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House of the Dragon, Baulders Gate, Black Butler, One Piece, Sandman
Slow Horses, Kakuriyo: Bed & Breakfast for Spirits, Apothecary Diaries, Solo Leveling, Kaos, Ways of the Househusband &
Mr Villian Day Off
A short little one (possible two shot) on Baelor and his Lady Saviour on their wedding night.
Your eyes fluttered shut, partly from the sheer pleasure of it and partly because you had no desire whatsoever to meet the gaze of the crown prince currently nestled between your thighs.
They said dragons burned hotter than anyone else. Now, with heat coursing through your veins like wildfire, you finally understood why. Every nerve ending crackled and sizzled as thick, calloused hands traced across your thighs, holding you in place as Baelor devoured you. Never would you get used to this. A prince holding you so intimately. A prince, now your husband, who laid you bare on a bed, your marital bed, and was currently doing the most sinful things to your delicate core with his tongue, a tongue he had negotiated treaties and spoke to the people of Westeros with. Currently was said tongue, swirling around your core as you shook beneath him.
‘’Come now wife…’’ Baelor's voice curled round you. ‘’Hmmm wife…how I enjoy the sound that I coax from your with my tongue…but not as much as the taste of you on it.’’ You felt the smirk on his lips against the flesh of your thigh, a smirk which only deepened as you felt his finger curl inside you. It continued to dip inside you, pulling a moan that died in your throat as you bit down harder on your lip.
‘’My darling wife…let me hear you.’’ his fingertip found that spot, that spot that he found that first time that night in your room. That spot that made you wither and scream to the Gods, till Baleor’s lips swallowed it.
His finger showed no mercy but it only made you scrunch your eyes close hard and your lips part in a soft ‘’Baelor’’
‘’You have no need to quiet yourself, my love.’’ The prince purred his finger eased out of your slick core, ‘’You are my wife. A wife I want to hear every sound that’’ he slid back in, two fingers now curling inside you. ‘’Leaves.” Thrust ‘’Your’’ Thrust ‘’Lips’’ Thrust.
Instinctively, your body curled into itself, Baelor’s mass an immovable weight forcing you back into the soft linen sheets. The thickness was enough to make you wince, wiggling back to escape his relentless thrust. Whimpering as he anchored you down, kissing and nipping at the softness of your stomach, tongue teasing you, as his fingers curled in exquisite torture.
‘’Baelor…please.’’ That feeling was building not, at the base of your spine, your toes curling your back arching.
‘’Look at me, my wife.’
The crease of your brow furrowed a little as your body fought tirelessly against the pleasure he masterfully pulled from you, Your bud deliciously swollen, your core slick and tight, at its touch. As no matter how much you bucked and twisted from his fingers he knew. He felt it. Felt how your core tightened around him, begging him to stay, to bury himself deeper inside. To take you. To claim you as his own. His wife. His.
That was enough to make him feel like a green boy again, that biting needs to bury himself between your legs, to wrap you legs around his waist, as he loses himself in the feeling of you wrapped around his cock. Begging and needing his seed. To fill you so completely that no one dares to question his consummation of the marriage.
He was just a man. A man in between the legs of his saviour. But when you opened up those bright glistening eyes, all he saw was his poor maiden wife. That same confused look you gave him that night he rubbed your little bud, the night he knew he would never have his fill of you. He may just be a man, but here with you now he felt like a god. He did not care how sacrilegious that sounded, how could he not when the gods sent him such a gift as you?
A sinful groan tore from your swollen lip as he finally pushed a third finger inside you, as your body protested against the thickness.
’Hush wife…you must learn to take your pleasure.’’ he cooed, eyes dark as he moved carefully.
You fluttered violently around his fingers, and no matter how hard your hips shuddered and bucked against his hand he did not relent. He barely moved his finger as he rocked them against you, curling them against that little bundle of nerves as his thumb teased your bud.
‘’Feel that my love ...such a pretty wife. And I am your beloved husband who will do his duty and please my bride and make you completely my wife so no man or god can dare say you are not.’’ Baelor purred as the candle light licked at your skin, giving you an unearthly glow, a delicious flush covered your cheeks, travelling down to swell of your breasts, perky nipples inviting him to suckle on them.
‘’Baelor its too….too much…I…I…’’ Your whole body vibrating as his fingers massaged the tender spot in your core.
Even time had not withered his prowess and despite the throbbing in his breeches he still was steadfast in one true desire.
‘’Thats it my beautiful wife, let me hear you.’’
His fingers rocked relentlessly, curling gently into the spongy bundle of nerves, your hands thrashing and clawing at the linens as slowly but surely the moan pour forth from your mouth, filling the room with the sweet sound of your cries and the delicious sound of his fingers stretching your core, winding the coil within you tighter and tighter.
At this point you were facing a losing battle, nothing before this could have prepared you for Baelor’s feverish touch, his sinful mouth with words so filthy it should make you ashamed how much it pleased you. Or how slick you became as he thrusted his fingers inside you. Not even how the stretch made you ache, or how the pleas fell from your lips.
‘’Baelor please…I…’’’
‘’Tell me, wife.’’ Baelor’s voice was deeper now, thick and low. ‘’Tell me what you need.’’
‘’I…I…please husband…I don’t…please.’’
The word never sounded so sweet, nor right coming from your lips. ‘’Husband.’’
You let out one last mournful wail as his finger slid out of you, pulling you back from your peak. Your core quivering as the loss, eyes wild as they meet your husband. His gold skin almost molten in the candle light as they followed retreating form.
‘’Husband…’’ your eyes lingered on Baelor as he rose to the end of the bed, staring down at you with smouldering eyes.
‘’Do not worry, wife. Your husband will satisfy your every desire. The only way a freshly wedding maiden should on her wedding night’’ his glistering fingers tugging at the knot of his ceremonial breeches ‘’on his cock.’’
The worst month of my life with work and finally submitting my re-assessment is over. I am done! I am free! I am free to write everything I have ever wanted mwhahahahaha
So I know it has been a while and I am a little rusty but what do you think? Maybe one more chapter of this and then the Grand Sex Tour and our Lady Saviour being a badass during the Spring Sickness.
I watched the first three episodes and wrote this during my work break I was so obessed. Taggie needs some love and Rupert needs a good slap.
Rupert stepped toward you carefully, as though approaching something fragile, every measured step hesitant in a way you had never seen from him before. Normally he moved through a room with effortless confidence, all sharp smiles and dangerous charm, as though the world naturally bent around him. But now there was caution in the way he carried himself, tension pulled tight through his broad shoulders, uncertainty shadowing every movement.
The sight of it only hurt more. The muffled celebration beyond the kitchen doors seeped through the walls in distant waves of laughter, clinking glasses, and soft music. Every burst of joy from the party beyond felt grotesquely misplaced here, where the silence between you stretched heavy and suffocating. It was strange how the world could continue so normally while your heart was quietly breaking apart.
The kitchen smelled faintly of champagne, smoke, and the remains of dinner left untouched on polished counters. Candlelight flickered softly across the marble, casting long shadows that made the room feel colder than it should have.
You knew it was him before the door even closed. You hadn’t thought he would follow.
Why would he?
Even after being gone for a month, he had drifted past you earlier as though you were barely there, barely sparing you a glance as he muttered, “Not now, Goddess.”
The words had shattered something final inside you. The last nail in the coffin. The final fragile piece of hope crushed beyond repair. No excuse could heal that.
You steeled yourself, curling your fingers tightly around the edge of the worn counter of the O'Hara's until your knuckles ached. The cold wood bit into your palms grounding you against the violent swirl of emotions threatening to consume you. You kept your eyes fixed on the rain-speckled windows instead of looking at him directly, staring out across the dark lawn glowing faintly beneath scattered garden lanterns. Birds swooped low through the evening air, pecking at scattered birdseed beneath the garden lanterns.
Anything to avoid looking at him.
“Goddess…” His voice had no right being that soft.
You turned sharply, fury slicing through the ache in your chest. “Don’t you dare call me that,” you spat, glaring at him.
Pain flickered across his face so quickly you almost missed it, a raw crack through the carefully composed mask he wore better than anyone. But he kept moving closer, careful and slow, like he thought sudden movements might make you shatter completely. His green eyes stayed fixed on you with unbearable intensity, carrying exhaustion, guilt, and something heartbreakingly desperate.
His dark suit jacket hung open, slightly wrinkled, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled in a way that made him seem less like the untouchable rogue everyone adored and more like a man unraveling in real time.
“Please,” he said quietly. “Let me explain. I know I’ve been… absent.” He swallowed hard, voice roughening. “I need to explain. Cameron came to me for protection. I had to get her away quickly, keep her safe from Tony. I was trying to do the right thing. Trying to behave honorably...”
“And Cameron was the only person who mattered?” you snapped, the anger finally boiling over. “The only person who needed protection?”
The room fell silent except for the muted thrum of music beyond the walls.
Rupert’s jaw clenched hard enough to flex beneath the dim kitchen lights.
“Goddess…”
“You forfeited the right to call me that when you decided to absconed.” You hissed.
“I was already sleeping with her when we kissed.” he growled teeth bared.
The words landed like a physical blow. It felt as though the floor shifted beneath your feet. A sharp ache tore through your chest so suddenly you almost folded beneath it, your stomach twisting violently as heat rushed to your face. For a second, you genuinely forgot how to breathe.
A month ago, he had held your face in his hands beneath the stables lights and sworn you were the only thing keeping him alive. All while Cameron had already been in his bed. You had known, of course you had but you had thought... thought that you mattered more. Somewhere beneath all your desperate hope, beneath every excuse you had made for him, some wounded part of you had already sensed the truth. But you had wanted him badly enough to lie to yourself, believed he had changed.
“Goddess...”
“Don’t.” Your voice cracked painfully. “I cannot bear another lie passing from your lips.”
For the first time since you had met him, Rupert looked truly wrecked. Not the untouchable, sophisticated rogue who had charmed half of Rutshire. Not the beautiful disaster everyone warned you about.
Just a man standing in front of you looking devastated and guilty and far too late. You laughed bitterly, the sound thin and broken even to your own ears. Tears burned fiercely behind your eyes, blurring the kitchen lights into soft gold smears. You hated that you were crying in front of him. Hated that even now, with your heart splitting open, some part of you still wanted him to tell you this was all some terrible misunderstanding.
“You disappeared for a month with another woman and expect me to congratulate you.”
“To save her.” Rupert growled.
“After telling me you loved me. You didn't need to sleep with her to save her unless you have some magic cock.” Your voice trembled violently now despite your attempts to steady it. “Do you hear how cruel that sounds?”
“She needed me.”
“And what was I?" The words burst from you before you could stop them.
Your chest tightened painfully, emotion clawing up your throat. “I was stuck here not knowing what the hell had happened, thinking you were hurt or dead. Gods…” You shook your head sharply, tears finally slipping free. “I was so stupid. Stalking Gerald for scraps of information because I thought something terrible had happened to you.”
Your breathing turned uneven, chest tightening harder with every word. A month of fear, longing, humiliation, and grief tangled together until you could barely separate one emotion from another. You remembered every sleepless night spent waiting for news, every terrible possibility your mind had invented, every moment you defended him to yourself despite the growing ache in your chest.
“You could have at least put me out of my misery.”
Rupert opened his mouth, but no answer came. Because there wasn’t one.
The silence between you became unbearable. Still, he stepped toward you, arm slowly outstretched, fingers trembling slightly as though he still believed he had the right to touch you. Like a hug would stop you hurting. Stop the fat tears you now realised were rolling down your face.
You moved back immediately before he could reach you. The rejection visibly hit him. His entire body seemed to still for a fraction of a second, his hand hovering uselessly in the air before slowly falling back to his side. Hurt flashed openly across his face now, stripped bare and impossible to hide.
“Leave me alone.” Your voice broke apart entirely now. “I was wrong to think you were a good person. A decent man. I want nothing to do with you.”
Rupert dragged a shaking hand down his face, scrubbing hard at his bronzed skin before slamming his other hand violently against the table.
The sharp crack echoed through the kitchen. Silverware rattled. His chest rose and fell unevenly as he stared at the floor for a long moment, jaw tight with restrained emotion.
“If that’s what you want.”
Please like and comment if you want more Rupert X Goddess goodness!
Life is honestly crazy at the moment 😵💫 I’m currently working 7 days a week but from June my resubmission should finally be done and work will calm down a little.
Thank you so much for all your sweet messages and concern 🥺💕 I just wanted to let you all know that I’m okay! I’ve still been writing little bits whenever I can.
Update incoming 👀✨
Baelor and Lady Saviour have some very spicy little drabbles on the way 🫦💥💥
The Monster Maomao Created… Jinshi is VERY eager to bed his new bride 🤯💥💦
hiiii I love your fics, especially saviour. I love the dynamic between maekar, reader, and baelor; they're all so adorable. I was just wondering if you had an ao3? mostly because I want to download the fic and reread it on my kindle when I go away for vacation. anyways, thank you for being an amazing author!! everything you write is so bomb and I love waking up to an update <3333
I actually do have AO3 but dont realy post on there but I will just for you. I just need to actually be able to log in which seems to be problematic at the minute!
Which meant you had been subjected, without mercy, to the full crushing weight of maidenly custom.
Hours spent within the sept upon unforgiving stone, knees aching as you prayed to the Maiden for purity and grace, to the Mother for wisdom and fruitful blessings. Candle after candle had been lit until the air was thick with wax and incense, your fingers scented with both. Septas hovered like crows, correcting the angle of your bowed head, the cadence of your prayers, the proper reverence expected of a future princess.
Then came the Queen and her ladies.
Smiles sharpened like knives, jewels glinting in candlelight, names and lineages thrown at you one after another until they blurred together into a haze of ancient houses and brittle courtesies. You were paraded through drawing rooms and galleries, presented like some precious new acquisition to wives and daughters who measured your worth in one sweeping glance. Some had been kind. Others were merely curious. A few plainly disapproving of such a match.
And gods,the endless plucking, polishing, bathing, brushing, oiling.
The embarrassment of it would never leave you. You had never been so exposed wearing so little before so many women, hands everywhere at once, discussing your body as if a cow in a butchers window. Brows shaped, nails buffed, skin scrubbed until it tingled. Sweet oils rubbed into your limbs, powders dusted across your throat and collarbones.
Your skin was now silken smooth and glowed almost unnaturally beneath the candlelight. Your hair shone in glossy waves down your back, scented with rosewater and myrrh. Your cheeks held a rich bloom from all the fussing and pinching, and your lips had been rubbed with berry salve until they looked bitten and soft. You scarcely recognised yourself.
Your chambers no longer felt like your own either.
The room had been stripped of the little traces of you that had made it familiar. Shelves once cluttered with loose parchment, dried flowers pressed between pages, ribbons, scattered trinkets and cups gone cold with tea now stood bare and ordered. The book Baelor had gifted you, your treasured volumes with its leather spine worn from nightly reading, had already been returned to his collection in his own chambers, where they now awaited you. The thought sent a warm flutter through your chest.
Your gowns had been folded with military precision into travelling chests. Shoes lined in pairs beside them. Jewellery wrapped in cloth. Hair combs, pins, brushes, even the little carved box where you kept your pressed herbs, all packed neatly and ready to be moved.
To your new chambers.
No. To your shared chambers. Married chambers. With Baelor. Your soon to be husband. Who you would now live with. Where you would wake beside him. Where your gowns would hang beside his coats, your books among his, your laughter mingling with his in rooms once occupied by one man alone. Where you would share a bed… and share other things, things you could scarcely imagine and could not wait to explore body and soul.
The thought made your pulse skip.
The only things that had sustained you through these long days apart were the notes. Notes smuggled through corridors by blushing squires, bribed servants, amused guards, and one increasingly tormented Ser Crakehall. Folded scraps of parchment hidden beneath trays, slipped into sleeves, tucked inside prayer books and baskets of flowers.
You reached for the newest one now, already unfolded so many times the edges had softened.
“Avy jorrāelan, ñuha dāria.- B
You smiled
My dearest trouble,
I am being made to endure another fitting. If one more tailor jabs me with a pin, I shall have him thrown from the battlements.
They say I must be patient. I say I have been patient enough.
I cannot wait for our wedding day. Every hour spent from you is theft.
—B
Another, delivered that morning:
I am commanded to shave and have my hair cut before the ceremony. Apparently I am to appear respectable and handsome for my new bride. Unfortunately Maekar is the only one I trust, I shall look like a sheep ravished by a dragon.
Pray for me. Jorrāelagon.
You had laughed aloud at that one before snatching the quill to parchment so quickly you splattered ink.
Your Highness... My groom,
If you allow any man near that glorious hair with shears, I shall call off the wedding myself.
And if they remove your beard, I shall have them sent to the Wall.
I fully intend to run my hands through your hair upon our wedding day, and feel your beard against my skin just as I did the last day I saw you.
Remain exactly as you are.
—Your future wife
The note returned barely an hour later in the hands of a profoundly red-faced Ser Crakehall.
Ser Crakehall hates us now.
I remain unshorn and victorious.
Ready for your generous hands and willing body.
—Your husband, in spirit if not yet in the Gods eyes
You pressed the parchment to your lips, cheeks burning.
Your thoughts betrayed you then, drifting helplessly to Baelor in this very bedchamber on the last day you had seen him. To the heat of him that stole your breath. To rough hands made unexpectedly gentle by reverence. To the way he had shown you pleasures you had never thought possible between a man and woman with nothing more than his mouth, his hands, and the sinful patience of a man determined to ruin you for all others.
“My lady, we must get you ready!”
Brienne glided into the room like a woman entering battle, Mysa at her heels carrying armfuls of silk, while Carlys followed with boxes of jewels and enough pins to arm a small army.
Today you would become the princess everyone expected. Graceful. Regal. Untouchable in poise and splendour.And later, when the doors were shut and the crowns set aside, you would become the wife Baelor had waited so desperately to claim.
Xxxxx
Baelor was dressed before the light had even broken the darkness. Sleep had eluded him, for when next he slept, it would be as a husband and you, his wife. Waking with you beside him in these very chambers, now to be your home as much as his. He would end each night and greet every dawn with you by his side. To feel the warmth of you tangled in his arms, to hear your breath in the quiet hours before sunrise, to know you were no longer promised but wholly his, it made rest impossible.
In mere hours, he would finally see you. He could not wait a moment more. This long days had be agonizing.
To know you were somewhere within the keep, walking the same halls, breathing the same air, perhaps pausing at the same windows he had stood beside only moments before, and yet entirely out of reach. Guarded, watched, shielded by family, septas, your ladies as though he were something to be protected from rather than the man who would soon call you wife. Every glimpse of a passing gown in the corridor made his pulse quicken, only to sour when it was not you. Every laugh carried through stone walls made him wonder if it had been yours.
Perhaps it was for the best.
Because when he had pulled away from you that day in your chambers, it had not been easy. Your pillowy thighs, gods, he could still feel them in his hands. Soft, warm, yielding beneath his grip and he drunk you in. He could still taste you on his lips. It took all his might not to strip bare and join you beneath the comforter.
Pulling your legs wide so he could see all of you, so he could etch the vision of you bare before him into memory before he claimed your maidenhead. Not stopping until you were his in every sense the gods allowed. Until he had marked every inch of your skin with touch and scent. Until nothing in the world existed but the joining of you both, souls burning together like dragonflame. He would brandish the blood-stained sheet for all to see, hang it in his council chambers as proof and warning alike, that you were his, and had been claimed before gods and men. The hell with the wedding and wait a moment more to call you his, especial after your wretch of a mother tried to pry you apart from him.
He agonised over that feeling, the crudeness that possessed him. It was madness, truly. A hunger so consuming it shamed even him. What was worse, you had pleaded so sweetly. That look in your eyes as you asked, no, begged, him to do something so scandalous. Lips parted, voice soft, gaze molten with want.
Perhaps he should have believed Valorr’s accusation that you were some witch, a sweet succubus sent to test him. Some lovely curse wrapped in silk and smiles. He should have locked you in the Maidenvault as soon as your engagement was announced, to protect you from his corruptive influence and carnal thoughts, just as his namesake had once done to his sisters. Hidden you behind stone and steel where no man, least of all him, could reach you.
But he was weak. Selfish. Possessive.
And the thought of not being able to see you, feel you, stalk you across the halls of the keep and pull you into some abandoned shelter for a few stolen moments was too much torture to bear. Too much to surrender willingly. Even though he thought his brother might have locked you in the Maidenvault himself, if only to gain a few moments of peace.
He must truly find a way to repay his dear brother.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop…it’s disgusting.” Maekar’s barbed tone echoed through the chamber.
Baelor blinked, dragged from his thoughts. “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”
“I know exactly what kind of thoughts you are thinking, and I would rather not be in your presence while you do them,” Maekar growled. “It had been bad enough that I have had to suffer through the last three moons of courting.”
Maekar’s gruff voice carried through the air as he stomped into the room, already reaching for the wine and pouring himself a heavy cup. Gulping it down in two long swallows before slamming the glass upon the table before bracing himself against it with a groan.
“You do know the wedding is not for hours yet.”
Baelor said nothing, only tugged once more at his doublet. It was a form-fitting tunic beneath a double-breasted jacket, tailored close through the chest with sharp crimson pleats running down the front. Every seam sat perfectly, yet still he found fault with it. His hair, stubborn as ever, curled untidily around his ears despite the efforts of three servants and one increasingly frustrated valet.
The crown sat upon its velvet cushion, glaring at him.
