rubies. There were no more clever words to share, either spoken or implied. The game was over.
The shift was painful enough to sober you up. With a quiet sigh, you stood, smoothing down your skirts with uncertain hands, and moved to return your wine glass to the table he had plucked it from earlier, the floor feeling unsteady as you walked.
“I should go,” You murmured down at all the pretty bottles and glasses in front of you, almost glad to have him out of your line of sight, unable to distract you further, “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
The silence that followed lingered thick and heavy, oppressive, broken only by the gentle patter of rain and the crackles of the braziers. It seemed he really was going to let you leave this time, let this strange and unthinkable night finally come to an end, with nothing to show for it but almosts and what-ifs.
But then you heard him move.
Footsteps behind you, slow and certain, crossing the space between you. You felt him then – the heat of him at your back, that familiar warmth that rolled off him in waves. Your breath caught, your fingers curling around the table edge.
When he spoke, his voice came low and rough, dancing through you like lightning, “Are you quite sure this is what you want?”
You closed your eyes, your heart hammering in your chest. Still, your answer came out steadier than expected, “Yes.”
“You understand what it would mean?” He pressed, stepping close enough that you could feel his even breaths curl down your spine, “What the consequences may be?”
Something coiled ever tighter inside you. You understood well enough. The risks of it all. Of being caught. Of being left with a bastard child. The scandal, the ruin it could bring down on you, and you alone. He was the heir to the Iron Throne, not some boy-prince; there would be no hasty marriage to save your honour, no easy solution if this went wrong.
And still, you couldn’t make yourself walk away. You repeated yourself, firmer this time, resolved, “Yes.”
For a worryingly long beat, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, and you wondered if he was trying to convince himself as much as you had. But then his hand came up, gentle and tentative as it slipped around your waist. Slowly, he closed the gap between you until you felt his solid frame at your back. There was a patience to his movements, as if he were still giving you the chance to pull away, to change your mind.
He breathed in the scent of you, his lips pressing a soft, grazing kiss behind your ear that sent a bolt right through you. He took his time, making peace with this decision just as you had – with giving in, with letting himself want you. Another kiss, lower this time, trailed its way down to where your neck met your shoulder, and you couldn’t stop the quiet sound that escaped you, couldn’t help but melt into his tightening grip around you.
You tilted your head without thinking, giving him better access, and you felt the low rumble of approval in his chest, buzzing through you. He continued his torturous exploration of your neck, every kiss, every graze feeling like a question – Are you sure? Is this what you want? – and every time you leaned back against him, every soft sound you made, was your answer.
His other hand wrapped around you, deftly working with the other to undo the strings at the front of your dress. Having long since dried in the warmth of the tent, it needed little encouragement to fall, pooling clumsily at your feet. The chemise it left behind was thinner, more exposing, and Baelor was all too content to show the new skin available to him the same eager affections.
When you finally turned in his arms, unable to bear the ache of not being able to taste him back, you found his eyes already on you – dark with want, but still edged with the thinnest thread of restraint.
You leaned up, closed the few inches left between you with a kiss that was more curious than insistent, fragile and hesitant. The berry wine you had shared seemed to taste so much better on his lips, and soon enough you were chasing it, hungry for more. You reached for him, fingers working at the fastenings of his doublet with a desperation that made them clumsy. But then your fingers found something else, brushing against a cold metal that made you freeze.
That damned pin, again.
The Hand of the King. Heir to the Iron Throne.
You thought you had made peace with it, but seeing that pin glinting grimly in the low light made the reality of it crash over you all over again – who he was, who you weren’t, the impossibility of it all. You were the lowest rung of the highborn ladder, what were you thinking? Your hands stilled, doubt creeping in like ice water through your buzzing veins.
He noticed immediately, of course.
His hand came up to cup your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his gaze again. His thumb breezed a trail across your cheek, as tender and grounding as the words he spoke, “Deference has no place between us now. Not in this place, not tonight.”
You swallowed hard, searching his face and finding so much sincerity.