He eyed it wearily. Since his accident, the thought of wearing such a heavy thing sent a pulse of pain straight into the pit of his skull. In the past three moons, his headaches had lessened to a tedious and occasional throb, striking only when he spent too long reading in poor candlelight or when exhaustion seeped into his bones. It was… freeing.
It had allowed him the simple joys he once thought gone forever. Walking you through the gardens while you chattered of flowers and old histories. Taking you riding through the city streets so the people might see you and adore you as much as he did. Watching children run behind your horse with garlands in hand while merchants bowed low and called blessings after you both.
Yet, now the longer he spent away from you, the more his head seemed to ache.
But in a few hours’ time, not even the gods themselves would pry you from his arms.
“Do you have your balm? Taken your tincture?”
Baelor’s stormy eyes slid toward his brother. “I am not an invalid.”
“Today will be long,” Maekar replied dryly. “And as you so often remind me, a crown is heavy on the person who wears it, but it is our duty. And your duty today is to look all princely and glorious in your crown beside your new bride, if you want the kingdom to fawn around her half so much as you do. They will need to see you both in all your splendour, tedious as that may be.”
“They will love her.” Baleor nodded
Maekar rocked slightly on his heels. “I am sure they will. If she managed to make this old dragon fond of her, she can manage anyone. But there will always be those who talk. It was rather… strange arrangement.”
The words settled like stone in Baelor’s stomach.
The wedding was not without risk. The court was uncertain. You were no simpering noble maid trained to flatter men into softness, nor some polished seductress weaving snares through smiles. You were simply yourself, an enchanting sprite with a sharp mind, a thirst for knowledge. There were lords in the realm who would resent that. Men who preferred women were ornamental and silent. Men who would sneer at wit in a lady and call intelligence impertinence. It was a thought that had kept him wakeful many nights.
“But do not worry,” Maekar grunted. “This little dragon brood she seems to command ensures she will be well loved. Even that blasted stag appears devoted to her cause. Not to mention all her blasted cousins, who seem to scurry out of the woodwork more by the day.”
“Do you have your eye on one of her visiting cousins? perhaps a pretty one has caught your eye brother?” Baelor mused.
Maekar snapped the fastening of Baelor’s jacket into place somewhat harsher than necessary. “I have enough trouble with her fucking handmaids.”
Silence fell heavily across the chamber. Violet eyes met violet eyes before Maekar looked away, scrubbing a hand over his jaw.
“I am sorry… for all of it. I never said it before, but I am...I...”
“Brother,” Baelor said softly, “you have nothing to be sorry for. I am rather glad you struck that blow. If not for that terrible moment, I would never have met my little savior.”
“Gods, you are truly lost.” Maekar grimaced, though his eyes were bright with reluctant amusement.
“Lost in her eyes, brother.” Baelor grinned as a look of pure disgust consumed Maekar’s features.
“Gods, it is more than I can bear. To see the Breakspear reduced to a besotted fool.” He jabbed a finger toward him. “And do not think I know nothing of those blasted love letters and notes passed between you two. Red in not a good shade for a kingsguard.” he huffed turning on his hills.
“Where are you going?” Baelor smirked.
“To see if we can bring the damn wedding forward. In need some peace.” Maekar snapped the words over his shoulder as he stormed from the room, though the corners of his mouth tugged upward ever so slightly.
Xxxxx
The guests were seated. The sept was packed so full that the very air seemed warm with breath, perfume, candle smoke, and anticipation. Every bench, gallery, and standing space had been claimed long before the bells began to ring. Nobles and servants alike craned their necks for a better view, the murmur of hundreds of voices swelling and falling like the sea against stone.
Highborn and lowborn alike had come.
The lower sections, usually reserved for lesser retainers and household attendants, had been opened to the people of King’s Landing themselves after your personal plea to the king. Though the Small Council had objected in stiff tones and practical concerns, the old king had overruled them with visible delight, declaring that if this was to be the wedding of the century, then all who loved the realm should be welcome to witness the day he gained a daughter.
And so fishmongers stood beside merchants, bakers beside blacksmiths, washerwomen beside goldsmiths, children balanced on shoulders and old men leaning heavily on canes. Faces weathered by work and sun now glowed with excitement as they peered upward toward the royal section. Many had never before entered the Great Sept. Some openly wept at the splendour of it. Others whispered prayers or nudged one another whenever a lord in famous colours passed by.
The ground floor belonged to the great houses.
Lords and ladies filled the front rows in a dazzling display of wealth and pride. Silks rustled like leaves in the wind. Jewels winked at throats, wrists, and brows. House colours were worn boldly, gold lions, green roses, silver trout, black stags, sunspear orange, kraken black and white, falcon blue and white. Banners hung high between the columns, turning the chamber into a forest of heraldry.
Above them, galleries brimmed with lesser nobility, landed knights, clerics, and fortunate courtiers. Servants moved carefully through narrow aisles with watered wine and cloths for flushed faces. The musicians played soft processional strains, though they were nearly drowned beneath the restless hum of speculation.
At the front, nearest the altar and beneath the seven-pointed star, the royal family waited.
“Stop pacing and sit down.” The queen snipped at the king. “Anyone would think it is you getting married and not Baelor.”
The olderman smiled at his wife. “I cannot help it.”
He had indeed worn a path into the polished marble with his movement. Though age had bowed him slightly there was a boyish energy in him this day that made the years seem lighter. His robes of state hung richly from his shoulders, cloth-of-gold worked with dragons and suns, but his fingers betrayed his nerves as they drummed against the carved pommel of his cane. His eyes flicked constantly toward the great doors, eager and bright.
“Silly old fool, he even tried to sneak out to see her when she arrives.” Queen Myriah scowled softly, before turning to her son, cooing as she pulled at his doublet smoothing something out the velvet. “My handsome son.”
Queen Myriah was regal even in motion, draped in deep Dornish silks the colour of wine-dark pomegranates, threaded with gold that caught the candlelight at every turn. Strings of pearls nestled at her throat, and her dark hair, only lightly touched by silver, was braided with tiny gemstones. Her scolding never fully hid the softness in her expression. Pride radiated from her as she fussed over Baelor with the intimate authority only a mother could wield.
He stood tall in princely crimson and black, broad shoulders wrapped in velvet and gold fastenings, the crown lending solemn weight to a face already taut with emotion. Though composed to any distant eye, those nearest could see the restless energy beneath it, the way his fingers flexed once and again at his sides, the quick rise of his chest, the fixed pull of his gaze toward the doors where you would soon appear.
She patted his chest before turning to Maekar who, with face freshly shaved, looked boyish and nearly twenty names younger. “It will be your turn next.”
Freshly shorn of beard and hair pulled from its usual severe style, Maekar appeared almost startlingly changed. Without the pale roughness of his beard, the sharp architecture of his face was laid bare, high cheekbones, severe mouth and silver scars. The years seemed peeled from him, leaving a dangerous face of a mature man.
“Mother!” Maekar huffed jerking away from his mothers golden hands.
Even so, the flush that climbed his neck betrayed him more than any protest. Nearby courtiers hid smiles behind gloved fingers. One old lady openly sighed at the sight of him.
“Wife, it seems like it is time. Let us sit. you can find a bride for Maeker later.” The king offered his arm, still smiling, and guided the queen to their carved seats. Around them the movement rippled outward as the royal attendants settled, guards straightened, and musicians changed tune.
Thousands of eyes turned toward the great doors.
Xxxxxx
The bells of the Great Sept rang so loudly you felt them in your ribs.
Each thunderous peal rolled across the city, over rooftops and market squares, through alleys and towers, announcing to every soul in King’s Landing that a royal wedding was beginning.
Your veil had been lowered before the great doors opened. Your mother smiled, planting a kiss on your cheek, her hand lingered, as you gazed at each other, it was bittersweet. No matter how much you yearned for it, your relationship with your mother wasn't the same. Older eyes soften and her mouth opened but before words could be uttered the septons cough hurried her to take her place in the sept.
With your veil in place, it spilled from your jeweled comb like a river of moonlight, layers of fine silk and pale lace drifting over your face and shoulders.
Your father was one moment away from blubbering. It had taken him a solid hour to collect himself after he saw you dress in your wedding finery. You were grateful for the shield of it, for the small privacy it offered while your heart threatened to pound clear through your bodice. To see you gentle father in tearful joy you might beccoem a sobbing mess yourself.
The doors groaned open.
Sunlight speared into the sept first, bright and golden, catching the incense smoke in shafts in .the air Then came the sound, a great swelling murmur of voices, the scrape of benches, rustling velvet, clinking chains, whispers hissing like wind through leaves as every person inside rose to their feet.
Hundreds of eyes turned toward you.
Silence.
For one breath, you could not move. Then the musicians struck the next note, and your feet obeyed.
You stepped forward. Guided by your fathers arm you walked. The aisle stretched before you like a path into another life, carpeted in crimson so rich it looked like poured wine. Your gown whispered around your ankles with every step, layers of ivory silk and silver-threaded lace heavy enough to remind you constantly of the occasion. Pearls were sewn through the sleeves and bodice, cool against your skin. A necklace of rubies rested at your throat like droplets of fire, matching the dainty tiara nestle in you lose hair
You could feel them watching. Lords with calculating eyes. Ladies with practiced smiles. You gave them nothing but serene grace.
Inside, your pulse was wild. Your gloved fingers curled once around the folds of your father's arms before you forced them still. You lifted your chin another fraction and continued, slow and regal, exactly as Briaennie had drilled into you until dawn.
Then through the gauzy veil, familiar figures emerged. Lyonel stood broad as a tower among the front rows, dressed richly enough for court though he wore finery like armour. His arms were folded across his chest, jaw hard, and he was glaring at the altar with such naked hostility that three nearby lords had subtly shifted away from him. At Baelor, no doubt. Yet the moment his gaze found you, the storm vanished. His expression softened into something warm, proud, almost brotherly. He dipped his head with quiet reverence.
In front of him the princes stood, Valarr and Matarys looked devastatingly elegant, Valarr's eyes jump straight to his father while Matarys' violet eyes sparkled radiantly, giving you a tiny enthusiastic wave the instant no one was looking.
You nearly laughed beneath the veil. Further down, Daeron was smiling so broadly it seemed painful. Near the rear, chaos as ever attended Egg. He had climbed halfway onto the stone railing and was leaning dangerously far off the shoulder of Dunk in order to see better. Dunk kept one enormous hand braced around the boy’s middle while trying to maintain some scrap of knightly dignity in his new white coat. Egg’s waved at you with such vigor that two ladies gasped.
And there was Maekar, beside your soon to be husband, you saw the gleam in his eyes. Moisture unshed. His jaw flexed once, as if annoyed by the existence of feelings altogether. Then he gave you the smallest nod, stiff, formal but you saw it, the gathering sparking in his eye.
Your throat tightened.
Then you saw Baelor. He stood before the altar beneath the seven-pointed star, crowned in blackened steel and rubies, draped in princely crimson and sable. Gold clasps gleamed at his shoulders, his clock resting there ready to claim you. One that you would be wearing when you turned back.
You gasped softly as you father pressed the kiss on your veil cheek leaving you beside your soon to be husband.
His mismatched eyes flickered across your blurred features. The moment he truly beheld you through the veil, a tear slid unceremoniously down his cheek. Then another. His lips parted as though speech had abandoned him entirely. His chest rose sharply beneath embroidered silk, and one hand flexed at his side, as he foot leached forward, and it would have been Maekar's heavy presence was not anchoring him to his spot.
He looked stricken.
Without glancing at him, Maekar reached into his sleeve, withdrew a folded handkerchief, and shoved it sharply into Baelor’s palm with the efficiency of a conjurer.
Baelor accepted it blindly, never once taking his eyes off you.
He dabbed at his face as he turned to face the blinking High Septon, only then reaching his hands to claim yours.
Xxxxxxxxxx
The crown upon his head felt heavier than it ever had before. It pressed into his skull, unforgiving, a band of iron and rubies that seemed to burn against the place where old pain still lingered. A dull ache stirred behind his eyes, threatening to bloom into something sharper, something that would steal his focus at the worst possible moment. The weight of duty, of expectation, of the entire realm watching settled upon him all at once, a suffocating pressure that no training had ever truly prepared him for.
But as you drifted down the red carpet, a vision of light and silk, the entire sept falling into a hush so complete it felt almost sacred. Baelor could not bring himself to care about the crown fastened to his head
You were close enough now that he could see you. Your veil blurred your features into something almost unreal, but it could not hide you from him, not truly. He could see the faint outline of your lips, the rise and fall of your breath, the soft glow of your skin beneath layers of lace.
Everything that had once felt heavy now seemed distant, irrelevant, dulled beneath the singular and overwhelming truth that you were to be his wife. His.
The ceremony stretched on, as such things always did. Sermon upon sermon, blessings layered upon blessings, words spoken in reverence to gods and tradition and lineage. It should have been tedious, suffocating in its length, but Baelor did not mind in the slightest. He heard none of it. Not a single word reached him in any meaningful way. He was too content to simply stand and look at you, to study every small movement, every breath, every flicker of thought that passed behind your eyes.
When the moment came, his hands did not shake, but there was a carefulness to them as he reached for your veil. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted the fine fabric away from your face.
Your skin glowed beneath the light as though lit from within, smooth and luminous in a way that made his chest ache. Your eyes met his, clear and alive, filled with a softness that struck straight through him and left something unguarded in its wake. Your lips were slightly parted, still touched with the faint stain of berries, and your hair shimmered around your face like something drawn from dream and flame.
Baelor exhaled a breath he had not realised he had been holding. It came out uneven, almost broken, as though the sight of you had undone something deep within him. A slow, disbelieving smile spread across his face, soft and awed.
He unclasped his cloak with steady hands, though his gaze never left you, and drew it around your shoulders. The heavy fabric of Targaryen colours settled over you, black and deep crimson lined with ornate embroidery worked through with threads of gold that caught the light with every small movement. It transformed you in the eyes of the realm in an instant, marking you as his, as one of his house, as bound to him in blood and name and future. His fingers lingered as he fastened it, brushing lightly against the curve of your shoulder as he secured it, not daring to look away.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
Baelor surged forward. One hand came to your jaw, firm but gentle, guiding you upward as though you already belonged there. The other settled at your waist, steadying you, drawing you just slightly closer. His lips met yours. Soft at first, reverent, then deeper in a way that made the world beyond the two of you dissolve entirely.
The sept erupted around you, but he barely heard it, still lost in the feel of his lip against yours. When the cheers rose and the bells rang when he finally allowed himself to pull away from you, turning you together to face the realm, Baelor stood taller than he ever had before. Baelor’s hand found yours beneath the folds of your cloak, fingers threading through yours as he guided you down the steps
Xxxxxx
The parade through the city felt endless, winding from the Great Sept down through the heart of King’s Landing and into the narrow, teeming streets beyond. By the time you reached Flea Bottom your arms ached from waving, your fingers stiff from clutching flowers and hands and ribbons pressed upon you by eager crowds. Your cheeks burned from smiling, the muscles of your face beginning to protest with every passing moment. And yet, you could not bring yourself to stop.
You did not want to and through it all, Baelor never once let go of your hand.
By the time you were finally returned to the keep and ushered into the great hall, the feast was ready as you circulated the tables with your new husband. Polite and courtly.
But your thoughts betrayed you.
Your face burned suddenly, vividly, as the memory of the carriage ride rose unbidden. The closeness of it, the heat of him, the way his voice had dropped low and dangerous when he had called you his wife for the first time without witness. The press of his hands, the stolen kisses that had been anything but restrained especially as his hands sunk between your thighs and...
“Wife, you have gone quite red, are you well.”
You could hear the smirk in Baelor’s voice even as his brows drew together in feigned concern. The concern was for show, but the spark in his eyes betrayed him entirely. He knew. Of course he knew.
“Please excuse us, I must tend to the princess. Forgive us, it has been a long day. I am sure we will speak again before you depart.” your husband smiled, placing his hand at the small of your back.
“We look forward to welcoming you and the new princess to the north,” Lord Stark bowed.
You smiled, dipping into a graceful curtsey before Lord Stark, who regarded you with steady, approving eyes,his nod was slight, but it carried a quiet respect that settled warmly in your chest.
Baelor did not wait a heartbeat longer than politeness demanded. His hand found yours again, firm and certain, and he guided you away from the gathered lords with a smooth authority that parted the crowd before him. It was not rushed, not improper, but there was purpose in every step he took. His body angled subtly toward yours as he walked, shielding you from wandering hands and over-eager well-wishers, his presence a quiet wall at your side.
When you reached the high table, he paused only to pull your chair back himself. No servant was given the chance. His hand hovered briefly at your waist as you turned, steadying you as though the simple act required his attention. He adjusted the fall of your skirts with careful precision, ensuring nothing caught or tangled, then settled the cloak more securely about your shoulders, fingers lingering just a fraction too long at the fastening near your collarbone.
Only once you were properly seated did he allow himself to sit beside you. “That was uncalled for, husband.” You pouted softly, though the heat still lingered in your cheeks.
Baelor leaned slightly closer, just enough that his words would not carry beyond you. “Keep calling me husband, this day will end quicker than you expected.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, eyes dark with amusement and something far more dangerous beneath it, his fingers already seeking yours beneath the table once more as though even a moment’s separation had been too much.
Xxxxx
After returning at last to your seats, the procession of gifts began in earnest. One lord after another stepped forward, each more eager than the last to present their offering and secure favour in the eyes of their newly wedded prince and princess. The servants moved in a careful rhythm behind them, collecting, cataloguing, carrying away treasures that would have filled smaller halls entirely.
It did not take long for a pattern to emerge. Word had spread. Where others might have expected jewels alone, or silks, or ornaments meant only to dazzle, you were instead met with tome after tome. Bound in leather, in velvet, in gilded covers and worn spines alike. Histories, poems, treatises, maps, collections of songs and philosophies from across the realm and beyond it. Some ancient and delicate, others newly commissioned, all offered with careful bows and hopeful glances.
Alongside them came jewels in glittering cascades, bolts of fine silk from distant lands, spices that perfumed the very air as they were unveiled, oils and perfumes sealed in delicate glass. Offerings meant to please, to impress, to secure your favor as much as his.
For Baelor, daggers of Valyrian steel, dragon glass carved and polished into ceremonial forms. Crates of grain, stores of apples, casks of wine, symbols of loyalty and provision, promises of support from lands that fed the realm. All presented and given willingly as the musicians took their cue then, strings rising, drums steady beneath them as performers climbed onto their platforms. Laughter grew louder, freer, as wine flowed and the weight of ceremony began to ease into celebration.
It was then that Baelor allowed himself to loosen his hold on you, if only slightly.
You moved from his side, drawn into conversation, into laughter, into the orbit of curious lords and eager ladies who wished to claim a moment of your time. Yet even as you wandered, he remained never more than two arm lengths away. His gaze followed you without effort, constant, instinctive. The duties of a prince did not end, but neither did his attentness to you.
“I must say despite my doubts she is rather suited to dragon colours.” Lyonel sidled up beside the dragon, ale sloshing lazily within his flagon taking a seat with careless ease. “I am rather impressed, actually. She seems to suit life as a princess, wrangling all those prattling lords and ladies.”
Baelor said nothing at first. His violet gaze had already settled on you across the hall, where you stood listening with remarkable patience to a particularly animated Lord Tyrell. You smiled at the right moments, inclined your head with grace.
“Though I must inform you not all are as enamoured with the new little dragonling.” Lyonel’s voice dropped as he lifted the flagon to his lips, eyes shifting subtly toward a gathered knot of men.
Baelor followed the motion.
A cluster stood apart, close enough to be present, far enough to remain removed. Lord Bolton, pale and watchful. Lord Tarly, stern and unyielding. A scattering of lesser lords from the grasslands, their expressions guarded. A handful from the north and west, their attention less celebratory, more calculating.
“And why would you warn me of such dissent among our subjects?” Baelor’s voice was quiet, but there was iron beneath it now.
Lyonel did not look at him immediately. He took another long drink, then lowered the flagon slowly. “While I still believe there is no such thing as a good dragon, she is and always will be my godsdaughter. And far better than any dragon. And if she is cursed to birth more dragon spawn into this world, they will never be dragons.”
Godsdaughter. Baelor brow furrow lightly. Hmmm. The stags brown eyes cut toward Baelor then, not quite challenge but something edged between the two.
Baelor held his gaze for a long moment before speaking. “Then I am glad she has such a strong lord fighting her corner.” His tone remained even, but his eyes flicked briefly back toward you. “I fear she will need that.”
“Brother, congratulations on your marriage.” The voice that followed was softer, almost hesitant. Aerys stood there, slight and watchful, his presence quieter than most in a hall. Beside him stood a man impossible to ignore.
Brynden Rivers smiled thinly, pale hair stark against dark clothing, one eye fixed with unsettling intensity.
“Thank you, brother....Brynden, I am glad you could join.” Baelor's head inclined ever so slightly.
“Yes, congratulations, my prince. I hope your future is bright and free of burden.” His voice was smooth, almost pleasant, yet something beneath it twisted the words into something less comforting. “You have certainly picked a most becoming bride. I am certain she will be capable of leading the kingdom through whatever is to come.”
Both Baelor and Lyonel’s gazes sharpened at that.
There was something in the way Brynden’s eye lingered, not on Baelor, but past him. Toward you. Watching. Measuring. Knowing far too much, or at least giving the impression that he did.
The moment stretched, taut and uncomfortable beneath the weight of unspoken things. “Come, Prince Aerys, I promised to show you my book collection.”
Brynden turned smoothly, guiding his brother away before any reply could truly take shape. Baelor’s gaze lingered on him as he disappeared into the shifting mass of guests, swallowed by the crowd. Only when he could no longer see him did Baelor’s attention return to you, your head tipped back in a laugh as Egg and Aemon tugged at your skirts.
“It is time for the bedding ceremony!”
The words cut cleanly through the music, sharp enough to still the nearest conversations.
Lord Bolton rose as he spoke, pale eyes fixed upon you with a cold intensity that made your skin prickle. There was no warmth in his gaze, no celebration, only something watchful and intrusive, as though he already claimed a right to witness what should never belong to him. Around him, a few voices stirred in agreement, murmurs rising like a slow, unsettling tide.
Before the sound could swell, movement answered it. Lyonel was on his feet first, the scrape of his chair loud against the stone as he straightened to his full height, flagon still in hand. There was nothing hurried in the motion, nothing overtly aggressive, yet the shift in his stance was unmistakable, his broad frame angling ever so slightly between you and the growing attention.
Maekar rose next, slower, deliberate, his expression hardening into something carved from iron. He did not speak, did not need to. One step placed him closer to you, positioning himself just enough that anyone approaching would meet him first.
Valarr followed. placing himself at Baelor’s other side, a quiet reinforcement that needed no announcement.
Further down, Dunk pushed from his post , towering above most in the hall, his sheer presence enough to draw attention, stepping closer until he stood just behind you, a silent wall of loyalty and strength. Beside him, Ser Duskendale and Ser Crakehall , stepped forward there shining armor shining the falling sun.
“There will be no bedding ceremony.” Baelor’s voice did not rise, yet it carried across the hall with absolute clarity as he stood finally from his own seat.
A ripple of disappointment moved through parts of the crowd, most noticeably among the younger women who had leaned forward in anticipation of tearing the tailored doublet from his body and the chance gaze past a certain appendage and feel the weight of something that might have been their own if it not been for you.
Lord Bolton's gaze remained fixed, unblinking. “It is tradition,” he said coolly.
“And proof,” Lord Tarly added, his voice firm, carrying easily. “There must be evidence of the union. Witnesses ”
Baelor’s expression sharpened, the last trace of warmth gone from it entirely. “This is a celebration,” he said, each word precise, controlled. “Not a spectacle.”
Silence stretched, tight as drawn wire. “My wife is a princess,” he continued, the word deliberate, weighted. “The realms future queen. Not something to be pawed at for the amusement of the court.”
A murmur rippled outward, some approving, others less so.
Lord Tarly did not yield. “Then how are we to be assured, Your Highness?”
For a moment, it seemed the hall itself held its breath. At your side, the weight of so many eyes pressed in, suffocating. You felt it then, the shift from celebration to scrutiny, from joy to expectation. Your fingers tightened faintly in your skirts, your composure wavering just enough for those closest to notice. The thought of them grabbing at you, watching as you…sicken you but if it was expected…
You stepped forward only for Maekar to step nearer, a subtle motion guided you back a pace. Dunk shifted with him, placing himself just enough behind and beside you that the line of sight from the hall broke, shielding you from the worst of the attention without drawing notice to it.
A sharp bark of laughter cut through the silence as he stepped forward, slinging an arm loosely around the nearest lord and thrusting a brimming cup into his hand.
“Gods, must we turn a wedding feast into a council debate?” he called out, voice loud, irreverent, deliberately careless. “Drink, man. If you require proof of anything tonight, I suggest you find it in your own bed rather than another’s. I am sure there will be dragons aplenty roaming around before long, not that we don't have enough already! ”
A few chuckles answered him. Then more.
Lyonel did not stop. He pressed another drink into waiting hands, clapped a man on the shoulder hard enough to jolt him “Play!” he shouted toward the musicians. “Unless you plan to stand there all night like statues. Play for fucksake”
The first notes returned hesitantly, then stronger as the rhythm caught. Conversation resumed in uneven waves, the tension loosening under the weight of wine and distraction.
You blinked from behind the mass of the new kingguard as the hall fell into a joyful roar, skirts swinging in the air as the jig resumed.
‘’Come wife.’’
Xxxxx
Baelor stood alone upon the balcony, the cool night air brushing against his skin as he looked out over the Red Keep and the city beyond. Torches burned in long winding lines through the streets, their glow flickering like rivers of fire in the dark. The distant hum of celebration still carried faintly upward, laughter and music softened by distance, the city alive in honour of the day.
His hands rested against the stone balustrade, fingers curling slightly as he leaned forward, though his thoughts were far from the view. The waiting stretched long, taut, filled with a restless anticipation he could neither quiet nor ignore. This was the safest place for him. He cloistered himself here in fear the moment you pulled the last pin from you hair he would pounce on you.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”Your voice drew him from his thoughts instantly.
He turned
You stood framed in low firelight still dressed in your wedding gown, though outer layers had been shed. The heavy ornate tiara was gone, the veil long since removed, hair unpinned and loose around your face. The layers of formal adornment undone until it was simply you in the dress. The fabric clung where the long day had warmed your skin, the neckline looser, the sleeves slightly slipped, revealing the slicker of unkiss skin.
You looked no less magnificent for it. More so even.
Baelor exhaled slowly, his gaze darkening as it moved over you, “The Maiden herself would bow in reverence at your beauty,” he said, his voice lower now, threaded with something deeper than awe. “She will never be as beautiful as you, wife.”
The word settled heavily between you. You flushed at once, the warmth rising to your cheeks as you instinctively turned slightly away, one hand brushing at the fabric of your dress as though to steady yourself beneath the weight of his gaze, your hair cascading down your face, shielding him from his piecing stare.
He noticed. Of course he did. In a few unhurried steps, he crossed the distance between you.
“Why do you hide?” he murmured, his hands finding you with ease, gentle but certain as they drew you back toward him. His fingers brushed along your arms, settling at your waist, grounding you there.
You hesitated, then admitted softly, “I like it… when you call me wife.”
“Wife,” he repeated, slower now, the word deepened, deliberate. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips, warm and unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world now that you were his. When he drew back, it was only to say it again, softer, closer.
“Wife.” His lips traced along your jaw, then lower, pausing at your neck, each touch lingering just long enough to make your breath catch.
“Wife.” The word became a quiet rhythm between you, spoken against your skin, woven into every brush of his lips, every steadying hold of his hands at your waist as he drew you closer still.
A soft sound slipped from you before you could stop it, your fingers curling lightly into his shoulders. “Husband…”
That was all it took. Baelor’s restraint shattered. His hands moved more surely now, one sliding along the curve of your back, the other brushing the fabric at your side, fingers catching lightly in the folds of your gown as though already testing how it might come undone.
Baelor’s hands tightened at your waist, his breath unsteady now, no longer the composed prince before a court but a man pushed to the edge of restraint. His gaze dropped once more to your dress, to the way it clung and shifted with every breath you took, and something dark and wanting flickered openly across his face.
“I have stood before half the realm,” he murmured, voice low, roughened, “endured their eyes, their words, their traditions… all while knowing you would be waiting for me. My wife.” His thumb brushed along your side, slow, deliberate. “Do you know what that does to a man?”
You tilted your head slightly, a spark of mischief breaking through the warmth in your cheeks, your fingers still resting lightly against him. “It seems to make him terribly impatient… and rather poor at hiding it.”
A breath of laughter left him, low and disbelieving, his grip tightening just slightly. “My bold, intelligent wife,” he said, the words laced with something deeply pleased, almost reverent beneath the heat of them. “Already testing me.”
You met his gaze without flinching. “I would think a prince should welcome a challenge.”
That was all the invitation he needed. Baelor’s arms slid fully around you, lifting you effortlessly from the ground. You gave a soft gasp, your hands finding his shoulders as he gathered you close against his chest.
“My wife,” he repeated more quietly, as though committing it to memory.
He turned without hesitation, striding from the balcony toward the bed with long, purposeful steps, the world narrowing to the space between you. Firelight flickered across stone shadows stretching and shifting as he nestled you against the plush cotton of the sheet, staring down at you splayed delicately against the white bedding. Bedding that would be stained with a claim that you were his.
As he moved above you, settling at your side, your hand lifted, reaching carefully toward him. Your fingers found the crown still resting in his hair, easing it free with surprising gentleness. The weight of it settled briefly in your hands before you set it aside without ceremony, casting onto the floor leaving him unburdened at last. Then your touch returned to him, softer now. Your fingers threaded lightly through his hair before settling at the back of his head, tracing the faint, familiar lines of the seven-pointed scar there. Your touch lingered, careful, knowing.
He drew back only a fraction, his lips still grazing yours, his voice low and dangerous in the space between. “My wife…Nuha Dāria.’’ His thumb brushed slowly along your jaw, his gaze dropping to your eyes as he eyes darkened impossible so as he claimed your mouth.
Sooooooooo they are married and the grand series of request may begin.
Thank you so much for your support! You have no idea how much it has meant to me! Hope this was worth the wait
Favorite moment? Lyonel of course!
Don't forget to send me requests for Baelor and our Lady Saviour ( the more specific the better), or in general have so juicy little ideas already especially for our lover boy Maekar and Lyonel. Getting everything ready for when I am finally free from rewrites!!!!
Dunk spluttered as the burst of juice coated his hand, thick and sticky, spilling faster than he’d expected. It ran over his fingers in slow, glossy rivulets before dripping from his knuckles, pattering softly as it fell. Some of it caught along his jaw where he’d leaned too close, trailing down in uneven lines, clinging to the rough stubble there before slipping lower. He blinked hard, breath catching, as the sweetness hit his tongue again, too much, almost overwhelming. His jaw ached from the effort, muscles tight and trembling, and his tongue felt heavy, sluggish from the constant motion. Still, he kept going, shifting slightly as he tried to keep hold, his grip slick now, difficult.
The juice gathered at the hollow of his collarbone, pooling briefly before spilling over, creeping in thin, sticky paths down the broad plane of his chest. It caught in the fine hairs there, glinting faintly in the light, leaving uneven trails that cooled as the air touched them.
Dunk let out a rough breath through his nose, trying to steady himself, but it only made him more aware of the mess, of how much there was, how it clung, how it wouldn’t stop. His shoulders tensed, then loosened again as he adjusted, stubbornly continuing despite the ache, despite the distraction.
“Go on!,” Lyonel cheered with a bark of laughter, clapping Dunk hard on the shoulder and sending him stumbling back onto the bench. “Tongue it like I showed you.”
Dunk spluttered, nearly dropping the fruit as juice ran down his chin again. He wiped at it with the back of his hand, scowling. “You talk too much.”
“And you think too much,” Lyonel shot back, grinning like a man who’d never doubted himself a day in his life. He dropped down beside him, propping himself up on one elbow. “You’re built like a warhorse, Dunk, but you fret like a septon’s son.” Trust me you will thank me later when she is exploding in your mouth.’’ Lyonel roared slamming him on his back making Dunk splutter against the fruit. ‘’You want her as wet as that peach, nice and stretched wide. Nothing will prepare you for that monster between your legs but it will ease it.’’ Lyonel growled as he took a swig of ale. ‘“Bedding a woman will hurt.”
“I would never hurt her.” Dunk growled, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “I’d stay celibate if it meant never harming her.”
Lyonel bared his teeth at that, something sharp and wolfish in the expression. “You soft-hearted fool,” he said, though there was no real malice in it. “The first time is never easy, it always hurts. How much depends on how you prepare them. Trust me as soon as you break you in, she will never want to stop. Trust me. I see it her eyes’’
‘’See what?”
“The fucking desire in her eyes, you lucky bastard.” Lyonel's eyes burned into Dunk’s swirling blue, sharp and unrelenting, as if he could force the truth into him by sheer will. There was nothing teasing in him now, only certainty, fierce and bright. “It is always the quiet and sweet ones that burn hot, scratch up your back and sucks your soul from your very body.” Lyonel grins, his canines peeping out of his lips ‘’among other things.’’
Dunk stilled under that gaze, the weight of it pressing down heavier than any blow. The breeze stirred the grass around them, soft and whispering, but it did nothing to ease the sudden heat rising along his neck. His grip tightened unconsciously around the fruit in his hand, fingers slick and sticky, juice seeping between them and dripping slowly to the ground.
He swallowed, jaw shifting as if to argue, but no words came. Lyonel’s voice lingered in the air between them, rough and certain, leaving no room for easy dismissal.
Lyonel leaned closer, not touching, but near enough that Dunk could feel the presence of him, solid, unwavering, like a storm pressing in. His grin had faded into something sharper, more knowing, as though he saw straight through Dunk’s hesitation, past all the doubt and stubborn fear.
Lyonel only huffed, a low, amused sound, ‘’Now again.’ Lyonel bellowed as he thrust as another peach Dunks hand ‘’This time we are going to work on you fingering, three at least then we will work on your thrusting stamina.’’
‘’My what!’’
‘’Can’t have you bursting the first time your enter her, and leave you all needy and wanting,’’ Lyonel's eyes darkened ‘’unless you want a striking stag to fill that need.’’ Lyonel's eyes twinkled and Dunk's eyes burnt into him as he lowered his mouth to the ripe fruit, glaring at the stag as he worked his mouth across the pitted flesh on the peach, all while pressing a single digit into the core of the ripe flesh, widening the gash with every thrust.
Xxxxxx
You looked down at the growing bundle in your arms, the weight of it awkward and unfamiliar. Small glass bottles clinked softly together, oils catching the light in amber and gold, while little cloth bags of herbs released faint, earthy scents each time they shifted. There were tinctures too, stoppered tight, their contents dark and mysterious, labels scrawled in hurried ink you could barely follow.
You walked mutely behind Rowan as she moved from stall to stall with quiet confidence, never hesitating, never second-guessing. Your hands were quick and sure, plucking items from crowded tables before passing over coins without a thought, as if she had done this a thousand times before. The merchants barely questioned her, only nodded, wrapping things in scraps of cloth or paper before turning to the next customer.
Your eyes drifted across the tables as she paused to count through each bottle again, softly reciting the uses she had already told you, your voice steady and assured. You tried to follow, truly you did, but the words tangled in your mind, slipping away almost as quickly as they came.
You had thought people would stare.
You had expected whispers, sidelong glances, the sharp weight of judgment pressing in from every side.
But no one cared.
The market moved around you in a constant hum of voices and motion, people bartering loudly over prices, arguing, laughing, haggling as though it were sport. They handled things so openly, so freely, items you had only ever known hidden behind veils and closed doors of whorehouse. It made something in you flinch, your jaw tightening before you forced it to loosen again, trying not to look as out of place as you felt.
“Egg, where have you been!”
The words left you in a rush, sharper than you meant, pulled from you by sudden relief. You spotted him weaving easily through the crowd, small and quick, slipping between bodies that barely noticed him. His shaved head caught the light as he moved, and he slowed only when he saw you,.
You worried your lip as he approached, a flicker of guilt tightening in your chest. You had not meant to lose track of him. Not him of all people but after the last nights events you had complete forgot about your young charge.
“I spent the night with the other squire boys.” Egg came to a stop in front of you, hands loosely at his sides, but his eyes were already moving, quick, observant, taking you in piece by piece. They lingered on your arms, on the faint redness there, the marks not yet fully faded. His brow creased, subtle but unmistakable. “What have you been doing?”
“I am getting supplies.”
“Supplies.” He repeated it slower this time, like he was testing the word, weighing it. His gaze flicked briefly to the bundle in your arms, then back to your face, sharper now. He wasn’t a child when he looked at you like that. “You aren’t leaving then… You aren’t leaving, are you?”
There was something quieter beneath the question, something careful. Not fear, not quite but close enough that you felt it all the same.
You shook your head, adjusting your grip on the bottles as one shifted dangerously. “No. I will be staying with you. And Dunk.”
Egg’s shoulders eased, just a fraction. It was small, easy to miss, but you saw it. His posture straightened again almost at once, as though he had not meant to show even that much.
“Will you marry him?” he asked, tilting his head up at you, eyes clear and direct.
“What?”
“It is logical,” Egg continued, unfazed by your surprise. “If you’re going to stay with us, you are his lady after all. His Smiling Lady.”
The title caught oddly in your chest, warmer than it should have been. You blinked down at him, thrown, searching for an answer that did not come easily. “I…” Your voice faltered, quieter now. “I don’t know. It depends what Dunk wants.”
Egg studied you for a moment longer, really studied you, as though measuring something you couldn’t quite see. Then, without hesitation, without doubt: “He does.”
The certainty in his voice made your breath catch. There was no teasing in it, no childish guesswork, only simple, unwavering belief. As if to him, it was already decided.
You opened your mouth, something rising up, protest, question, you weren’t sure, but it stalled before it could take shape. Before you could speak, before you could press him, the moment snapped. The pretty dark-haired girl lunged at the scrawny boy beside her.
“Bertha! That’s not fair, I was distracted!”
The boy stumbled back, nearly colliding with a stall, laughter breaking out around them. The noise rushed back in all at once, swallowing the quiet space you and Egg had been standing in.
xxxxxxxxxxx
Rowen to her time time. She did not rush her explanations. Instead, she lingered on every detail, carefully walking you through each step as if it were something delicate, something that required both precision and intention. She explained not just what to do, but how to do it, where to rub, how to move, when to pause. She described positioning with a quiet confidence, demonstrating with subtle gestures and a knowing look. Even the smallest things mattered to her, the placement of hands, the rhythm of movement, the timing of touch. She spoke about what to notice, what to respond to, and how to adjust in the moment. Nothing was left vague. Every instruction carried purpose, layered with an understanding that came from experience.
“You are really sure he has never bedded anyone else?” Rowen asked at last, peering through your long, dark lashes. There was something searching in your gaze, something measured, as though the answer would shape everything she had just told you.
“Yes.”
“The kingdoms loss is your gain, so you will have to make sure to wind him up to the point that he dare not even think anyone else could make him feel that way… but I am pretty sure he does that already.” Rowen’s words were soft, but they carried weight, confidence wrapped in subtle teasing, as if she already knew more than she was saying aloud.
“But what if…”
“I have dealt with many men in my time and seen enough besotted fools, arrogant pricks, and everything in between. Men come to the pleasure houses for many reasons. To release stress, to try something their wives will not, because they are lonely. I have seen it all, darling, and I have seen that look.”
“What look?” you ask.
“The look he gives you. The way he always looks at you. I have seen it right before a man buys out a lady.” Rowen’s voice softened, but there was certainty in it. “And it is not just that. It is the way he treats you. He serves you first without thinking, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. He walks on the outside of the road, as though he could shield you from anything that might come your way. Your cloak is always thicker than his, because he would rather bear the cold himself than see you shiver.”
She glanced at you, a small knowing smile forming. “He notices when you are tired before you even say a word and finds some excuse to let you rest. He remembers the little things you like, the way you take your tea, the foods you favor, the stories that make you smile.”
Rowen adjusted the contents of the satchel as she spoke, your movements unhurried and she packed it neatly. “It is in the way his hand hovers at your back. The way his gaze softens when it lands on you, it is daft and soppy,” she added with a quiet huff of amusement, “but there is not a more deserving lady, nor a more deserving man.”
She tied off the satchel and looked at you fully now, your expression warm, certain. “You will take care of each other and I will take care to make sure you get all the pleasure you deserve.”
xxxxx
“Dunk!”
“My lady.”
You blinked up at him, momentarily pulled from your thoughts. The day had carried on in an odd, suspended sort of way. The last hunt was not expected to return until the morrow, and after that the final feast would commence before all traveled on to the tourney after the next moon. Everything felt like it was waiting, holding its breath before something grand.
“Ahh, if it isn’t the famous Smiling Lady! I do hope you have a lot to smile about, and if not, I do hope you will have something to smile about this evening.” Lyonel’s voice boomed across the space before he even reached you, his presence arriving as loudly as his words. He swung himself down beside you with easy confidence, all broad shoulders and effortless charm, as though the world simply made room for him wherever he went.
“Lord Baratheon, I thought you were on the hunt.” Rowen’s eyes narrowed slightly, you glare sharp as it fixed on the stag lord.
“I didn’t much fancy a hunt today myself,” Lyonel replied lightly, waving a hand as if the matter were trivial, “and Dunk here has been… fruit picking.”
“Here?” Rowen’s hands found her hips in an instant, posture stiff with disbelief. “You decided to go fruit picking rather than hunting?”
“Of course!” Lyonel grinned, entirely unbothered.
Your gaze, along with Rowen’s, lifted toward the towering figure beside him, and only then did you truly take in Dunk’s state. He was covered in sticky juice, the evidence smeared across his hands, his arms, even faintly along his tunic. The scent of something sweet, peaches perhaps, lingered faintly in the air around him.
“Poor Dunk here got a little messy,” Lyonel continued, clearly amused. “Such sweet things, peaches. Takes a lot of practice to eat them correctly.”
Dunk let out a nervous, breathy laugh, his eyes refusing to meet yours. His fingers fidgeted with the tacky residue on his skin, rubbing absently at his forearm. You could not help but notice the way the muscles there flexed with the movement, the quiet strength in something so simple. He swallowed, shifting his weight slightly, and the motion drew your attention in a way you could not quite explain.
Heat crept up before you could stop it, a lingering echo from earlier that day, and you pressed your thighs together subtly, willing yourself to remain composed.
“That was quite a misfortune for someone who is an honoured guest,” Rowen said coolly, though there was an edge beneath your words.
Lyonel turned his head toward her, his grin sharpening just slightly. “Yes, such a poor host,” he echoed, though his tone suggested he did not feel poor at anything. Then his attention returned to you, his expression softening into something more deliberate. “I shall have to make it up to him.”