“Tonight,” He continued, “I am your lover, not your prince.”
The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself, and he smiled – small, at first, but so heart-warmingly real. His thumb traced your lower lip, and then he was kissing you again, the weight of titles and consequences melting away until there was only you and him, only this.
Together, you worked the pin free, and it fell with an achingly heavy clatter onto the table behind you – the Hand of the King, both the title and the man, discarded, forgotten.
He kissed you harder then, as if realising himself just how unburdened he was, his hands fisting in the fabric of your chemise. Pushing flush against you even as you wrestled his doublet off, you gasped into his mouth at the feeling of his arousal pressing firm through the layers between you.
The table dug into the back of your hips, and you thought for a moment that he might take you right there and then, as eager and hungry as his touches betrayed, but his movements slowed to a stop with visibly painful effort, chest heaving beneath his shirt as his forehead came to rest against yours.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes twinkling as they searched your face. An unspoken question hovered on the air while his hands travelled upward, to the thin straps that clung loosely to your shoulders. Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you nodded, and he eased your chemise off, the featherlight fabric tickling you as it went and joined the rest of your skirts beneath you.
He sucked in a sharp breath, his jaw clenching briefly with barely held restraint, as his hand travelled lazily down all that was new to him. Stood bare, the air felt cooler, nipping at you in spite of his dark and heated gaze.
Then, suddenly, he was lifting you, strong arms sliding beneath your thighs with disarming ease, and you wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, your shoes clattering uselessly to the floor. The movement had you pressed together even more firmly, in all the right places, the friction of his pants dragging a gasp from you.
He carried you towards the bed, kissing you the entire way – deep, hungry, breathtaking kisses that left you dizzy. When he lowered you onto the silk sheets, the cool softness was a shock against your overheated skin, but you could barely register it before he was there, covering you with his body, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress in a way that felt both too much and not enough at the same time. It was enough to make you squirm though, desperate for purchase wherever you could find it.
Your fingers raked eagerly down his shirt, twisted into the strings of his pants, praying for something – anything – to give, to grant you as much access to him as he had to you. Your efforts earned you a teasing smile that you felt rather than saw, as it pressed tight to your jaw.
“Patience, my love,” He chided, his scruff grazing skin that was shamefully sensitive.
His kisses travelled to your neck, then lower – your collarbone, the swell of your breast – each touch as reverent as the last, and maddeningly slow. Your hands found his hair, threading through dark strands not long enough to cling to, as hard as you damn tried, and when his mouth closed around your nipple, your limbs failed you entirely, and you arched beneath him with a sound unbecoming of a lady.
He took his time lavishing attention on you, his mouth and hands working in cruel tandem until you were writhing beneath him, pleading for more. Only then did he move down your body, pressing kisses to your ribs, your stomach, your hip. Hooking your knees lazily over his broad shoulders, he eventually settled himself between your thighs.
His thumb parted the folds of your cunt with deliberate slowness, the rough pad of it gliding through your slickness with ease, teasing at your clit and pulling a cry from you. You felt his low chuckle, the indulgent little sound vibrating through every nerve ending in your body. Then, without warning, his mouth replaced his thumb.
The first swipe of his tongue would’ve been more than enough, your thighs clamping reflexively around him as pressure and pleasure coiled tight in your belly. But he kept going, kept lapping in deep strokes, sucking hard and savouring the taste, pushing you right to the edge before retreating, and renewing his efforts when you would finally slump, dragging you right back to that delicious brink.
The babbled plea tore from your throat before you could stop it – a ragged, worthless cry that was half his name, half something more primal. His fingers dug possessively into your hips, and this time he didn’t relent, your hands twisting up the silken sheets as the pressure built again. Then, finally, he let you fall.
You lay boneless against the sheets, your chest heaving, your entire body humming with aftershocks. Through half-lidded eyes, you watched him pull away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a gesture that was somehow both obscene and oddly humanising. An indulgent smirk played at his lips as he dragged himself upright.