There was a pause, brief before his muse took him. “Take my chambers tonight,” he said, as though offering something entirely ordinary. “I find I will not need them. I must prepare for my last feast.”
You felt your stomach drop, a sudden, dizzying awareness flooding through you. The ground might as well have opened beneath your feet for how desperately you wanted it to. Beside you, Dunk had gone just as still, his panic far less concealed. His eyes darted quickly to Lyonel, searching, uncertain, but the lord remained entirely unfazed, as though nothing about this was unusual.
“Hot water will be brought, and I will have all your things sent. Your boy can help. Now, Leeum… LEEUM!”
The bellow cut through the air, and within moments an older servant appeared, moving with practiced efficiency.
“Oh, Leeum,” Lyonel continued, gesturing toward the two of you, “take these two to my chambers and get them settled.”
There was no room left for protest, not truly. Things were already in motion.
You found yourself moving before you had quite decided to, following after the servant. Dunk fell into step beside you, quiet, almost too quiet, his earlier nervous energy now replaced sheer terror.
Rowen pressed your satchel into your chest as you passed her, the gesture firm, grounding. Your fingers lingered for just a second longer than necessary, a silent reassurance before she let go.You clutched it close as you walked, the weight of it suddenly comforting, something solid in the midst of everything that felt far too uncertain.
Behind you, Lyonel’s voice carried once more, lower now, edged with a different sort of amusement.
“I am now in want of a room, my lady. Care to accommodate me?” he purred.
“I am a married lady, Lord Baratheon,” Rowen replied sharply, though there was a controlled steadiness to your tone.
“That is quite all right,” Lyonel returned without missing a beat. “Your husband can join.”
Xxxxx
Dunk would never be able to look at a peach the same way again. The sticky sweetness clung not just to his skin but to his thoughts, lingering in a way that made his face burn even now. As he peeled off his trousers, his hands fumbled slightly, his movements hurried and clumsy. There were stains along the seams he could not ignore, no matter how hard he tried to push the memory away.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, jaw tightening. The echo of Lyonel’s booming laughter still rang in his ears, the heavy clap of a hand against his back as he came with a whimper as peach juice dripping down his skin as spurt after spurt of cum twitched from his cock.
“God lad! Means you won’t lose your head as quickly when you finally bed her.”
The words twisted in his chest. He should never have gone to Lyonel in the first place. He knew that now. Foolish hedge knight, letting himself be swept along, too uncertain to refuse, too naïve to see where it would lead.
Heat crept up his neck again, this time sharper, edged with shame.
With a quiet, almost desperate motion, he sank beneath the water, the bath carved from stone and tucked into the side of the chamber. The warmth closed around him, muffling the world above. For a moment, there was nothing but the muted stillness and the faint distortion of light through the surface.
He stared into the murky depths, letting the silence press in. If he stayed there long enough, perhaps he would not have to face you at all. Not your eyes, not the way you might look at him now. Not the possibility of disappointment, or worse, pity.
His lungs began to ache, the pressure building until instinct finally forced him upward.
He broke through the surface with a sharp gasp, water cascading down his face as he dragged in air, chest heaving.
And then he saw you.
You were sitting at the edge of the bath, closer than he had expected, closer than he was prepared for. The soft light of the room caught along the curve of your form, your hands resting loosely in your lap, your expression unreadable in that first stunned heartbeat.
For a second, he froze completely.
Then panic struck.
Dunk scrambled backward in the water, nearly slipping as he tried to cover himself, his hands moving too quickly, too uncertainly. Water sloshed against the sides of the stone, rippling outward from his sudden movement. His face had gone red, deeper than before, eyes wide and refusing to settle anywhere near yours.
“My…my lady…” he stammered, voice rough and uneven, as if the words themselves struggled to find their way out.
He turned slightly, one arm crossing awkwardly over himself, the otyougripping the edge of the bath as though it might steady him. Every inch of him seemed caught between the urge to disappear back beneath the water and the need to somehow explain, though he had no idea how.
The words fell apart before they could form into anything meaningful.
He swallowed hard, shoulders tense, water dripping from his hair as he kept his gaze fixed somewhere just beyond you, unable to meet your eyes.
‘’Dunk if you do not seem to remember I had your cock in my hand, this morning? You really do not need to hide from me.’’
“It is indecent. You’re a lady…” Dunk spluttered, his voice cracking under the weight of his embarrassment, his attempt at propriety unraveling with every passing second.
“Yes,” you said softly, the hint of a smile curving your lips, “I am a lady… and you are my knight.”
There was something almost playful in the way you said it, but beneath it lay something steadier, more certain. You shifted slightly at the edge of the bath, realizing, perhaps for the first time, how much you liked this vantage point. Looking down at him like this, seeing him undone, uncertain, all that strength and steadiness turned shy under your gaze.
“A knight I very much wish would take me to bed.”
The words were gentle, but they landed with quiet clarity.
Dunk’s breath caught, his hands tightening slightly where they rested, his whole body going still as if he scarcely dared to move. His eyes flickered up to yours, searching, disbelieving, as though he feared he had misunderstood.
You leaned closer before he could retreat into that doubt again. Slowly, deliberately, you closed the distance between you. Your lips met his in a soft, tentative kiss, warm despite the lingering dampness of the bath. He froze at first, startled more than anything, but there was no resistance in him, only uncertainty.
You lingered there for a moment, just enough for him to feel it, to begin to respond, before your lips shifted slightly. Your tongue brushed lightly along his lower lip, a quiet invitation rather than a demand, before you pulled back just enough to look at him again. His expression was utterly undone, breath uneven, eyes wide and fixed on you as though the world had narrowed to this single moment.
A small smile touched your lips, softer now, almost amused.
“You really do taste like peaches…what on earth have you been doing?” you blink in confusion
Xxxxxx
Dunk would not so much as step out of the tub until you were settled, properly and modestly, behind the heavy curtains that draped around the bed. Only when he was certain you were out of sight did he move, the faint sound of water shifting and stone scraping echoing softly through the chamber.
The bed itself felt almost indulgent beneath you. Layers of thick furs and soft linens had been piled high, the mattress yielding gently as you shifted your weight. The curtains, rich and heavy, softened the light into a warm glow, turning the space into something private and cocooned. The tincture still tasted strange on your tongue. Something to sooth and dull the pain. The rest bundled up at the side of the table, just in case.
“Where is the boy?” Dunk’s voice came from behind the curtain, quiet as he flapped around the bed.
“Playing with the squire and a rather pretty girl named Bertha. Raymund is watching them.”
There was a pause. You could hear it in the slight stillness of the room, the subtle shift in his breathing. Then the quiet sounds resumed, the rustle of cloth, the drag of a towel against skin, his footsteps against the stone floor.
You sat there, hands resting in your lap, but inside you something entirely different stirred. Excitement bubbled up, bright and quick, twisting together with a nervousness that made your fingers curl slightly against the fabric beneath you. Your heart beats faster, each second stretching just a little longer than the last.
“My lady… would you turn around?”
You did as he asked, shifting on the bed. For a brief moment, you found yourself facing nothing but the softly lit curtains, blinking in confusion till you lowered your eyes and slowly, you leaned forward, peering down over the edge of the bed.
Dunk was there on one knee on the floor beside the bed. He was shirtless, his broad frame still slightly damp, his hair darker where it clung to his skin. His breeches hung loose at his hips, hastily fastened, as though he had not trusted himself to take the time to do it properly. And in his hand, was a small wooden ring.
“I know it’s not a lot,” he began, his voice rough, earnest, every word pulled from somewhere deep and unguarded. “And I know it’s wooden, but I carved it myself and I will turn it into gold. I want to do this right, have you as my wife, and if you want to wait for… you know… I will happily wai…”
He did not get to finish. You moved before he could, launching yourself forward and into his arms. The force of it nearly knocked the breath from him, his hands coming up instinctively to catch you, to steady you, his surprise melting quickly into something warmer, something certain.
You pulled back just enough, your hand already reaching, fingers opening as you held it out to him.
Dunk’s hands, still a little unsteady, guided the ring onto your finger. The wood was smooth beneath your skin, simple and imperfect, but it fit. And somehow, that made it feel more right than anything polished ever could. His gaze lifted to yours, still searching, still almost disbelieving, as though he needed to see it there to truly believe it was real.
Dunk’s eyes traced every part of you as if committing it to memory, as if he could scarcely believe you were real, let alone his.
Adoration softened everything about him. It gentled the strength in his features, turned his usual steadiness into something almost vulnerable.
You lifted your hand, small against the breadth of him, and cupped his cheek. The contrast made your breath catch for a moment, your fingers brushing along the rough warmth of his skin. He leaned into the touch without thinking, as though he had been waiting for it.
You drew him closer and kissed him, slow and certain this time, no hesitation left between you.
When you pulled back, your forehead nearly brushed his, your voice soft but unwavering. “Take me to bed… and make me yours.”
For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you, something fierce and tender flickering together in his expression. Then he moved.
Dunk gathered you up as though you weighed nothing at all, his arms firm and sure around you. The sudden lift drew a quiet breath from you, your hands finding him easily, instinctively. He set you gently onto the bed, the soft furs shifting beneath your weight, the curtains parted as learned forward claiming your mouth in a searing kiss.
Xxxxxx
The scent of peaches and Dunk filled the air as you arched your back, to meet his lips, your breasts pressing against his broad chest. His hands roamed greedily over your body, pawing at the soft swell of your hips and the delicate lace edging the gown, while your fingers traced the scar on his side. Its gnarled edges caressed your fingertips as you pulled him into a deep, hungry kiss. Fervent urgency, tongues dancing as your muffled gasps vibrate against his mouth as you ground your aching core against the hard bulge in his trousers.
The memory of hand wrapped around his thick cock, drawing out his release with skillful strokes, left you throbbing your pussy slick and swollen. You needed this, no more quick fumbles under your dress while you listen to Dunk’s soft snores or biting your lip as your grind against your hand in the freezing water while your eyes gaze at the guarding Dunk.
Dunk groaned into your neck, his breath hot and ragged, as he shifted above, his weight pinning you deliciously to the mattress, feeling the rigid length of his meaty cock grind against your through the layers of fabric. "Yes, oh gods, yes," you moaned. The friction sent sparks of ecstasy through your veins, your nipples hardening into peaks against his chest,
‘’Dunk please…’’ you gasped as you grinded needily into him, it was too much but still not enough. ‘’Please.’’
The knight pulled back as he gazed down at you, your eyes bright and burning in the light of the fireplace, chest heaving, hands clawing at his biceps as you stare, no beg up at him. His eyes flicker, searching for any traces of hesitation, of fear, of fakeness but found nothing but your big pleading eyes and your parted lips. It was more than flesh and blood could stand, especially for a a poor boy from flee bottom, to be between the legs of a Lady, a lady that wore his ring and between you heaving breasts lay his shield.
Gently, he slipped one arm behind your back and the other beneath your hand, fingering the ring that now decorated your hand as drawing you up from the bed and onto your feet.
Once you were on your feet, he turned you slowly, his hands never leaving you, until your back met the solid warmth of his chest.
The difference in your size became even more apparent then. His frame swallowed you, broad and steady, one of his arms settled lightly around you as his lips descended on the sensitive curve of your throat, planting open-mouthed kisses that left a trail of tingling warmth.
His hands worked deftly now, fingers tearing at the delicate ribbon that held my gown in place, the fabric yielding with a soft, whispering rip. The cool air rushed in as he pulled the neckline down my shoulders, exposing the swell of my breasts to the dim candlelight, their peaks hardening in anticipation. You could feel the hard length of his cock pressing against my lower back through his breeches and it stirred a deep, aching need within me, one that warred with the nervousness coiling in my stomach.
But the need was consuming and ate your nervousness whole. Yo turned in his embrace, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and exhilaration, my eyes meeting his piercing blue gaze. The gown slipped from you fingers, pooling around my feet , leaving you bare before him. Hair cascaded over my shoulders, framing the swell of your breasts and the soft curve of my hips, while the thatch of curls between my thighs glistened. Dunk's eyes roamed over me hungrily, his hands sliding down to cup my waist, pulling me closer until our bodies were flush.
‘’It might hurt…I don’t wanna…’’ he gulped, playing with the ends of your hair.
‘’I know’’ your cooed, wrapping your hands around his neck. ‘’But I need you..’’
‘’It might not fit…I..’’ his skin was now a blotchy patchwork of fluster, his body was coiled tight around you.
Gods you loved him. Truely. A lesser man would have pushed you onto the bed and taken you by now and properly finished and snoring. But he was cupping you head so delicately, looking at you with such tenderness, you where ready to push him down and taken him yourself.
‘’We will make it fit, gods we will. I refuse to leave this room till you have been sheathed inside me at least twice. Because you are mine, Dunk and I am yours. I love you.’’
Dunk’s breath caught sharply, and for a heartbeat he said nothing at all.
“I love you.” He said it immediately, without pause, as though it had been waiting just beneath the surface, needing only your voice to bring it free. There was no doubt in it, no second thought, only certainty.
His hands came up to cradle your face, large and careful, his thumbs brushing lightly along your cheeks as if to make sure you were truly there. His forehead dipped toward yours, his eyes searching as your lips met again, his eyes never leaving yours.
Dunk’s hands never left you as he guided you back onto the bed, his touch steady but reverent, as though he was still half afraid this might all vanish if he moved too quickly. The furs shifted beneath you as you lay back, the softness of them a stark contrast to the strength in his hands as he eased you down.
He lingered there for a moment, leaning over you before he pulled back his hands and moved to the last barrier between you, his breeches. He pulled them down in one swift motion, flinging the item across the room. Leaving him bare before your eyes, his cock swaying his panting breath, smooth and pink and far too pretty, just like the rest of him, all shifting muscle.
‘’My handsome knight…soon to be husband.’’
‘’Don’t say things like that,’’ Dunk gasped as he crawled up your body. ‘’Not if you want me to be good for you. Please.’’
You wanted to tease him, you really did, but the trembled in his body as he hovered over you, and the wild look of panic hushed you. There would be time to tease him later, to push him to his breaking point. But for now you were content to let him guide you as you reclaimed his lips
Gasping against his mouth, your body responding with a rush of warmth that pooled between your legs. His fingers traced the edge of your thighs, teasing the damp flesh that clung to your swelling pussy, while his top hand threads through your hair
"Let me take care of you," he breathed, his voice husky with need, as he trailed kisses down your neck, his touch both tentative and caring. ‘’I know how.’’ he smiled eagerly as he pulled back a trailing kiss down your body, tongue flicking against your skin.
Teasingly. Slow. Make you yearn for you. Lyonel voice filled his head as he settled between your thighs.
But all Dunk could do was stare at the pretty pink flower in front of him. Red and puffy, glistening with dew, quivering and fluttering at him.
‘’Dunk! Don’t stare’’ You whimper. Subconscious and unsure, eyes shining down at him as you squirm to close your thighs, his hands shot out to press your thighs wider apart.
‘’Don’t’’ his voice was low, deep and gravelly, ‘’Don’t you dare, hide yourself from me. Hide your beauty.’’
You fluttered around nothing. A near animalistic noise rumbled from his chest. As he lowered his mouth to you, eyes never leaving your as with deliberate slowness, his wide flat tongue firm against you. He found your delicate clit fast, almost too fast.
Your body trembling under his inexperienced touch. Dunk's tongue delved deeper, circling your swollen clit with hesitant, uneven flicks that sent jolts of pleasure coursing through your veins, each stroke drawing out a soft, breathless whimper from your lips. His fingers gliding over your slick folds, preparing you with careful strokes
‘’I am gonna…’’ he moaned between flicks ‘’you taste…fuck…gonna stretch…gods...you out get you….mmmm… nice a ready. I promise.’’ he devoured you.
You arched upward in response, you fingers threading through his hair, guiding him closer as he parted your slick folds with his tongue, sending jolts of electric pleasure coursing through your veins.
He started slowly, teasing your with the tip of one finger, circling your entrance before gently sliding it inside, stretching hard enough to elicit a gasp of mingled surprise and delight. It felt…good. You were so wet it, your core welcomed it, sucking it greedily in.
"Oh, Dunk... yes, like that," you murmured, your hips rocking against his hand as his mouth continued his assault on your clit.
Wounds so tight you could barely make it through the fourth swipe of his tongue before a scream tore through your as the feeling overcame you out of nowhere, surging from your belly to your toes curling as the feeling pulsed through your body.
Dunk was captivated. You came apart so beautifully, it was addictive. Pride surging through him, he wished to watch you come apart, again and again. You so soft and willing beneath him, him a lowly hedge knight and you a goddess.
He worked you with increasing rhythm, adding a second finger moments later to delve deeper, twisting and curling them to massage you, just like Lyonel told him, to find that…
‘’Arghhh Dunk!’’ He paused, eyes shooting up, as you convulsed again his tongue, his finger buried deep, curled at a stop. That spot, your most sensitive spots. The stretch was exquisite, a building tension that heightened your ecstasy, and as his tongue now pressing firmly against your clit, she felt the delicious burn of fullness, your body yielding to him completely.
He worked that spot,pumping it softly as his tongue rolled around your bud, watching you squirm as he introduced a third finger, easing it in with careful precision amid your gasps and moans.
He pumped his fingers steadily, stretching you further, the slick sounds of your core mingling with your cries of bliss, while his free hand roamed up to cup your breast, thumbing your hardened nipple in time with his thrusts. You tittered on the edge. His warm breath mingling with the slick heat between your thighs. His fingers, still gliding over your folds, curled inward gently, finding that sensitive spot inside you that made your gasp and clutch at the blankets beneath you. The combination of his tongue's teasing dance and the steady pump of his fingers built a crescendo of sensation, your pussy clenching around him in eager response, growing wetter with every passing second as he coaxed you closer to the edge.
‘’Please Dunk!’’ felt the tension in your body uncoil, your initial fears dissolving into pure, unbridled need, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as his fingers quickened their pace
‘’I need you…’’ You looked down at him, his eyes bright and swirling, his face soaked.
Dunk eyes fell to your dripping core, stretched around his thick fingers, he felt your body relax and open under his touch, he knew she was ready, your hips bucking instinctively against his mouth and hand. He slowed his movements, drawing out the pleasure to savor the build-up, his own arousal straining against the bed.
He knew he would not last long, but his beastly need could no longer be contained. With a deep, steady breath, Dunk pulled back slightly, his gaze never leaving yours as on all four, caging you, his hard, throbbing length of his cock. thick and veined, pulsing between you.
Never in his life would he think he would reach this moment, nestled between the cushion of your thighs, you spread wide to accept his thick trunk, the weight of this moment pressing on him like the first light of dawn, he waived.
‘’If I am too much just …I will stop. Promise me you’’ll tell me’’
How could you not have those large pleading eyes bearing down on you.
Your breath hitched, your body tense with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty, your dark eyes wide as she whispered, "I promise. Go slow, please," your voice a fragile thread in the charged air, as he positioned himself between your thighs, the tip of his shaft brushing against your slick entrance.
He nodded, his hand sliding down to where they joined, his fingers finding your swollen clit and circling it with gentle, rhythmic pressure to ease you into the moment. Slowly, inch by inch, he pressed forward, the head of his cock breaching your tight pussy, stretching you in a way that made you gasp and clutch at his shoulders.
Dunk groaned, a deep grunt low roar. You were so warm, so impossibly snug around him, your inner walls fluttering in hesitant waves as you body struggled to accommodate his size, a sharp mix of discomfort and thrill washing over you.
You were no longer a maid. You had Dunk’s thick cock buried in your pussy tearing you open, carving a passage within you just for him. His.
Dunk paused, his own body trembling with the effort of restraint, his cock throbbing inside you as he continued to rub your clit, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through you that gradually melted the tension but the pain still remained. "Gods…you are so fucking tight," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, his free hand caressing you cheek, his other frantically circling your clit.
‘’I love you!’’ He gritted out as he sank deeper still, your pussy clenched around him in rhythmic flutters, each contraction pulling him closer to the edge, his balls tightening with the overwhelming sensation of you gripping him so perfectly.
‘’Am I hurting you?.’’ He nearly lost control right there, a low hiss escaping his lips as your heat and tightness threatened to push him over into release. He didn’t want to, but he would, if you asked him to pull out he would. Gods give him strength, he would.
‘’NO! Please…just’’ you gulped as you threw your head against the furs, ‘’a moment please…’’ you moaned hotly caught between pleasure and pain.
A dutiful knight he held on, jaw clenched, hips still as stone as you withered beneath him. Focusing on your pleasure, fingers dipping into your wetness, sliding it across your clit as slowly, so slowly your hips began to rock tentatively against him, till with a high pitch whine jerked from your lungs
‘’Move Dunk! Gods please’’
Tentatively, he rolled his hip, eyes taking in the silent scream that raptured across your face, head tilted as your hips rose to meet his.
Your moans growing louder and more urgent. The room echoed with the slick sounds of their joining and the heady scent of their arousal, a symphony of raw emotion and physical bliss that bound them to this profound awakening.
Moans echoed through the chamber, hers high and keening, his low and guttural, hips drove forward with unrelenting force, his thick cock plunging deep into your welcoming pussy. Each thrust sent shockwaves through your body, your inner walls gripping him tightly, the wet slap of their flesh echoing off the stone walls like a primal drumbeat. You arched beneath him, your hair splayed across the pillows, glassy eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy as his broad shoulders flexed with every powerful stroke. The head of his shaft hit that sweet, hidden spot inside you, igniting sparks that raced up your spine, your breasts bouncing with the rhythm, nipples brushing against the coarse hair of his chest. Your moans grew sharper, more desperate, a symphony of raw need that fueled his own hunger.