He rid himself of his pants and shoes with agonisingly unhurried movements, still teasing after thoroughly undoing you. His shirt rode up as he did, catching on his thick cock as it sprang free at last, and you couldn’t help the way your breath hitched.
He crawled back up the bed towards you, his features softening as he reclaimed your mouth, the kiss gentler now, reverent, savouring. With it came that sharp tang of wine again, now mingled with the dizzying musk of your own pleasure.
Still trembling, your hands found their way beneath the one piece of fabric still separating you with shameless urgency, desperate to feel skin against skin, to feel all of him, and he obliged in helping you work it off, tossing it aside without care.
There was a pause then, a shared breath held, as you let your fingers explore the newly exposed planes of his chest, tracing the scars, the lines of muscle firm beneath your touch. He watched you, seemingly as mesmerised with you as you were with him, until your hand drifted lower, when he caught it gently, bringing it to his lips before letting you settle.
His cock teased at your entrance, a pressure unfulfilled as his eyes searched yours, a vulnerability there despite all that had already passed between you. He spoke at last, voice barely more than a rasp, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” You whispered back, emphatic and certain as you pulled him in for a kiss that said more than you could coherently verbalise, the few words you could scramble together muffled by the moment, “Gods yes, Baelor, please.”
There was no teasing with his slowness this time. Careful and considerate, he sheathed himself inside you, swallowing your whimper with another kiss as you adjusted to the stretch. Each deliberate drag of his hips felt deeper than the last, fuller. You clutched at his shoulders, nails biting into flesh that felt hot enough to burn. There was a gasp in your ear, the gentlest nibble at your neck.
Then, once you’d stopped wincing, when one sort of tension in your body rapidly began being replaced with another, more pleasurable sort, he hitched your legs up high around his hips, shifting the angle, and your world all but fractured. A choked moan broke free from your throat as he hit a spot deep within you, one that sent lightning arcing up your spine. His breath stuttering, Baelor’s mismatched hues darkened at the sight of you unravelling beneath him.
“There?” He questioned, voice rough and heavy, and you could only nod frantically, your hips canting up eagerly to meet his next thrust.
The pace that followed was merciless. Gone was the restraint, the careful control, and what remained was something raw and tetherless, each snap of his hips into yours wringing desperate sounds from you. Every brush of his skin against yours, every ragged breath into your neck, every peppered kiss, made your body sing.
You weren’t alone in your undoing, at least – every gasp of his name that fell from your lips, every broken plea and prayer, had his rhythm faltering.
There was the tickle of whispers in your ear, silken Valyrian words rolling off his tongue and straight down to your coiling core. His free hand slid up your ribs, his palm rough against the soft swell of your breast, his thumb circling your bud with agonising leisure.
You were teetering again, and he knew it. And he was too, if his breathless grunts were anything to go by.
The hungry graze of teeth at your neck sent a fire licking low, just as he buried himself to the hilt in you. Your back arched hard as you clung to him, a cry tearing out of you as your orgasm shattered through you in blurry waves, each one making you tremble through the last of his matching thrusts.
An equally feral sound spilled from him as he followed you over the edge, his movements stuttering as his head lolled against your shoulder with a shuddering exhale. You felt him pulse inside you, the heat of his release flowing deep and warm.
You breathed there together for a long moment, uneven and rabid, the high continuing to vibrate on beneath damp, sensitive flesh. With your fingers raking lazily down his spine, he shivered, almost buckling under his own weight, and you wouldn’t have even minded if he had. But instead, with a drawn out sigh, he shifted, his length withdrawing from you with a wet tickle that made you clench all over again. The absence was immediate and hollowing, cool air rushing to fill the space he’d left behind, and you bit your lip against a whimper, fighting the urge to chase him. He collapsed beside you into the gentle sheets, frame shaking and heavy, burying his satiated moan into the pillow.
His hand found your abdomen almost immediately as he settled, fingers dancing idle patterns against your skin. You lay still beneath the gentle movement, watching the candles flicker and burn low in their lanterns overhead, momentarily too spent and wine-soft to do anything else.