As the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. Fingers streaked across skin, nails dug into his back, leaving crescent marks that left red streaks across the expanse of his scarred skin, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Oh, gods, Dunk!," your cried out, voice breaking as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, pussy clenching rhythmically around his invading length. Orgasm ripped through you like a tsunami. Your body shudders violently, juices flowing to coat him as you writhed and bucked, coating his cock with your spent.
Yet he didn't pause, his thrusts pulled you through your orgasm, rapt withal as you gushed around him, check flushed, hair a tangled mess against the floor.
"Sorry, my luv, I…," he growled, his voice raw, pistoning faster, more frantic, driven by the burning coil tightening in his stomach, the bed creaking beneath you.
His pace quickened, each slam of his hips sending jolts of pleasure-pain through your oversensitive core, until at last, with a deep, guttural roar, Dunk surrendered to his climax pulling out just as hot spurts of his seed coated your stomach, his cock pulsing as spurt after spurt surged from him. All strength left him as he collapsed against you, bodies slick and spent, the air heavy and hot.
Dunk lay beside you, his chest still rising and falling a little heavier than usual, his arm wrapped securely around you as if he had no intention of letting you drift even an inch away. There was a softness to him now, a quiet satisfaction mixed with lingering disbelief, like he was still catching up to what had just happened between you.
“Was I… did I…” he huffed, clearly struggling to find the words, his usual steadiness slipping just enough to show his nerves.
You smiled, pressing closer into him, your cheek resting against the warmth of his broad chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “It was amazing… you are amazing… my handsome husband to be…” you murmured, your voice soft and content as you nestled into him.
For a moment, he went very still at that, the words settling deep. His arm tightened slightly around you, instinctive, protective.
You let out a quiet, teasing breath against him, fingering the cum coating your stomach. “But I am glad for Lady Rowen’s little tea… otherwise we might have little Dunks running around.”
That did it.
Dunk shifted, his expression darkening, “What did I say about that…” he muttered, giving you a light swat in protest on your rear, more embarrassed than anything. His gaze dropped to you again, softer now. “You want me to be good for you,” he added, voice low but steady, “then stop teasing. Or I will have you on your back again,” he finished, though the faint flush creeping up his neck betrayed him completely.
I am completely fed up with corrections so this was much needed
Favorite part? Lyonel and Lady R of course!
I have maybe 3 more chapter left of this and then some shorts and what ifs...
Also if you liked this smut scene you will love Saviors smutty scenes :P (if you read that one too)
Warning! LONG. Fluff. Suggestiveness. Little bjt of angst(thanks mamma saviour)
In the days that followed the announcement, King’s Landing seemed to swell with a restless, electric life of its own. Ravens blackened the skies from dawn until dusk, their wings beating like a storm overhead as they came and went in ceaseless waves. Their cries cut sharply through the air, harsh and unrelenting, echoing between the towers and along the narrow streets below. At times they gathered so thickly above the Red Keep that the sun itself seemed dimmed, their shadows rippling across the stone like dark water.
Maesters hurried through the keep with scrolls clutched tightly to their chests, their chains clinking softly with every hurried step. Servants pressed themselves flat against the walls to let them pass, whispering behind their hands. The rookery was in constant uproar, a frenzy of flapping wings and frantic noise, as if the birds themselves carried secrets too urgent to be contained.
The sight unsettled the city below. So many ravens circling at once felt like an omen to those who had little else but superstition to guide them. Old women muttered prayers over guttering candles, dockworkers spat into the water to ward off ill fortune, and even the most hardened men found their gazes drifting uneasily toward the sky.
In Flea Bottom, fear spread faster than truth. Whispers twisted into wild imaginings of plague, of curses, of winged creatures sent to strip the city to bone. The alleys, already thick with rot and refuse, seemed to close in tighter as panic took hold. Mothers dragged their children indoors, bolting warped wooden doors behind them, while men armed themselves with whatever they could find, as though steel and splintered wood might fend off the sky itself.
The whire cloaks were forced to march into those narrow, filth-choked streets, their boots sinking into mud and worse as they shouted down the panic. Their voices rang out harsh and commanding, cutting through the chaos as they drove people back into their homes. Still, anxious eyes lingered on the skies, peering from behind shutters and broken windows, watching and waiting as the ravens wheeled overhead.
The rumor that Prince Maekar had been seen smiling, truly smiling, was enough to send the masses surging out from the lower sections of King’s Landing to linger in the streets. It spread like wildfire through taverns thick with smoke and spilled ale, through crowded markets where fishmongers and traders abandoned their calls mid-sentence, through dockyards heavy with salt and sweat, and through brothels where even the most jaded paused to listen.
A smiling prince was a difficult omen to interpret. Some called it a blessing, a promise of good days to come. Others eyed it with suspicion, as though joy in a royal might conceal something sharper beneath. Yet whatever it meant, it drew people from their homes all the same.
The announcement of their future king’s marriage to a relative stranger to the city only fanned the flames. Celebration took hold, loud and bright and impossible to ignore. Life was always better when the royal family celebrated. More people meant more trade, more visitors, more buying and selling. More coin passing from hand to hand. Even in Flea Bottom, where hope was often a stranger, the promise of a wedding meant fuller cups and heavier purses, if only for a little while.
Soon, the lower city spilled upward. Streets once choked with refuse and stagnant water filled instead with people craning their necks toward the Red Keep, pressing shoulder to shoulder in restless anticipation. The smell of the city shifted, not gone but softened beneath roasting meats, fresh bread, and cheap perfume. Merchants dragged out their wares, shouting over one another in desperate competition. Bakers worked through the night, their ovens blazing as they churned out loaves to meet the swelling demand. Even the poorest among them dared to hope for fuller bellies in the days to come.
Still, not all were convinced.
“All I am saying is nothing is going to change,” one man muttered, leaning against a crumbling wall, his arms folded tight across his chest as he watched the crowds pass. “We are still gonna be starvin’ in our holes while they feast up on high.”
“Aye,” another agreed, scratching at his beard, his nails rimmed with dirt that would never quite wash clean. “We’re stuck with the smell of shit and shovelin’ down bowls of brown.”
Yet even they did not leave. Their eyes followed the movement of the crowd, their bodies lingering despite their words. Because hope, however fragile, was hard to turn away from, and even the most cynical could not quite ignore the pull of it.
By the time you were brought to the gates, the city had transformed into a sea of faces. It stretched as far as you could see, a shifting mass of color and motion, alive with anticipation. Cheers rose in great, rolling waves, echoing off the high stone walls and ringing through the air until it seemed the very ground beneath your feet trembled with it.
Children perched on barrels and crates, their small hands waving scraps of cloth like banners, their laughter bright and unguarded. Some called your name with breathless excitement, others simply stared, wide-eyed and silent, as though afraid you might vanish if they blinked. Women leaned from windows above, tossing handfuls of petals that drifted down like soft rain, while men shouted blessings and praises until their voices grew hoarse.
The Kingsguard stood along the path like figures carved from pale stone, their white cloaks stirring only faintly in the breeze. Their stillness was absolute, their presence a quiet but unmistakable warning. Near them stood Baelor, his gaze sweeping over the crowd with careful attention, not cold, but measured, as though he weighed every movement, every sound.
A guard approached you then, bowing his head just slightly. “My lady,” he said, his tone respectful but edged with urgency. “The children, would you…” He gestured toward a small cluster gathered just beyond a thin line of soldiers.
They clutched bundles of flowers, simple things gathered from wherever they could be found, some little more than weeds tied together with fraying string. Yet they held them with such earnest pride that it softened something deep within you.
When you stepped closer, their chatter faltered into silence. Eyes widened, breaths caught, and for a moment none of them seemed to remember how to move.
One little girl stepped forward at last. Her dress was worn thin, her shoes mismatched, but her chin lifted with determination as she held out her offering. The bundle was crooked, uneven, but carefully arranged.
“For you, my lady,” she whispered, her fingers trembling as they brushed against yours.
You accepted it gently, offering her a small smile that seemed to light her entire face. Behind her, the others surged forward in shy eagerness, each pressing their flowers into your hands, their voices overlapping in soft murmurs and hurried words.
Soon your arms were filled, the delicate stems pressing against your skin, petals brushing your sleeves. The scent of them rose around you, soft and sweet, a fragile contrast to the heavy, lived-in smell of the city.
You barely noticed Mysa approach until she spoke close at your side, her voice low but insistent. “My lady,” she whispered, already reaching for the bundles. “The King and Queen are ready to depart. You must take your seat next to the prince in the carriage to ride through the city.”
Her hands hovered, waiting for you to relinquish the flowers, her expression caught somewhere between concern and urgency.
You shook your head softly, tightening your hold just enough to make your meaning clear. “No,” you murmured, your gaze drifting back to the children, who still watched you as though this moment might define something in their lives. “They gave these to me. I will keep them.”
“My lady,” Mysa pressed gently, glancing toward the waiting procession, “there will be more. Finer ones. These will wilt before we have even reached the square.”
“Then they will wilt with me,” you replied quietly, your voice calm but firm. “I will not cast them aside.”
For a moment, Mysa hesitated, searching your face. Then, with a small, resigned breath, she withdrew her hands. “As you wish, my lady,” she said, though her eyes lingered on the flowers as though she still feared they might stain your gown.
Not long after, you found yourself seated within the carriage, the world outside framed by polished wood and rich velvet curtains that softened the harsh light of day. The interior smelled faintly of leather and perfume, a carefully curated calm set against the roaring chaos beyond.
The noise did not fade once the doors closed. It grew. It pressed in from all sides as the procession began to move, the sound of cheering swelling until it seemed to fill the carriage itself.
Baelor sat beside you. His presence was steady, grounding, a quiet contrast to the storm outside. When his hand found yours, it felt natural, as though it had always belonged there. Warm and sure, his fingers curling gently around yours, mindful of the flowers you still held.
Outside, the people surged forward, straining against the lines held by the guards. They called your name, threw more petals, reached out as though they might brush against the carriage, as though touching it might bring them closer to something brighter than their daily lives.
“What is on your mind, my little saviour?” he asked, his voice low, meant only for you despite the roar beyond the carriage walls.
Your gaze lingered on the faces beyond the glass, on the hope and desperation woven together in equal measure. “Just thinking about the people in King’s Landing.”
Baelor smiled faintly, lifting your hand carefully, mindful of the crushed petals between your fingers, and pressing his lips against your skin. The gesture was gentle, almost teasing, yet there was something searching beneath it.
“I am not sure if I should be worried or not,” he said softly, he turned slightly toward you, the movement slow, thoughtful. “Do not worry. The people will love you.” His smile deepened, softening in a way that felt almost private, as though the world beyond the carriage no longer existed. “But not as much as I do.”he murmured
You blinked, caught off guard, your breath faltering just slightly.
For a moment, he simply looked at you, his gaze steady, unwavering, as he leaned closer, the space between you closing until you could feel the warmth of his breath. His lips brushed the corner of your mouth, light but lingering, a touch that seemed to settle into your skin.
“Since the first time I saw you,” he said quietly. His thumb moved against your knuckles, slow and reassuring. “You do not have to say it back. Not yet. Soon, though, I hope.”
The carriage rolled on, the sound of the crowd rising and falling like the tide against its walls, relentless and alive.“I will spend my life proving to you,” Baelor continued, his voice steady despite the noise beyond, “that I am worthy of your love. Avy jorrāelan, ñuha dāria."
xxxxxxx
“It is much too tight,” you winced, your hands curling instinctively in your lap as the handmaid gave another sharp tug at your hair.
“Hold still.”
The command came clipped and unyielding, not from the girl behind you, but from your mother, who stood nearby with her arms folded and her patience already worn thin. It had been the most time you had spent with her since your father broke the news you had accepted Baelor as your future husband.Your ladies in waiting had been dismissed with little ceremony, sent from the room one by one under the weight of her displeasure. Brieannei had lingered the longest, reluctant, her eyes flicking toward you in quiet apology before she slipped out. Carlys had been ushered away with a firmer tone, and Mysa had not even dared protest.
You shifted slightly, trying to ease the relentless pull at your scalp, only for the handmaid to tighten her grip.
“I said hold still,” your mother repeated, sharper now. “Do you wish to look like a half-wild thing before the court? This is not some country feast. This is a royal wedding.”
Your eyes lifted, catching your reflection in the polished glass before you. For a moment, you hardly recognized yourself.
Your hair had been drawn back so tightly it felt as though it might lift your very brows from your face. Each strand had been tamed, twisted, braided into an intricate structure that rose and curved with deliberate precision. Beads glinted between the braids, small and delicate but numerous enough to weigh heavily. Pins had been worked in with careful placement, their pressure constant, unrelenting, threatening to topple the entire creation should even one be disturbed.
“Is it not too much,” you asked quietly, your voice measured, though the discomfort bled through.
“Too much?” your mother echoed, as though the very notion offended her. She stepped closer, her gaze sharp as she assessed the work. “It is barely enough. You are to stand beside a prince, before the realm, before nobles who will pick apart every thread and glance for weakness. You will not give them cause.”
Her hand lifted, adjusting one of the pins without warning, pressing it deeper until you could not help the small flinch that followed.
“This is the latest fashion,” she continued, her tone cool but insistent. “Braids to show discipline. Height to show presence. Adornment to show status. You will not appear small, nor simple, nor forgettable.”
The handmaid behind you nodded quickly, eager to agree. “Yes, my lady. It is most fitting.”
You exhaled slowly, your gaze still fixed on the reflection before you. “Perhaps… a simpler style would not detract from the dress. Or…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully.
Your mother’s expression hardened. “This is not about you preference,” she said. “It is about expectation. You have already done quite enough by accepting this match without proper consideration. The least you can do now is present yourself as you ought.”
Before you could respond, the chamber door opened. Both you and your mother turned. Carlys stepped inside, her usual composure just barely holding, though there was a quiet urgency in her movements. In her hands she carried a polished box, dark wood inlaid with fine silver, its craftsmanship unmistakable.
She curtsied quickly. “My lady,” she said, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. “A gift has arrived.”
Your mother’s gaze narrowed. “From whom?”
Queen Myisah entered without haste, yet with a presence that filled the room entirely. Her steps were measured, her posture effortless, her expression composed but not unkind. The handmaid immediately lowered her gaze, shrinking back, while your mother inclined her head, though not without a trace of stiffness.
“Your Grace,” your mother said.
The queen’s eyes moved first to you. Not on the elaborate structure of your hair, nor the beads or pins, but on your face beneath it, as though she saw past all of it with quiet ease.
“I had thought I might find you here,” she said, her voice calm, smooth as silk yet carrying a quiet authority that needed no force. “Preparing.” Her gaze flicked briefly to your mother, then back again.
Carlys stepped forward at a subtle nod, presenting the box. The queen opened it herself, the lid lifting with a soft, deliberate motion.
Inside, nestled against velvet, rested a tiara. It was not overly large, nor burdened with excessive ornament. Fine, elegant, its metalwork delicate and deliberate, it caught the light in a way that made it seem like it was on fire.
“For you,” the queen said simply.
You stared at it for a moment, then lifted your gaze to her.
“It will be worn,” she continued, her tone thoughtful, “with a simpler style. Something that allows it to rest properly.” Her eyes flicked, almost imperceptibly, toward the tight arrangement of your current hair. “And something that allows you to be seen.”
Your mother straightened slightly. “Your Grace, the current style is...”
“Appropriate,” the queen finished gently, though there was no mistaking the quiet finality beneath the word. “For many occasions.” She stepped closer, her presence warm but commanding. “But not this one.” Her gaze returned to you, softer now, though no less certain.
“You are not meant to be hidden beneath fashion,” she said. “Nor shaped entirely by it. A queen must be seen clearly, not lost in adornment. The dress will speak,” she added. “The moment will speak. You need not compete with either.”
Slowly, your mother inclined her head, the movement controlled, measured. “As Your Grace wishes.”
The handmaid stepped back, uncertain now, her hands hovering as though unsure whether to continue or undo what had already been done.
Carlys moved quietly to your side, relief flickering briefly across her face before she composed herself once more as she began to pull the ornament from your hair, and slowly he feeling began to return to your head
Xxxxx
In the weeks that followed the announcement, your days ceased to belong to you. You were pulled from chamber to chamber as though you were already part of the machinery of the court, a piece being placed carefully into position. Luncheons blurred into one another, though some left stronger impressions than others. Brieanne’s uncle, Gerold Lannister, was impossible to forget, a towering presence of a man whose booming laughter seemed to shake the very walls, rivaling even Lyonel’s in its force. He clapped you on the shoulder as though you were a seasoned lord rather than a young woman newly arrived, his approval loud, unmissable, and entirely overwhelming.
Teas with the queen were quieter but no less consuming. You were seated among finely dressed ladies who watched you with careful smiles, their eyes sharp beneath their courtesy, measuring, weighing, assessing. Queen Myriah, for all her warmth, ensured you were never idle, guiding conversations, drawing you in, shaping you gently but firmly into the role you were to fill.
Then there was King Daeron. Fishing with him had been… an experience.
He had spoken at such length, his voice rich and enthusiastic as he drifted from topic to topic, that not a single fish dared approach the line. You had not the heart to interrupt him, though by the end even the water itself seemed to have withdrawn from his presence.
The Septon had been no gentler. He spoke of duty, of charity, of the weight of your future responsibilities, his voice steady and unyielding as scripture followed scripture, each word layered with expectation.
And everywhere people. Lords and ladies who intercepted your walks with practiced ease, merchants eager to gain favour, knights swearing loyalty with solemn intensity. Even the corridors felt narrower now, filled with eyes that followed, voices that called, hands that reached.
There was no quiet. Not even in the library. Poor Maester Yormwell’s assistants were driven near to collapse, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of visitors who had no interest in books but every interest in being seen near you. In a single week, more people had passed through those doors than in an entire year.
It left something bitter behind. A taste you could not quite rid yourself of.
You found yourself lingering longer with your father, your conversations stretching into comfortable silence when words failed. Your brother hovered more often than before, quieter now, watchful. Even your mother’s scolding carried something softer beneath it, though she would never admit it.
“What did you expect,” she had said sharply, though her hands had trembled slightly.
“Wife,” your father had corrected gently.
“Mother,” your brother added.
She huffed, folding her arms. “…What did she expect? She will be a princess, at the beck and call of all these people. You have made your bed, and now you must lie in it.”
So you did.
By the end of the week, the Red Keep settled into something steadier, though no less watchful. The initial chaos hardened into something quieter, more constant, as though the entire court had adjusted its gaze rather than removed it.
And still you barely saw Baelor. Only fleeting glimpses, a passing look across a hall, a moment stolen between duties. Maekar was little better, swallowed by his own responsibilities. You found yourself instead surrounded by your ladies, by long walks with your father, by your mother’s relentless presence, by daily audiences with the queen.
It was suffocating in its own quiet way.
So when Ser Duskendale appeared at your side one afternoon, stepping in with a firm, immovable presence between you and yet another eager noble, you did not question it.
“My lady,” he said smoothly, inclining his head just enough to remain polite while his body subtly redirected your path. “This way.”
It was done so naturally, so seamlessly, that those around you barely had time to protest before you were guided away, their voices fading behind you as he steered you through a quieter corridor, then another, then down a passage you had not yet learned to navigate.
You glanced at him, curiosity flickering.
He did not look at you but there was the faintest hint of something knowing in the set of his jaw. And then…A door. The kingsguard opened it without ceremony pushing you inside, slamming it behind you.
The door had barely closed before he was on you.
Baelor’s hands came up to your face with a kind of reverence that faltered into urgency, his fingers warm against your cheeks, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes as though he needed to feel that you were truly there. His breath was uneven, not from haste, but from restraint finally breaking, from something held too tightly for too long.
“Forgive my deception…” he murmured, the words barely formed before his lips found yours again.
The kiss was deeper this time. Not rushed, but filled with a quiet, aching intensity that made your chest tighten in response. His mouth moved against yours with a kind of careful hunger, as though he was both savoring and seeking, as though he could not quite decide whether to take his time or lose himself entirely. One of his hands slipped from your face to your waist, drawing you closer, his grip firm enough to keep you there, to anchor you to him as if the world beyond the cupboard might pull you away at any moment.
“I just needed you,” he breathed against your lips, his voice low, almost unsteady in a way you had never heard from him before.
He kissed you again, slower now, lingering, his lips pressing with a softness that contrasted the tension in his hold. His forehead brushed yours between breaths, his nose grazing lightly against your cheek before he tilted his head and found your lips once more.
“I ache for you,” he admitted quietly, the words slipping out as though he had not meant to say them aloud.
You felt it in the way he held you. In the way his fingers tightened slightly at your waist, then eased again, as though he were constantly reminding himself to be gentle, to not overwhelm, even as everything in him seemed to pull you closer. His lips softened against yours, the intensity easing into something warmer. He lingered there, drawing out the moment, as though he could stretch it into something lasting, something that might sustain him through the hours and days where he could not be near you.
When he finally pulled back, it was only by a fraction, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his breath still uneven.“I do not like this,” he confessed softly, his voice steadier now, though still threaded with that quiet yearning. “Not seeing you. Not having you near.”
His thumb brushed lightly along your side, absent, grounding. “I would steal every moment if I could,” he added, a faint, breathless smile touching his lips, though his eyes remained fixed on you, unwilling to look away.
He lingered close even after the kiss softened, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his breath still uneven as though he had not yet fully steadied himself. His hand remained at your waist, thumb brushing absently back and forth in a quiet, grounding motion, as if reassuring himself that you were real, that this moment was not already slipping away.
His gaze lifted to yours, searching, open in a way he rarely allowed himself to be beyond these hidden spaces. “For now,” he continued, a faint, rueful smile touching his lips, “I must endure it. Duty will not loosen its grip simply because I wish it to.” His fingers tightened slightly at your waist before easing again. “But it will not always be so.”
There was something steadier in him now, something certain. “When we are married…” he said quietly, the words carrying a warmth that settled between you, “when the day is done, when the court has taken all it can from me… I will come back to you.” His thumb brushed lightly against you again, almost absent, almost thoughtful. “To your arms. To something that is mine, and yours, and not the realm’s to claim.”
His breath left him in a soft exhale, the tension easing just slightly from his shoulders.“Until then,” he added, a hint of that earlier fondness returning, though softer now, more controlled, “I will take what I can.” His gaze flicked briefly to the door, then back to you, something quietly conspiratorial in the look. “Even if it means stealing you away into cupboards like a reckless boy.”
xxxxxx
In the weeks that followed the announcement, Baelor found himself drawn again and again to the training yard. At first, none thought much of it. It was not uncommon for him to take up a blade between duties, to test his strength against his son or cross practice swords with his brother in brief, controlled bouts meant more to maintain discipline than to prove anything. He had always been a man who valued readiness, who understood that skill dulled quickly without use.
The visits became frequent, then constant. Morning light would find him already there, the yard still damp with dew, his breath steady in the chill air as he moved through forms with deliberate precision. By midday, when the sun bore down and the dust rose in slow, lazy clouds beneath boot and blade, he was still at it. Even in the fading gold of evening, when most men had long since set aside their practice swords, Baelor remained.
The rhythm of steel against steel rang out across the yard with relentless regularity. Wooden blades cracked together with sharp, echoing reports, each strike measured, each movement purposeful. Sweat darkened his tunic, clung to his hair, traced lines down his temples, yet he did not slow.
Men began to notice and men began to talk. But for Baelor this was necessary, to have you so close was a temptation that had already proven hard to contain. The brief moment he could grab with you only fed the hunger that gnawed at him, howling and baying for him to…to do all sorts of things, things that no decent prince should ever think about. Thoughts that in the dead of night cause a burn that could not be sated, only beaten down, thrashed till he was exhausted and weary so he might go about his duty as hand of the king and not kidnap you from your duties and take you to one of the many secret rooms within the castle walls to satisfy his hunger.
“My, my,” came a voice thick with amusement, cutting through the steady cadence of blows. “I thought dragons sat upon high and let the dogs fight amongst themselves.” Lyonel stepped into the yard with an easy confidence, rolling his shoulders as though he had all the time in the world. There was something wolfish about his grin, something that suggested he enjoyed prodding at things best left alone. His eyes settled on Baelor with open curiosity, though there was a darker edge beneath it.
“But then again,” he continued, snorting softly, “you are the hammer, Baelor Breakspear.” His gaze lingered, sharp now. “Or has the taste of a young bride set you to reminiscing about younger years? Trying to reclaim your lost youth?”
Baelor did not rise to it, not immediately. He adjusted his grip on the practice sword, rolling his wrist once, loosening the tension in his arm. When he finally looked up, there was a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, calm and measured.
“Exercise is key to stop oneself getting rusty,” he replied evenly. “And as it happens, I am in need of a new partner. Ser Crakehall has been called away to attend to other duties.”
Lyonel’s grin widened.
He stepped forward without hesitation, taking up a practice blade from the rack and testing its weight with a few lazy swings. Then, with a sudden shift, the ease fell away, replaced by something sharper, more intent. They circled one another, boots grinding softly against the packed dirt. For a moment, neither moved, each measuring the other, reading stance and breath and balance.
Lyonel struck first. The blow came fast and low, aimed to test rather than break, but Baelor met it cleanly, wood slamming against wood with a crack that echoed across the yard. The force carried through both their arms, a jolt that spoke of strength rather than play.
They moved again, quicker now. Strike, parry, turn. The rhythm built between them, each exchange growing sharper, heavier. Dust rose around their feet, clinging to sweat-slick skin as their boots carved rough patterns into the ground.
Lyonel fought with a certain looseness, a mocking ease that belied the precision beneath it. His strikes came from odd angles, probing, testing, always accompanied by that half-amused glint in his eye. Baelor, by contrast, was controlled, deliberate. Every movement economical, every strike purposeful, his strength held in check but never absent.
“Tell me,” Lyonel said between blows, his voice only slightly strained as he twisted away from a quick counter, “do you feel the need to show off for your young bride?”
Their blades met again with a sharp crack, Baelor pressing forward just enough to force Lyonel back a step.
“Hoping she might see you,” Lyonel went on, ducking under a sweeping strike, “cause quite a stir. Perhaps wander past on her way to visit Maester Yormwell and fall like a love sick maid.” His grin turned wicked. “I do hope she visits the maester for the want of intelligent conversation and not bitter tea.”
Baelor’s expression did not change, but something in him shifted because the next strike came harder.
It drove into Lyonel’s guard with brutal force, the impact ringing out across the yard. Lyonel staggered back under it, boots slipping in the dust as the blow carried through him, forcing him off balance. For a heartbeat he looked as though he might fall. Then he caught himself, laughter breaking from him in a deep, booming sound that carried just as far as the clash of their blades.
“Or is it that you are trying to work out some pent up frustration?” he added, recovering quickly as he lunged forward again.
Baelor met him without hesitation. Their blades collided in rapid succession now, the pace quickening, the space between strikes shrinking. Lyonel barely twisted aside from a powerful hit that would have caught him squarely, the wind of it enough to tug at his tunic.
“Oh, the honorable Baelor,” Lyonel continued, breath coming faster now though the grin remained, “getting frustrated at the thought of his bride.”
For someone who was so hell bent on protecting her honor,” Baelor replied, his voice low and steady despite the intensity of the exchange, “you seem quick to dishonor it with your puerile thoughts.” He stepped in as he spoke, closing the distance, forcing Lyonel back again. The next strike came clean and direct, driving into Lyonel’s guard with enough force to jar his arms.
Lyonel’s grin flickered, not gone, but edged now with something sharper.
“She is to be my wife,” Baelor said, each word measured, each movement controlled but unyielding. “Princess of the realm and, gods willing, a queen one day.”Another strike. Another step forward.
“You will do well,” he finished, his gaze fixed and unwavering, “to speak of her properly.”
For a moment, the yard seemed to hold its breath. Then Lyonel laughed again, though this time there was less mockery in it, more acknowledgment. He reset his stance, rolling his shoulders as he lifted his blade once more. “Then you had best keep swinging like that,” he said, eyes bright with renewed interest. “Or the realm might think you’ve gone soft.”
Baelor did not answer. He simply stepped forward and struck again, the crack of wood against wood echoing out beneath the open sky as the two men continued their clash, neither yielding, neither willing to give ground.
Xxxxx
You were not formally introduced to Aerys or Rhaegel. There was no gathering, no careful announcement, no moment where someone stood at your side and named them properly, explaining who they were and how you were meant to receive them. They did not arrive in the way others did, with ceremony and expectation, wrapped in titles and presented beneath watchful eyes. They simply appeared that day.
It left you with the distinct impression that they had always existed within the Red Keep, just beyond the edges of notice, moving through its quieter veins where courtly order did not quite reach. They belonged to the castle in a different way, like the draft that slipped beneath doors or the distant echo of footsteps in empty corridors. And once you began to see them, you realised how easily they could be overlooked, how naturally they slipped between moments rather than into them, never interrupting, never announcing, only existing in the spaces others ignored.
It was in the gardens that you first truly encountered Aerys.
Aemon sat where he always did, tucked beneath the broad shade of an old tree whose branches stretched wide enough to shield him from the harsher glare of the afternoon sun. The light filtered through the leaves in soft, shifting patterns, dappling the grass in uneven gold and green, catching occasionally on the pale edges of the pages in his lap. He was entirely still, his small frame folded neatly, his back straight despite the comfort of the earth beneath him, his brow faintly furrowed in concentration as he read with a focus that seemed almost unnatural for someone so young. The world might have moved around him entirely unnoticed.
But he was not alone. Aerys sat beside him.
Not close enough to crowd him, not distant enough to suggest avoidance, but positioned with careful precision, as though he had measured the exact space where he could exist without disturbing what Aemon had created. His posture was slightly drawn in, shoulders angled inward, his body turned just enough to remain separate, yet not removed. His long fingers held his book with a quiet intensity, the tips pale against the worn edges of the pages, his grip careful but firm, as though the object itself anchored him.
He looked… fragile, in a way. Not weak, not delicate in the way of something easily broken, but finely strung. He reminded you a lot of Maeker, his pale hair fell forward as he bent over the page, soft strands catching the light where it slipped through the leaves, occasionally stirred by the faintest breeze. And though his eyes moved quickly, absorbing each line with sharp precision, they flickered now and then toward the space around him, restless, alert, never entirely at ease, as though the world beyond the book remained something unpredictable.
You approached slowly, your steps instinctively light against the grass, the soft earth giving beneath your weight. The scent of greenery lingered in the air, warm and clean, carrying the quiet hum of distant life from deeper within the gardens.
Aemon did not look up.
Aerys did.
His gaze lifted sharply, cautious, almost wary, as it found you. There was something searching in it, something that assessed without quite committing, before you settled against the grass nearby. The fabric of your skirts brushed softly against the ground, the movement gentle, nonintrusive, folding yourself into the quiet rather than disrupting it.
No one spoke.
Pages turned softly, the faint, rhythmic sound of parchment shifting beneath careful hands. The breeze stirred the leaves above, casting slow-moving shadows that drifted lazily across your lap and over the edges of their books.
His gaze met yours briefly, sharp and searching, the colour of it clearer now in the light, before it dropped again, retreating back to the page, to the safety of something known, something controlled, as though that single moment of acknowledgement had been sufficient, as though anything more would have been too much.
From then on, on days where you were outside by yourself or with your ladies, Aerys came and read with you.
xxxxx
Rhaegel you encountered him during one of Queen Myriah’s afternoon teas, where everything was arranged just so, where conversation flowed politely and every gesture was measured, controlled. Porcelain cups rested delicately in gloved hands, silks whispered as ladies shifted in their seats, and every word was chosen with care, shaped to fit the expectations of the room.
Then a black-haired man appeared, violet eyes shining starkly against his pale skin.
He did not enter so much as arrive, as though he had always been there and simply chose that moment to be noticed. His presence cut through the careful order of the room without force, without intention, simply by existing differently.
He moved through the space as though it were a place of play, barefoot again despite the polished floors that gleamed beneath him. His clothing hung loosely, slightly disordered, slipping at the shoulder, untucked in places as though he had dressed without care for how he might be seen. His hair fell freely about him, dark strands catching the light as he moved, framing a face that seemed both young and distant all at once.
There was a lightness to him, an absence of restraint, as though he did not recognise the invisible rules that bound everyone else in place.
Conversation faltered as he passed. Not stopped entirely, but thinned, stretched, uncertainty rippling through the gathered ladies like a disturbance in still water. Eyes followed him, some curious, some wary, some quietly scandalised, but no one spoke to interrupt him, as though instinctively aware that he did not belong to the same structure they did.
And then he reached the queen. Without hesitation, he folded himself beside her, settling close, his movements unguarded, instinctive. His head tipped lightly against her shoulder with the ease of long habit, as though this was a place he had returned to countless times before. The restless energy that had carried him into the room softened at once, quieting, settling, as though her presence alone steadied something within him that the world could not.
Queen Myriah did not react with surprise her hand rose immediately, smoothing through his hair with practiced gentleness, her fingers moving slowly, reassuringly, her expression soft, entirely accustomed to this kind of closeness. There was no embarrassment, no attempt to correct him, only acceptance, as though this, too, was simply part of her son.
Then Maekar appeared at the edge of the room like a protective dragon, his presence immediate, heavy, his gaze sweeping once before locking onto his brother. For a fleeting moment, something sharper than irritation crossed his face. His jaw tightened, his shoulders stiffening as though he had braced himself, then there was worry there which he buried quickly, hidden beneath the familiar scowl, but present all the same. His eyes lingered, scanning Rhaegel from head to toe, taking in the bare feet, the looseness of his clothing, he looked more like a wandering beggar than a prince.
“You are pretty,” Rhaegel said suddenly, his voice cutting through the room with disarming directness, his impossible violet eyes lifting and fixing on you with open, unfiltered curiosity. “You’re the one going to marry my brother?.”
“I am,” you answered gently.
He frowned slightly, the expression soft, almost childlike in its openness, his thoughts turning visibly as he looked at you. “You aren’t going to send me and Aerys away after our parents die, are you?” he asked, the question spoken plainly, without hesitation, without understanding the weight it carried in a room like this. “Can I come live with you, Maekar? I am your favorite.”
Maekar’s expression shifted the sharpness eased, the tension in his jaw loosening just slightly as his gaze settled on his brother. His eyes softened in a way rarely seen, the irritation falling away to reveal something steadier, something far more protective.
“You don’t need to go anywhere,” he said, his voice lower now,
“You do not need to leave anywhere, my prince. This is your home.” you added softly, your voice gentle as it reached him, offering the same certainty in your own way.
Rhaegel watched you for a moment longer, the tension in his expression easing, his shoulders relaxing before he turned his head and buried his face in his mothers neck. Maekar hovering as you finished your tea.
Xxxxx
Aegon appeared a little over two moons since the announcement, and with him came a man so tall he seemed to belong to another world entirely. You had to tilt your head back, further than was comfortable, just to take him in properly. He stood like something carved from oak and iron, broad-shouldered, long-limbed, his presence filling the space without effort. His strawberry-blonde hair fell in loose lengths over his shoulders, catching the light in warm strands that softened the otherwise imposing figure.
Ser Duncan.
He moved forward fast, even for someone of his size and then, before the prince, he dropped to one knee. The motion was heavy, the sound of it carrying faintly against the stone, but there was no hesitation in it, no performance. His head bowed, his large hands settling firmly before him, as though the act itself was something deeply meant, something he carried with full weight.
“My prince,” he said, his voice rough-edged but sincere, the words thick with something close to regret. “I am your man. Always have been. And I am… sorry. That you were hurt…nearly killed for me.”
Baelor stepped forward at once, his expression warming as he reached down, placing a hand on Duncan’s shoulder, the gesture grounding, reassuring. “We need more good men,” he said, his voice steady, carrying just enough to be heard by those gathered, “and good knights in this kingdom.”
There was a quiet pride in the way he looked at him, something earned, something long-standing.
“And now,” he continued, a small, knowing smile touching his lips as his gaze flicked briefly toward you, “I am to be married.” A faint ripple of amusement passed through the room, though his tone remained composed. “I will require another Kingsguard,” he went on, more lightly now, “to protect both myself and my new wife. Ser Duskendale and Ser Crakehall may find themselves in need of assistance with the burden.”
There was a brief pause. Then Ser Crakehall stepped forward, bowing his head with firm respect. “It would be my honour,” he said, his voice resolute, “to have Ser Duncan as a brother.”
xxxxxxx
Aegon and Aemon came to you in entirely different ways, and yet somehow always ended in the same place. Aemon, as ever, approached quietly. You rarely noticed him arrive, only becoming aware of him once he was already there, a small, steady presence at your side. He always carried a book, held carefully in both hands. When he settled beside you, he did so with deliberate precision, folding himself neatly into the space without disturbing anything around him, his posture straight despite the softness of cushions or grass beneath him. There was a stillness to him that felt almost unnatural, as though the world moved and shifted but he remained fixed within it. When you read, he listened with complete attention, his eyes tracking each line as your voice shaped the words, occasionally lifting to your face with a flicker of quiet concentration, as though he were aligning sound with meaning, memorising not just the story but the way you told it.
Aegon was the opposite.
He was all movement and presence and energy. Where Aemon slipped into space, Aegon claimed it. He would drop beside you without warning, sprawling in a way that disrupted the careful order of everything, one leg stretched too far, an elbow propped where it ought not be, leaning into you as though you had always been a place he could rest against. He peered over your shoulder without invitation, his breath warm against your cheek as he followed the page with none of Aemon’s restraint. He asked questions halfway through sentences, interrupting without malice, his curiosity immediate and unfiltered. He laughed at moments that were not meant to be amusing, finding delight where others might not, and spoke freely, easily, as though the world had never taught him to temper himself. And somehow, despite all of it, despite the way he unsettled the careful order of things, he made himself entirely at home at your side, as though he had always belonged there.
By the time the afternoon settled into something warn the three of you had gathered around the tea table, though it bore little resemblance now to the carefully arranged setting it had once been. Cups sat forgotten, tea gone cool, crumbs scattered across plates and linen, books left half-open and overlapping as you read aloud, your voice soft and steady, weaving through Aegon’s interruptions and Aemon’s quiet corrections.
Matarys leaned close, drawn in entirely, his attention fixed on you as though nothing else existed, while Aemon followed each word with silent precision, occasionally murmuring a correction so soft it barely disturbed the air.
Nearby, Daeron sat with a lute resting loosely in his lap, his fingers plucking at the strings in idle patterns. The notes drifted through the room, uneven and wandering, more for his own amusement than any audience, but they threaded through your voice all the same, creating a strange, layered harmony that softened the edges of everything around you.
“She will be good with children,” King Daeron said, his voice warm with approval as he watched, his arms loosely folded, his expression openly pleased.
“But I would watch Daeron,” he added with a knowing smile, his gaze shifting toward the boy with the lute. “He knows a pretty woman when he sees one. Much like his namesake.” The kings eyes twinkled.
Maekar let out a low, immediate sound of disapproval, sharp and instinctive. “He better fucking not.” His glare snapped toward his son before settling back with lingering suspicion. “I am surprised he has been this sober for so long.”
Valarr only smiled faintly, his attention drifting between you and Kiera, who lingered near your side with your ladies, their quiet chatter weaving through the scene with light amusement.
“I am sure you will come back from the royal tour with a new sibling for you, Valarr,” Maekar added lightly, the words carried with a teasing ease.
“Who knows…”
“Brother,” Baelor’s voice cut in with a soft chuckle, his tone warm but edged with amusement as his gaze flicked toward Maekar, “I might start thinking you like my bride. Perhaps it is time you find yourself a new wife, so I need not fear you taking mine.”
“Not you too…” Maekar muttered darkly, though there was less force behind it than before. ''I need no bride or more children, have I not suffered enough.''
“A bride might brighten you and children always a blessing.”King Daeron continued, clearly entertained.
“Gods know why, they bring nothing but grief,” Maekar scoffed, though his expression shifted slightly, something more thoughtful passing beneath the irritation, fleeting but present. “I would not say no to a little girl that looked like her,” he admitted grudgingly, his gaze flicking briefly toward you before turning away again. “Though taking a young wife… more children… More fool you, brother. Young brides always want babes. I am sure she will beg you soon enough… if not already, with all your little absconding with your betrothed. I hear you have been caught emerging from broom closets more than once.”
That drew a sharp glance from King Daeron, his brows lifting as his attention shifted to his son.
“I hope not,” he said, his tone carrying both warning and amusement. “I will not have my new daughter needlessly hassled by a handsy prince. But that being said…” his expression softened, something almost hopeful creeping in, “I would like more grandchildren. At least one.”
“Seven,” Baelor cut in lightly, grinning as he chewed on a pastry, entirely unbothered.
“Seven?” Maekar barked a laugh, though it sharpened quickly into disbelief. “On what authority do you imagine you are in any fit state to sire seven more children?”
“I have it on rather good authority,” Baelor replied smoothly, his tone deceptively calm, his eyes flickering, just briefly toward Daeron.
Maekar’s expression darkened at once. “Absolutely not. I am too old.”
“I fail to see what it has to do with you,” Baelor returned mildly eyw brow rising dramatical up his forehead “As I recall, I am the elder brother. and the one producing said offspring.”
“Where are you going?” someone called as Maekar abruptly turned, already moving.
“To find either a consortment of moon tea,” he snapped over his shoulder, his stride sharp with frustration, “or take the black. I have yet to decide.”
King Daeron watched him go, thoughtful, his expression shifting slowly into something more amused than concerned.
“Seven, you say…” he murmured, a gleam lighting his eyes as he glanced back at Baelor. “Just wait until I tell your mother. She will be in raptures. About the grandchildren, not the broom closets.” He paused, his gaze sharpening slightly. “I do hope I hear no more of such foolishness… at least until after the wedding.”
xxxxx
“Is Maekar well?” you asked later, your voice softer now as the evening settled into something quieter. “He hurried off rather in a hurry. I do hope nothing is wrong.”
Baelor sat near you in the fading light of the solar, the last glow of dusk spilling through the tall windows in long, golden ribbons that stretched across the floor and climbed the walls. The room felt hushed, removed from the noise of the castle, as though the day had finally loosened its grip. You rested in the cushioned alcove, draped in soft Dornish silks that clung and pooled in gentle folds, catching the dying light so that you seemed almost lit from within, your figure framed alluringly.
His gaze lingered longer than it should have, drawn not just to your face but to the way you sat, all soft and inviting.
“No more than usual,” he said at last, his tone lighter than the look in his eyes. “We were discussing him taking a new wife.”
“I know my ladies are rather keen on that idea,” you smiled, glancing briefly toward where they lingered, ensuring their attention was elsewhere.
Then you leaned forward. The kiss you pressed to his lips was soft, but lingering, your hand resting lightly against him as you drew back.
His eyes darkened at once, the shift subtle but unmistakable, settling behind his gaze as he looked at you again, a want that seemed to gather and deepen the longer he remained close to you.