You could feel him watching you.
When you finally turned your head, you found him propped up on an elbow, looking at you with an expression so unguarded it almost hurt to witness. Like you had given him something he hadn’t known he was missing. Like you had given him the world, and he was still trying to work out just how to hold onto it.
“Thank you,” He said quietly, voice raw.
You blinked, certain you had misheard him, “For what?”
The corner of his mouth curved up, soft and a little shy, “For indulging me.”
A disbelieving scoff escaped you before you could think better of it. You turned onto your side to face him, “I think you’ll find it is very much I who has been indulged.”
At that, his features softened – with relief or perhaps pure and simple pleasure, you couldn’t tell. His fingers, which had followed your movement without breaking their lazy rhythm, now traced the line of your waist instead. He leaned in to press a kiss to your shoulder, and said nothing more, seemingly content to let the point rest between you, shared and understood.
The candles burned lower, dimmer. Outside, the rain had gentled to a murmured pitter patter. Your eyes grew heavy and you felt yourself slipping, lulled by your surrounds, by the evening’s events, by him.
“Would your father expect you back tonight?” He asked eventually, quiet and careful enough to keep you from startling.
It was the content of the question itself that gave you cause to stir, pulling an empty, bitter laugh from you, “I doubt it. By now he’ll be so deep in his cups he’s likely forgotten he brought me at all.”
Baelor hummed, a low and half-appreciative rumble. He had nothing to say in response, nothing was needed, his silence alone somehow felt more like solidarity than any words might have. He shifted, drawing up the nest of folded furs from the bottom of the bed to wrap around the both of you.
“Good,” The earlier amusement returned to his face as he looked down at you with a wicked grin, “I would indulge myself a little more tonight, if you would allow it.”
You smiled, not needing to be asked twice.
The hours that followed were unlike anything you had words for, in the Common Tongue at least.
They passed in layers – in the low burn of rekindled desire beneath the furs, his hands and kisses finding you over and over again with the same unhurried dedication as before; in the hushed and breathless intervals in between, when you lay spent and tangled together and talked of small things, inconsequential things, the kinds of things that felt enormous in the dark and the quiet. He made you laugh twice, genuinely, and both times he looked at you afterwards like the sound had done something to him.
Just before the candles burned down to their last, clinging wicks, he retrieved the diary again.
Tucked into the curve of his neck, his arm wound loosely around you, you felt the vibration of his voice. The Valyrian came softer this time, slower, something that felt more private. Poetry, you thought, from the rhythm of it. Something old and lyrical and achingly beautiful.
You still didn’t understand a word of it. You didn’t need to.
His thumb moved in slow circles against your arm, and his voice continued low and steady, and the pulsing ember-red coals of the distant brazier glowed soft in the corner of your half-closed vision.
You were asleep before he reached the end of the page.
It was the press of a kiss to your temple, soft and lingering, and the curl of fingers through your hair that finally roused you, and for a moment you couldn’t place where you were. The silk sheets, the fading warmth, the faint scent of smoke and leather and something distinctly him – it all came rushing back in a wave that coiled hot inside you, reviving the ache between your legs.
When you opened your eyes, Baelor was there beside the bed, fully dressed, doublet fastened and the cold Hand’s pin restored to its rightful place below his collar. He was crouched at your side, his free hand just a hair’s breadth from touching your own as he watched you with an expression that was equal parts tender and reluctant.
“Good morning,” He hummed, his voice a little more gravelly than when you’d first met him.
You blinked at him, still sleep-soft and disoriented, acutely aware of the cold air nipping at your bare shoulders above the sheets, of your hair that was surely a disaster, of the fact that he looked every inch the prince while you looked like... Well, like you’d spent the night doing exactly what you had been doing.
“Morning,” You managed, somehow sounding even rougher than him.
His mouth quirked, almost apologetic, “My sons and nephews will be arriving within the hour. I’m expected to greet them.”