“Perhaps he would be more content,” you continued, entirely unaware, your brow creasing slightly in thoughtful curiosity. “That is what my ladies say. Carlys says newlyweds are always very content… though she would not tell me why.” You tilted your head slightly, genuinely puzzled. “Perhaps when we are married, we can find out… I am sure it is something to do with not having to deal with wedding preparation…”
Something in Baelor stilled completely. The hand resting near you tightened almost imperceptibly before easing again, his gaze fixed on you with a focus that felt heavier now, more intent. The dim light caught in his eyes, darkening them further, the gold of the setting sun swallowed by something far more consuming.
You sat there, open and earnest, entirely unaware of the direction of his thoughts, your innocence untouched by the weight he placed on your words. That undid him more than anything else.
A slow breath left him, measured, controlled, as he gathered himself again. “I am sure,” he said, his voice lower now, steadier, though it carried a quiet depth that had not been there before, “we will thoroughly investigate, my curious sweetling.”
You only smiled, satisfied, pleased with the answer, your attention drifting easily onward without a second thought.
“But I fear my brother would sour at marriage,” he added after a moment, his tone easing again, though his eyes lingered on you just a moment longer than necessary. “Marriage leads to children… and if he has more, I fear the kingdom itself may not survive it.” He shifted closer, drawn without quite meaning to, his hand lifting to your cheek. His thumb brushed softly along your skin, slow and absent, as though the motion grounded him, steadied something beneath the surface. “But ours,” he said quietly, something gentler threading through his voice, something softer than before, “will calm and steady the realm. With you as their mother… how could they not?”
You pouted slightly, your expression touched with uncertainty, your thoughts far removed from his. “I am older than most brides… what if….”
“Do not worry,” he interrupted gently, his touch firming just enough to reassure, to steady. “It is the will of the gods. They will give what is needed.”
You exhaled softly, leaning into his hand without hesitation, trusting, unguarded. “Whatever the gods will… but one or two would be nice.”
Baelor’s expression softened at that, amusement flickering briefly beneath the deeper weight of his thoughts. He leaned up then, closing the distance between you, his lips meeting yours once more.
He did not correct you, he did not have the heart to, he would let it be a surprise, a pleasant one... at least he hoped.
Xxxxx
You have been praying for the this day for so long that now it was a week away you found yourself terrified. Terrified to be a princess, to be a wife. Of the marriage bed, your mother had been no help. The septa gave you patronising pats while you mother huffed around the subject. Your ladies were unmarried and what they did know where from gossip or forbidden book pillfered from the library. Upon asking even Maseter Yormwell near fainted.
Baelor would not be a harsh or tyrannical husband, you reminded yourself.
And the stolen moments…
A blush descended across your features, slow and creeping, warming your cheeks as you forced your thoughts firmly away from those most scandalous memories of your courtship. You pressed your lips together, willing yourself to focus, to remain composed, though your mind betrayed you for a fleeting second. The memory of that infamous dance lesson flickered unbidden, the closeness, the heat, the way his hands had guided you with far too much certainty as he...
Your thighs shifted faintly beneath the layers of fabric.
Especially not as the dressmakers worked around you, their careful hands making final adjustments, their pins glinting in the light as they secured the last delicate folds into place. You lifted your chin, drawing in a quiet breath as you turned your attention to the mirror before you.
The dress was… unlike anything you had ever worn.
Dornish in its influence, it carried a softness that belied its craftsmanship, a fluid elegance that seemed to move even when you stood still. The fabric clung and fell in all the right places, a rich, warm tone that deepened in the light, somewhere between ivory and sun-warmed gold, as though it had been kissed by the very same sun that bathed the southern sands.
Fine lace traced its edges. Not heavy or overwhelming, but intricate and deliberate, woven into delicate patterns that climbed along the sleeves and neckline like curling vines. The lace softened the boldness of the cut, adding a quiet refinement that balanced the daring silhouette.
The bodice was fitted, shaped carefully to your form, the structure firm yet gentle, guiding the fabric to follow the natural lines of your body rather than restrict them. It dipped lower than anything you had ever worn, modest by Dornish standards perhaps, but to you it felt almost scandalous, the faintest suggestion of skin revealed beneath the lace’s delicate cover.
The sleeves were light, barely there, sheer lace catching the light with every small movement. They gathered subtly at the wrist, where the detailing grew denser, the patterns more intricate, as though drawing the eye before allowing it to wander again.
The skirt flowed freely from your waist, layers of soft fabric falling in gentle waves that shifted with each breath you took. It was lighter than you expected, airy, almost weightless, allowing you to move without the stiffness of heavier gowns, the hem brushing softly against the floor
‘’Such a beautiful dress perfect for an even more beautiful bride.’’
‘’I only hope that is isnt damaged in the bedding ceremony. Those men become animals when the bedding is called’’
You froze.
They would sweep you from the hall in a rush of laughter and celebration, men taking hold of you with teasing insistence as they tugged at your gown, loosening silk and lace until it slipped from your shoulders, leaving you in your slip as they cheered and hurried you onward, while behind you the women surrounded Baelor with equal boldness, stripping away his princely layers amid laughter and knowing smiles, the sound of it all echoing through the stone as you were delivered breathless and trembling to your chambers, as they listened waiting to rip the bloodied bedding to parade round the keep.
Queen Myriah took your arms.
Her hands were warm, steady, grounding you in a way that felt instinctive, practiced. She drew you gently closer, her presence wrapping around you with a quiet certainty that eased the sharp edge of your nerves.
“Do not worry,” she said softly, her voice carrying that familiar warmth, threaded with quiet amusement. “My future son would never let anything untoward happen. And Baelor will be wearing his ceremonial sword, so if they even dare…” a small, knowing smile touched her lips, “…I fear he will show them the true meaning of Breakspear.”
The image, absurd and reassuring all at once, loosened something in you.
She pulled you into a lingering hug, her embrace firm, comforting, her hand smoothing lightly over your back as though you were already hers in truth.
“Now,” she said as she drew back, her eyes brightening, “twirl.”
You hesitated only a second before obeying.
The dress came alive with the movement.
The soft layers of fabric shifted and flowed around you, catching the light in a way that made the colour deepen and glow, the lace along the edges lifting slightly as you turned. The skirt fanned out just enough to show its fullness before settling again in gentle waves, the material whispering softly as it brushed against itself.
“With the veil,” Queen Myriah said, stepping back slightly to take you in fully, her gaze warm with approval, “you will be a true vision walking down the aisle.” Her smile widened, touched with something almost mischievous. “If my son does not cry,” she added lightly, “then he does not deserve you. A more beautiful bride does not exist… don’t you agree?”
Your gaze shifted to your mother and saw something you have never really seen on her face before.
Pride.
“My daughter is always perfect,” she said, her voice quieter than usual, but no less certain. The words settled over you gently, unexpected and warm in a way that made your chest tighten.
“Now, my lady,” the elder seamstress croaked, stepping forward with careful authority, her fingers already reaching for the fastening at your back, “allow us to take the dress off. The queen has requested some adjustments to the fastening, and we will show you the other pieces we have prepared for you.”
Her hands were deft, practiced, already working at the delicate closures as the others gathered around, their movements precise, their murmured voices returning as the moment softened back into preparation.
Xxxxx
You blushed as your mother guided you through the display, your hands twisting together in front of you as though they might anchor you in place. The chamber was filled with soft light, the kind that made everything appear gentler than it truly was, but there was nothing gentle in the way your heart thudded against your ribs.
Silk shimmered everywhere.
Gowns so fine they barely seemed to exist, sheer enough that you could see your own hand through them when held to the light. Night dresses that clung and draped in ways to sinful to wear to bed, cut low and dangerous. Lace traced delicate patterns along hems and sleeves, intricate and beautiful, yet somehow alarming in their intimacy.
Undergarments lay next to them, folded carefully, their purpose not entirely clear to you. They were smaller than you expected, softer, lighter, and far more revealing than anything you had ever worn. You could not imagine putting them on, not even in the privacy of your own chambers, let alone before your husband. Or would be be the one taking them off...
Your cheeks burned. “I know you don’t think I would make a good bride,” you said softly, your voice wavering as you wrung your hands together. “But I will try… I will try to make you proud.”
Your mother paused. For a moment, something softened in her expression, something warmer than you had seen in months. It caught you off guard, the gentleness of it, the way her gaze lingered on you not with criticism, but something closer to concern.
“It is not that I don’t think you will make a good bride,” she said slowly, her voice quieter now. “I worry…”
Her eyes shifted, catching on something atop the table. “What is that…?”
You frowned, following her gaze, your own expression brightening slightly in recognition as you reached for the open sketchbook.
“Oh,” you said lightly, almost eager. “They are only sketches. I thought that after the wedding it might be a good idea that Baelor address the issue of…”
“You fool.’’Your mother’s warmth vanished entirely, replaced by something hard, something brittle and edged with fear that quickly sharpened into anger. “This is exactly why I do not want this marriage to take place,” she snapped, her voice rising as she seized the book from your hands. “You and your dangerous ideas will be the death of you.”
The pages fluttered wildly as she threw it to the floor, the sketches scattering open, exposed, vulnerable in a way that made your chest tighten painfully. “No man wants a wife with such grand ideas,” she continued, her voice trembling with intensity. “Have you forgotten how dangerous your ideas are?”
Your throat closed. The words struck deeper than you expected, sharper, heavier, dragging something raw to the surface.
“Prince Baelor will grow sick of you,” she went on, relentless now, “or you will show him what a silly girl he has married, not a regal and proper lady he should have. And you will have to endure him taking a mistress.”
Your breath hitched, then broke, and the sound that left you was not controlled, not quiet, but raw. Your sobs came quickly, uncontrollably, drowning out everything else, your body folding slightly inward as though you could shield yourself from the weight of her words and she stormed out
Ser Duncan shifted where he stood, after dodging the door.
The great knight, so steady, so certain in battle, looked entirely at a loss. His large hands flexed at his sides, his weight shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, his gaze flicking between you and your mother, unsure where to look, unsure what to do. He took a half step forward, then stopped, as though afraid that even that might be the wrong choice.
xxxx
“What is it, Ser Duncan?” the Lord Commander asked sharply. “Aren’t you supposed to be guarding our future princess? If you left her…”
“Her lord father is with her… and Ser Crakehall…” Duncan said quickly, though his voice lacked its usual steadiness.
“Then you are off duty and should not be bothering the prince,” the Lord Commander scolded.
Duncan shook his head, something more urgent rising in him, something that pushed past rank and expectation. “My duty is to my lady,” he said, more firmly now, though the words still carried strain. “And I came to inform the prince that my lady is upset… well, not upset…” He swallowed. “…distraught.”
“I wanted to… needed to tell the prince,” he continued, struggling slightly, his thoughts clearly outpacing his words. “I should not just her physical safety. It is her emotional… I…”
“Tell me everything.” Baelor’s voice was cutting as he stood sharply from his desk, his eyes darkening impossible so.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The prince had not expected a crowd. And yet the corridor outside your chambers was filled with them. Your three ladies stood huddled together near the wall, their usual composure entirely undone, whispering in low, anxious tones, their eyes red-rimmed and wide with worry. Your brother lingered close by, his posture restless, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as though he could not decide whether to go in or remain where he was. Your father stood more still, his expression grave, his head shaking slowly as if the weight of it all had settled heavily upon him.
Even Lyonel Baratheon was there. The great storm lord, so often loud and certain, now stood unusually quiet, his broad frame seeming almost uncertain in the narrow space, his gaze fixed on your door with a rare flicker of unease.
Baelor barely registered any of it. He saw only one thing. The door. And beyond it, you.
“Ser Duncan, you look rather dashing in white,” Lyonel drawled, attempting levity, though it rang hollow in the air. “Baratheon gold would have been better, I daresay, but if people don’t lower their expectations, there would be no Kingsguard.”
Baelor’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and cutting, his patience already worn thin. The man’s ridiculous curls did little to soften the irritation that flared, brief but fierce.
“My prince,” one of your ladies began nervously, stepping forward just slightly, “she will not see anyone.”
“Everyone out. Now.”
Your ladies scattered at once, skirts whispering hurriedly across the floor as they retreated, casting worried glances back toward the door. Your brother hesitated only a moment before your father placed a steady hand on his shoulder, guiding him away with quiet insistence. Lyonel exhaled sharply through his nose, but even he stepped back, giving a short, respectful nod as he moved aside. He closed the door behind him, the sound soft but final, and for a moment he simply stood there, his gaze sweeping the space, searching.Then he saw you.
Curled on the bed, half-buried in the cushions, your form drawn inward as though trying to make yourself smaller, to disappear into the softness around you. Your shoulders shook with the remnants of sobs, your face hidden, your breath uneven. Something in his chest tightened sharply and ugly feeling unfurling inside him
“Go away,” you said, your voice muffled, raw from crying.
“I will not be ordered away like a beggar in my own castle,” he replied, his tone firm, though not unkind. “Even by you.”
“Please go away.”
The words were softer. More fragile and that undid him. His expression shifted at once, the edge in him easing as he crossed the room, his steps quieter now, more careful. The mattress dipped slightly as he sat beside you, the weight of him steady, grounding.
“I will not,” he said, his voice gentler now, quieter as he leaned slightly closer. “Even if you ask me nicely. Now stop with this sobbing,” he added, softer still, though there was a thread of warmth beneath it, “and tell me what is wrong.”
You only shook your head, burying yourself deeper into the pillows, as though the fabric might shield you from the world, from him, from everything.
Baelor exhaled slowly. Then, without another word, he shifted further onto the bed, settling himself against the headboard, his back braced against the carved wood. One arm slid carefully beneath you, the other drawing you up and into him with quiet insistence, lifting you from where you had curled into yourself. You did not resist. Your body folded into his lap, your face pressed against his chest, your hands clutching weakly at his clothing as though you needed something solid to hold onto.
He held you there, one arm wrapped fully around your back, his hand spreading wide between your shoulders, the other rising to cradle the back of your head, guiding you gently into the space beneath his chin.
“There now,” he murmured softly, his voice low, steady, meant only for you.
Your sobs came again, quieter now, muffled against him, your breath hitching as the last of it worked its way out of you. He did not rush you. Did not speak further. He simply held you, his hand moving slowly, rhythmically along your back, grounding, reassuring, patient.
His chin rested lightly against your hair, his cheek brushing the crown of your head as he breathed you in, steadying himself as much as you.
Xxxxxx
“Now tell me exactly what has my very soon to be wife crying like a newborn.” Baelor’s voice was not unkind, but it was firm, carrying a quiet authority that settled around you, steady and unyielding. It was not the warmth he usually reserved for you, nor the teasing softness you had come to expect.
“It is okay… if you want to call off the wedding.” The words left you small and uncertain, barely more than a breath against his chest.
Baelor stilled. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his hands firm where they held you, his expression shifting from confusion to something sharper, something dangerously close to anger.
“What?” The word was low, disbelieving. His jaw tightened, his gaze hardening as he searched your face. “Why would you say something so foolish?”
His grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep your attention on him. “In five days’ time you will be my wife,” he said, each word deliberate, grounded in certainty. “I have searched half the realm to find you, fought to bring you here, and you would stand here and question my desire for you?”
You flinched slightly beneath the weight of it, your hands trembling as you reached for the book beside you, offering it to him like something fragile, something that might explain what you could not.
“I… I get ideas,” you said softly, your voice unsteady. “Thoughts sometimes and I… I just go with them. I get swept up in them and before I know it I… I get into trouble.”
He took the book. Flicked through the pages. The sketches within shifted quickly beneath his gaze, lines and notes and thoughts scattered across parchment in ways that only made sense when seen as a whole.
You dared a glance up at him.
He was watching you.
You swallowed, your fingers curling slightly in your lap. “When I was young,” you began, your voice quieter now, pulled inward by memory, “a travelling show came through our lands. They sent coloured sparks into the sky and everyone was so happy… I had never seen anything like it. I wanted everyone in the kingdom to see that. To be happy.”
Your eyes dropped to your hands.
“So I came up with an idea,” you continued, shame creeping into your voice, “something that would send them higher, brighter… based on something I read from Maester Dievet. I thought if I could improve it… if I could make it better…” Your breath hitched.
“But I was foolish,” you whispered, tears rising again despite your efforts. “I nearly burned down our stables.” Your voice broke then, small and uncertain. “I understand if you think this match isn’t…”
Baelor surged forward, his hands coming up to your face, firm, unyielding, forcing you to look at him.
“You are never allowed to say that,” he growled, his voice low but intense, his eyes burning into yours with something fierce and immovable. “No one is allowed to question this match. Not even you.”
His grip softened slightly, but he did not let you look away. “Your ideas,” he continued, his voice still strong but steadier now, “are exactly why I want you as my wife. Do you understand that? I do not want a silent, agreeable shadow beside me,” he said, his tone deepening, something more resolute threading through it. “I want a woman who thinks. Who challenges. Who sees what others do not. A woman who can help lead this kingdom into something better.”
His thumb brushed against your cheek, softer now, grounding. “And once we are married, it will be my duty to ensure your safety. To guide you. To help you grow.” His gaze did not waver. “Not to silence you as others have.”
Your breath trembled slightly as you held his gaze, something fragile in you shifting, uncertain but hopeful.
“So you will not… get annoyed at me,” you asked quietly, “and take a mistress…?”
He stilled again. “Who told you that?” he asked, his voice lower now, sharper in a different way.
“My mother…”
Baelor exhaled slowly, something in his expression darkening, not toward you, but at the thought of it.
“Nonsense,” he said firmly. His hands steadied you again, his voice dropping, softer now but no less certain. “Since that day in Ashford, I have been yours,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “And since the moment I saw you in that tavern on the Kingsroad… you have been mine.”
He leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours briefly before his lips found yours. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there as his lips moved against yours with quiet intent, steady and grounding, as though he meant to press the truth of his words into you without needing to speak them again. His other hand remained at your waist, firm, anchoring you against him.When he pulled back, it was only slightly, his breath warm against your lips.
“Let me show you,” he murmured softly, his voice quieter now, but no less sure, “exactly what I mean.”
Xxxxxxxx
Baelor did not knock. The doors to your parents’ chambers flew open with a force that reverberated through the stone, the heavy wood striking the walls with a sharp, echoing crack that seemed to still the very air within.
Three Kingsguard followed at his back. Their white cloaks caught the dim light as they moved, bright and imposing against the darker tones of the chamber, their presence immediate and suffocating in its quiet authority. Ser Duskendale and Ser Crakehall took position at either side of the doorway with practiced precision, sealing it without a word, their broad forms unmoving, while Ser Duncan lingered just behind Baelor, taller than them all, his expression set, his stance alert in a way that suggested he would not hesitate should he be called upon.
Baelor did not look at your father nor acknowledge your brother, his gaze found your mother at once and held.
“You will not speak to her like that again,” he said, his voice low, controlled, but carrying a weight that settled heavily into the room.
Your mother straightened instinctively beneath it, her chin lifting, though the movement lacked its usual confidence, something in her posture betraying the tension that had taken hold. “My prince,” she began, her voice tight, measured, though not without strain, “I am only worried for her. She does not understand the world she is stepping into. Her ideas, her… nature…” she faltered slightly, searching for the right word, “it will make her vulnerable.”
Baelor moved closer with deliberate intent, each step measured, each movement tightening the space between them until his presence could no longer be ignored. “I am well aware,” he said, his tone cooling further, “that you believe her intelligence to be a problem.”
Your mother’s lips parted, but whatever response she had prepared faltered under the steadiness of his gaze.
“It is not,” he continued, his voice sharpening just enough to carry conviction. “It is precisely what drew me to her. ”Her mind,” he said, quieter now, but no less certain. “Her curiosity. Her kindness.”
There was something almost personal in the way he said it, something that reached beyond duty or politics, something that made it clear this was not a passing preference but a deliberate choice.
“You see danger,” he went on, his voice lowering, the intensity of it deepening, “I see a woman capable of shaping a better future than most men in this court.”
Your mother’s composure wavered, just briefly, the certainty in her stance faltering as doubt flickered beneath the surface.
Baelor stepped closer still, close enough now that his presence pressed into her space, close enough that the weight of his words could not be escaped.
“If you cannot accept that,” he said, the softness in his voice now replaced with something colder, more final, “if you continue to diminish her, to fill her with doubt, to make her question herself…Then I will ensure you are not part of her life. Nor the lives of any children we may have.”
Your father shifted, the movement subtle but present, as though the weight of what had been said had reached even him. Your brother stood rigid, his expression caught between shock and something quieter, more uncertain. Behind Baelor, the Kingsguard remained motionless, silent figures bearing witness, their presence reinforcing every word spoken.
Your mother did not reply. For a moment, she simply stood there, her pride and her fear warring visibly beneath the surface, her hands tightening at her sides.
Baelor held her gaze a moment longer, ensuring the meaning of his words settled fully. “You are here because she wishes for it,” he said at last, his tone returning to something distant, controlled, the prince once more rather than the man who had spoken before. “Do not give me cause to change that.”
He did not wait for an answer and could not bear the sight of her any, the movement sharp and final, his cloak shifting behind him as he strode toward the door.The Kingsguard fell into step at once, white cloaks brushing softly against stone as they followed him out, leaving behind a silence that lingered long after the doors closed, heavy with everything that had just passed.
So my plan was to be the final wedding chapter but then I got carried away and suddenly I had 10000 words. So the wedding is next, tooth rooting fluff with a besotted Baelor with a little tinsy bit of dangerous Baelor...