Reality settled over you like cold water. Of course. The hunt. Prince Valarr’s nameday. The world beyond the tent flaps, which had felt so distant last night, was closing back in, tightening its grip on your fantasy.
You moved to get up, when he stopped you with a gentle hand.
“There’s no need to rush,” He said with a shake of his head, tipping his chin towards a nearby table that lay full of food – bread, cheeses, fruit – simple bounties, but more than you’d expected for so early in the day, if the dim grey-blueness of the tent was anything to go by, “You should eat something first, gather your strength after such a... Busy night.”
His smile grew as you buried your face in your hands, hiding the heat crawling across it.
You sighed, “I’m fine.”
“Nonetheless,” Carefully, he pried your hands away, brushing at your cheek with his thumb before withdrawing, “It is there if you want it. And you’re welcome to stay as long as you need. Just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean you have to.”
The kindness in his voice, the adoration in his eyes, made your chest ache in a way it had no right to. You nodded a silent agreement, not trusting yourself to speak.
He stood then, the loss of him painful and immediate. He moved away, adjusting his cloak, and it was only as you watched him that you noticed your clothes from last night at the foot of the bed, neatly folded and waiting.
Your breath caught, something else clicking into place – he was dressed, the breakfast was prepared, the braziers had been tended to. Someone else had been in this tent – multiple someones, possibly. Servants, presumably. And they would have seen you here, bare and tangled up in their prince’s sheets.
Panic clawed its way up your throat.
“Baelor—” His name escaped you in an impulsive rush, and you found yourself wincing – that wasn’t who he could be to you anymore. Even so, he turned immediately, frowning at your evident and unprompted fear, “What about the servants?”
“They won’t speak of it,” His tone was reassuringly firm, and you almost believed him. He crossed back to you, crouching again so he was eye-level, “The servants are loyal, and they know the price of loose tongues. You recall Ser Donnel?”
You nodded slowly, unsure where he was heading.
“I told him that to speak ill of you was to speak ill of me – that wasn’t just courtesy, that was a command. He understands what is at stake for you, and he’ll ensure the others do too,” His hand found yours where it clutched the sheets, his thumb smoothing soft across your knuckles even as his jaw tightened, “I cannot predict what might come of this further down the line. But this, here, you? This I can protect. And I will.”
You stared at him, speechless, the quiet intensity in his mismatched eyes cracking something in your chest wide open, “Why?”
“Because you deserve better than to be collateral damage in your father’s schemes. Because last night...” He paused, looking almost vulnerable as his gaze faltered for a beat, “Last night was a gift I didn’t know I needed, and I won’t let it cost you everything.”
Your throat tightened, tears threatening your vision, and you had to look away before you did something foolish.
He lifted your hand, pressing a long kiss to the back of it, before standing again. He moved slower this time towards the entrance to the tent, as hesitant now as you were to let the world take him back. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted – lighter, touched with that familiar amusement that had pulled you in the night before, that made your heart skip.
“If it pleases you,” He offered, and you looked up to find him glancing back at you over his shoulder, a knowing smile playing at his lips, “I would have you find me again tonight. Perhaps we might get to finish reading that diary.”
The way he said it – the eager curve of his mouth, the mischievous glint in his eye – made it abundantly clear that you’d likely get as far through that diary as you had last night.
You smiled despite yourself, something warm unfurling inside you, “Perhaps.”
“My lady,” He tipped his head, formal and proper, a prince acknowledging a noblewoman. And then he was gone, slipping through the tent flaps and out into the cool early morning.
The tent felt impossibly large without him. Impossibly still.
But as you sat there, wrapped up in his sheets, you couldn’t help but think of how different it all felt now compared to when you had very first slipped inside – uninvited, afraid. Then, this space had felt foreign and dangerous, a place you had no right to be in. Now, it felt like somewhere you might belong, at least just for a little while longer.
The taste of him still lingered on your swollen lips, and the promise of tonight was already coiling hot in your belly. You found you didn’t mind the emptiness quite so much.
Not when you knew it would so soon be filled again.
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