What is your favorite seen? Mine….Baelor is dragging you into the closet aided by his faithful kingsguard. Or Maekar and his future with seven new nieces or nephews. Poor man!
Also….impied spicy for these chapters which I will properly expand in separate mini fics as a lot of you said you would prefer separate smut which will also allow me to be a little more extra depravited for those wishing to get lost in some spicy romance 😛
Also requests are open now for this fic! If you have any suggestion or burning desire to see something in particular send a request.
I have one question: when the weeding celebrations starts, there will be probably a tournament in honor of the bride and groom. Will Dunk and Egg arrive in Kings Landing as well? Will, at least, Egg recognize her?
Happy Easter! 💗
Ohhhhhh that is such a good question.
Aegon and the delicious Dunk will be making an brief appearance but I am hoping to write more dedicated solo chapter just for Egg to have a total realization and Dunk to grovel to his knees and fall in love (just a little bit of cause) with our Lady Saviour. With some harsh flash backs to those first dark days to give use just a taste of angst and poor Baelor without his lady and poor self hating Maeker
My next chapter will be out either tonight or tomorrow...then we just have the wedding day chapter and then all the requests can get started...all the lovely dovey, smutty, crank fics which I am so ready for!
I will defiantly put a Egg and Dunk reunion on the list!
What's this...? Another update? Surely not? Only because I love you guy! Authors note at the end!
Baelor rose early, long before the castle had properly stirred, the pale light of dawn only just beginning to creep through the tall windows of his chambers. Sleep had come to him, but not deeply, not peacefully. It had been filled with thoughts of you, of your voice, your warmth, the way you had looked at him when you said yes. Even now, as he sat at his desk, he could still feel the ghost of it lingering, a quiet, steady pull beneath everything else.
He forced himself to focus. Scrolls and parchments lay spread before him in careful disorder, urgent matters of the realm demanding attention before anything else could be indulged. He worked through them with practiced efficiency, answering ravens, sealing letters, issuing commands in a hand that remained steady despite the distraction of his thoughts. A steward stood nearby, bleary-eyed and struggling to keep pace as Baelor passed him ledgers and instructions, his voice calm but brisk as he moved from one matter to the next.
But even as he worked, his mind returned, again and again, to the most pressing matter of all. His marriage to you.
It would have to be soon.The memory of the night before pressed in on him, vivid and impossible to ignore. The way you had stood before him, uncertain yet resolute. The way your voice had softened when you accepted him. And then… the kiss.
Gods. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose to steadying himself. He had kissed you soundly, perhaps more so than he had intended, every careful boundary of restraint tested by the quiet, breathless sounds you had made against him. Those small, involuntary responses had undone him more thoroughly than any bold gesture could have. They had slipped past every shield of honour he had so carefully built, leaving him grasping for control.
It had taken everything in him not to pull you closer still, not to gather you fully into his arms and refuse to let go. He had wanted, with a startling intensity, to keep you there, to sit with you upon his bed, to let the night stretch endlessly as he spoke softly to you, nonsense perhaps, or gentle promises, anything to keep you near. Nothing unseemly. Nothing dishonourable. But his mind had wandered dangerously close to it all the same.
Soon, he reminded himself. Soon you would be his wife, and such restraint would no longer be required. The way your eyes had grown heavy with sleep, your body leaning unconsciously into him, trusting, yielding. He had felt it, that quiet surrender, and it had nearly broken his resolve entirely. For a moment, he had simply held you, unmoving, as though time itself had stilled.
But he had pulled away.He had placed you gently into the care of his Kingsguard, forcing himself to step back, to release you before he forgot himself entirely. The knight had given him a look, something between amusement and approval, his gaze flicking briefly to your lips, slightly swollen from his affection, before offering a respectful nod.
Baelor had not trusted himself to walk you back. Not when every instinct in him urged him to follow, to remain at your side, to prolong the moment for as long as possible. And yet you had turned back. Just before leaving, you had looked at him, your expression soft, your voice gentle as you bid him goodnight and promised to see him with the sunrise.
That had been enough to let him sleep.
Now, seated once more in the light of morning, he looked down at the spread of parchments before him, his thoughts shifting from memory to action.
It would be a royal wedding. It could not be anything less.Invitations would need to be sent across the realm, to great houses and lesser ones alike. The wardens of the North, the lords of the West, the Reach, the Vale. His brow furrowed slightly as he considered the distances involved. A wedding by the next moon would be too soon. Many would not arrive in time, and to exclude them, intentionally or not would breed resentment.
No. Two moons at the earliest…even that would be ambitious.
Preparations would need to begin immediately. Seamstresses were already at work for your wardrobe, but a wedding gown would require special care, something worthy of you, of the moment. He would have to get them working immediately. Feasts, musicians, decorations, accommodations for visiting lords… it would be no small undertaking.
“I take it you have good news, my son.”
Baelor looked up.
King Daeron stood at the entrance, already dressed, his presence commanding even in relative informality. Beside him, the queen practically glowed, her expression bright with anticipation.
“She has been so generous as to pledge me her hand,” Baelor replied, a warmth entering his voice that he did not bother to conceal.
The queen’s eyes filled instantly, her composure breaking as she crossed the room without hesitation. She reached up, cupping his face in her hands as though he were still a boy rather than a grown man.
“And why wouldn’t she, my handsome son?” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “You give so much. It is the gods’ gift to you. She will be a most wonderful wife… and queen.”
“With you guiding her, I have no doubt, Mother,” Baelor said gently, his smile softening.
She huffed lightly, though her expression remained fond. “Always the charm with you. I thank the gods she has brains. She will keep you on your toes.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek before her gaze drifted to the desk. “…It would seem you are already preparing…Well we will remind the kingdom of what a proper Dornish wedding is.’’
The king let out a warm laugh, stepping further into the room. “Well then, I am glad she said yes, otherwise all this effort would be for nothing.” His smile lingered, thoughtful now. “We will meet with her parents, arrange an announcement, have it sent across the realm by day’s end. The sooner this marriage is secured, the sooner I gain another daughter. And I would very much like to hear her thoughts on improving King’s Landing.”
“Husband!” the queen exclaimed, half scandalised, half amused.
“Oh, and your mother would like more grandchildren,” the king added, entirely undeterred. “As if we do not have enough already. But I must confess, I am intrigued to see what the two of you produce. I am sure you will have great fun discovering that.”
“Husband!” she repeated, sharper this time, though her cheeks had coloured.
“That is what a grand tour is for...remeber ours..” he continued with a grin.
Baelor pressed his lips together, a quiet, helpless amusement breaking through despite himself. A faint flush rose along his neck at his father’s words, though he did not look away. Instead, he let out a low breath, shaking his head slightly, caught between embarrassment and something softer.
There was fondness there. Deep, unshaken. His parents’ teasing did not unsettle him so much as it grounded him, reminding him that this was real, that this was happening, that what he felt was not something fleeting or imagined.
“I believe,” he said at last, his voice steady once more though a hint of warmth lingered, “that I shall focus first on ensuring she becomes my wife… before I concern myself with anything further.”
The king laughed again, clearly pleased and Baelor, despite the flush still lingering on his skin, found himself smiling.
xxxxx
“Why the fuck is he here,” Maekar growled, his voice low and dangerous as his sharp gaze settled on Daeron, suspicion etched deep into every hard line of his face.
The maester’s solar had never been meant to hold so many bodies, and yet it had been overtaken entirely, transformed from a place of quiet study into something resembling a cramped, chaotic council chamber. Shelves heavy with books loomed overhead, scrolls piled in precarious stacks, while the narrow windows let in only thin streams of pale morning light. The air felt warm, crowded, thick with the scent of parchment, ink… and lemon cakes.
Your three ladies fluttered endlessly about the eldest prince, fussing over him with an enthusiasm that bordered on relentless. Cushions were pressed behind his back, tea poured and replenished before he could finish a cup, delicate slices of cake placed insistently within his reach. Their laughter and whispers filled the small space, a stark contrast to the tension that coiled through the rest of the room.
Maester Yormwell sat enthroned in his high-backed chair like a contented king of crumbs, while beside him young Aemon remained entirely absorbed in his book, his nose buried so deeply in the pages it was as though the world beyond them did not exist.
Ser Duskendale stood rigid against the only remaining stretch of wall, his broad frame carefully angled so as not to disturb the already overcrowded space. His presence was steady, watchful, the quiet anchor in a room otherwise brimming with movement and noise. The final available corner had been claimed by Maekar’s eldest son, who leaned there with the ease of someone far too comfortable and sober for his father’s liking.
Maester Yormwell reached eagerly into a large specimen pot, retrieving a lemon cake with unconcealed delight. “My prince,” he said brightly, crumbs already beginning to scatter across his robes as he bit into it, “your son has most generously offered his assistance.”
“With what?” Maekar snapped, his lip curling. “I fail to see how his skills in draining a flagon of Reach red will prove useful.”
“Do not be so bitter, father,” came the easy reply, smooth and entirely unbothered. “What will the ladies think of you?”
Maekar grumbled under his breath, something deeply unflattering muttered in a tone that suggested long-standing frustration, his arms folding tightly across his chest as his glare sharpened.
“I heard Uncle was up early today,” Aemon said calmly, not once lifting his eyes from his book, his voice mild and detached as though he were commenting on the weather rather than the growing storm in the room.
“I fear the arrival of the parents has lent a certain urgency to our… mission,” Maester Yormwell said, frowning now as he brushed crumbs from his robes with little success.
“The mother is such a ghastly creature,” Brieanne declared, her expression tightening in clear distaste.
The other ladies gasped at once, scandalised.
“What? She is!” Brieanne insisted, entirely unapologetic.
“That is true,” Mysa added quickly, stepping in with a nod as she poured more tea. “But our lady sent her away. I am thankful for Ser Duskendale and Ser Crakehall. I feared she would never leave… or worse, that she might drag our lady away with her.”
She moved to refill Daeron’s cup as well, but he lifted a hand politely, declining with a small, careful smile under his father’s watchful gaze.
“It is our pleasure… and our duty,” Ser Duskendale said, his voice steady, though there was a faint edge of concern beneath it. “But I, too, have my doubts. Her father remained with her until the last bell.”
“We must prepare for a difficult campaign,” Yormwell added, steepling his fingers now, his earlier cheer fading into something more thoughtful. “We may have the king’s support, but the parents hold influence. And Lord Baratheon has never been inclined toward Targaryen favour.”
“Poncy, overgrown fawn,” Maekar muttered darkly.
“Ser Crakehall took the night watch,” Duskendale continued, shifting slightly in his armour. “When I relieve him, I may have more insight.”
“That might not be necessary,” Daeron murmured, a faint grimace touching his lips as he sipped his tea.
“Who asked you?” Maekar snapped, turning on him instantly. “We must plan. The ladies are not to leave her unattended. Aemon, you will assist. You are an irritating little leech, so you may as well be useful. The father has some sense...I will speak with him. My mother may be persuaded to manage the mother. And if all else fails…” his voice dropped slightly, “…we may need to consider more direct methods.”
“The prince would never!” one of the ladies protested at once.
“My prince…”
“Father…”
“Gods, I meant threats,” Maekar cut in sharply, irritation flaring. “Though if my brother were capable of such things, it would make matters considerably easier. But no he is an honour-bound, love-struck fool. Your lady’s maidenhead is quite safe… at least until after the wedding.”
A ripple of scandalised laughter and protests followed, though Daeron only shrugged lightly, his gaze drifting elsewhere entirely.
“Hmm…it would make them get straight to it but I think the castle should first be modified. Thicker walls to start and…l” he mused idly. “Perhaps concealed balconies would be useful… Private beaches are not a bad idea and yes, hedges would be quite effective…”
Slap!
“Foolish boy,” Maekar muttered, pulling back his hand, content with his son rubbing his head.
Maester Yormwell eyed him with open distrust before clearing his throat. “We must first determine where our lady’s inclinations lie. Once that is established, we can proceed with greater certainty. I shall visit her before the midday meal and...”
A sharp knock cut him off.
The door creaked open just enough for a young scribe to peer through, his face pale as he took in the crowded, improbable assembly before him.
“What is it, Cadefael?” Yormwell snapped, clearly irritated. “I said we were not to be disturbed.”
The boy blinked, his gaze darting from prince to prince, to the Kingsguard, to the ladies, clearly overwhelmed.
“Out with it, boy,” Maekar barked.
“The king has commanded...” Cadefael stammered, clutching the parchment in his hands. “All ravens are to be sent to the great houses… and the lesser ones across the realm. It is to be done at once. He said it is a matter of urgency… and that you are to oversee it personally.”
Yormwell was on his feet before the boy had even finished speaking. The king did not send orders like this. Not directly since the rebellion.
“Isn’t it wonderful, my lord?” Cadefael added, a nervous smile flickering.
Yormwell read. Silence fell.
“What is it?” someone pressed.
“Tell us.”
“Out with it!”
“Prince Baelor has been betrothed to your lady,” Cadefael blurted at last. “The banns are to be read today, and the wedding is to take place in three moons’ time, to allow the realm to gather. I have just come from the solar, her lady mother is weeping with joy…and there is to be a grand tour and….”
“Get out!” Maekar surged to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the stone, the sound cutting through the room like a blade.
Cadefael flinched visibly, shrinking back toward the door, his face draining of colour as the full weight of the prince’s temper bore down on him. He stumbled in his haste to leave, nearly tripping over the threshold as he fled.
Ser Duskendale moved at once, stepping forward toward the maester. “Maester…”
But Yormwell was smiling. Wide. Bright. “It is true,” he said, his voice almost giddy as he scanned the parchment again. “They are to be married… it is all here. A full year touring the realm together…” He let out a soft, astonished breath. “My word…”
Relief broke first, soft and immediate. Your ladies clasped their hands together, their faces lighting with excitement, whispers bubbling between them as they clung to one another in delight. Brieanne looked vindicated, Mysa positively glowing, Carlys near breathless with joy.
Even Aemon looked up then, curiosity sparking in his eyes, while Duskendale allowed himself the smallest hint of a satisfied smile, the tension in his shoulders easing at last. Maekar, however, only exhaled sharply through his nose, his scowl deepening, though there was something beneath it now, resignation, perhaps.
Daeron leaned back slightly, watching it all unfold with quiet amusement before speaking, his tone light, almost mischievous. “Well,” he said, “now that matter is settled… let us turn to another marriage.”
Every eye turned to him. “Which one of you lovely ladies,” he continued, entirely unfazed, “will be my new mother? Perhaps all three? The old ways are sometimes best and he will give each of you strong babes”
“You little shit!” Maekar snapped instantly.
The ladies burst into girlish giggle, bright and unrestrained, but moved closer to the poor prince
Xxxxx
“My darling girl, I am truly happy. I am sure the prince will make you happy. Our little princess will become a true princess… we are happy, aren’t we, wife.”
Your father’s voice was warm, steady, filled with a kind of quiet pride that settled gently over the moment, even as everything around you felt too large, too overwhelming to fully grasp. His hand lingered briefly at your shoulder, grounding, reassuring.
Your mother stood beside him, and for a fleeting moment it seemed as though she might match him, might gather herself into that same warmth.
“Ye… esss. So ha… aa… ppy,” she managed, though the words fractured as they left her, breaking apart under the strain of the emotion she could not contain. Her chest rose sharply, uneven, each breath catching as though it hurt to draw. Her hands clenched in the fabric of her skirts, knuckles whitening, and then, without another word, she turned.
The movement was abrupt, almost frantic. Her skirts swirled around her as she fled, the sound of her retreating steps echoing faintly as she disappeared out toward the gardens, as though the open air might somehow steady what she could not control within herself.
The room did not follow her Instead, her departure left behind a strange stillness, one that drew the attention of the king and queen alike. Their gazes lingered where she had been, thoughtful, measuring, before slowly returning to you, who seems wholly unfazed but your husband could see the way your body tensed ever so slightly, the way your breath caught, the way your composure, so carefully held, threatened to falter at the edges.
Without a word, his arm moved, linking gently with yours. The gesture was quiet, unobtrusive, but firm in its intent. His presence settled beside you, steady and warm, offering support without drawing attention to it. His thumb brushed faintly against your arm, grounding, a silent reassurance that you were not alone in this moment, not exposed.
“Daughter… may I call you my daughter already?”
Queen Myriah’s voice was soft, filled with a warmth that felt entirely different from your mother’s. She approached you with open affection, no hesitation in her steps, and when she reached you, she slipped her arm through your free one with an ease that felt almost natural.
“I am so happy to have another daughter,” she continued, her smile bright, her eyes kind as they searched your face. “We have so much to plan, so much to prepare.” There was excitement there, but also sincerity, a genuine welcome that eased something tight within your chest.
Then, with a lightness that carried a hint of playful authority, she glanced toward her son. “May I borrow your beloved Baelor?”
“Of course, Mother,” Baelor replied, his voice warm, the faintest hint of amusement touching it. He turned slightly toward you, leaning in just enough to press a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering only a moment before stepping away.
You felt the absence of him almost immediately, though the queen’s arm remained, steady and supportive.
From the edge of the room, your brother approached. His steps were slower than usual, hesitant, as though each one required more thought than it should. The confidence he so often carried was gone, replaced by something quieter, something uncertain. When he reached Baelor, he bowed deeply, his posture stiff with nerves.
“My prince… I am sorry. I beg for your forgiveness.”
Baelor regarded him calmly, his expression unreadable for a moment as he took in the boy before him. “Forgiveness for what?” he asked, his tone even, neither harsh nor overly gentle.
Your brother swallowed, his hands tightening slightly at his sides before he spoke again.
“For taking my sister,” he admitted, his voice lower now, edged with unease. “I was trying to protect her. I thought… I thought you would be angry. That she might be punished… or called a witch.”
For a brief moment, silence stretched between them. Then Baelor’s expression softened, not into indulgence, but into something measured and understanding. “I cannot fault you for trying to protect your sister,” he said, his voice steady. “It pleases me to know her family cares for her… even if that care is sometimes misplaced.”
Your brother lifted his head slightly at that, uncertainty still lingering in his eyes.
“You are forgiven,” Baelor continued. “But perhaps, in future, you might listen to your sister more closely. She is… rather astute.”
There was the faintest hint of warmth in his tone now, a quiet acknowledgment of you that did not go unnoticed.
Your brother nodded quickly, relief softening his features, though a trace of sheepishness remained. “Thank you, my grace,” he said earnestly. “I will.”
Xxxxx
“Oh Lyonel… she hates me…”
Your mother’s voice broke beneath the weight of it, thin and trembling, her composure finally unraveling now that she was beyond the crowded hall. The gardens stretched wide around her, quiet and green beneath the soft light, but she seemed not to see any of it. Her hands twisted tightly together, knuckles pale, her breath uneven as though each word cost her something.
“She does not,” Lyonel said gently, his tone steady in contrast to her distress. “I know only a little of your daughter, but she is not capable of that. Far too intelligent for something like that.”
Your mother let out a shaky breath, though it did little to calm her. Her gaze drifted upward, toward the towering keep, its walls rising high and imposing, and something like unease crept into her expression.
“She is to be married to the prince,” she said, her voice quieter now, though no less strained. “She will be a princess… one day a queen. She will live here.” Her lip curled faintly as she took in the vastness of it all. “A viper pit. Married to a dragon. A dragon! What chance has she got? How is she to make friends… allies? She cannot even cross stitch.”
Lyonel pattered sympathetically. Nodding as he murmured softness to the mourning lady. His softness all but evaporating as her new son in-law appear at his side. His mismatch eyes sad.
“My lady, may I speak…”
“Did it matter if you may not?” she snapped, turning on Baelor before he could finish, her grief sharpening into something defensive, something brittle. “You have already taken my daughter. What more is there to take? She hate me! She could barely look at me through the meeting.”
Baelor did not flinch, though his posture stilled slightly, his expression softening rather than hardening.“My lady, your daughter is…”
“Do not tell me how she is,” she cut him off, her voice rising, emotion spilling over. “You have known her less than a moon. I birthed her. I nurtured her. I fed her from my own breast, not some simpering wet nurse touch my child” Her voice wavered, breaking as her composure cracked entirely. “I cried when she would not speak… when she was slow to walk. They said she was lacking, that something was wrong, but I told them no. I told them she was only delayed. I waited. I fought for her.”
Tears slipped free now, unchecked.
“Do you know what a curse it is?” she continued, her voice trembling, uneven. “When she finally spoke, I was so relieved… so grateful. But then… then I realized she was different.” Her breath hitched sharply, her shoulders shaking as she struggled to contain herself. “She could read before we could teach her. She learned anything just by watching, as though the world simply… unfolded for her. Yet she would not sit still for the simplest things, would not learn the Lazy Daisy stitch no matter how I tried…” A broken, disbelieving laugh slipped through her tears. “And yet she had endless patience to learn how a level hitch worked. I do not even know what that is.”
Her hands came up to her face as she cried again, softer this time, exhausted rather than frantic, as though the weight of years had finally found release.
“Oh, my good lady,” Queen Myriah said gently, stepping forward from behind her son, her voice warm and steady as she reached to take your mother’s hands. “Sons are easy. Frustrating, yes, but simple in their wants. Daughters… daughters are far more complex.” Her smile softened, filled with quiet understanding. “Your daughter is fortunate to have you. And with us to guide her, how could she fail?”
She glanced briefly toward Baelor, something proud and certain in her gaze.
“She has Baelors protection. And Maekar’s as well, whether he admits it or not. I have never seen my second son tolerate someone he was not forced to endure, and yet he does with her.” A small, knowing smile touched her lips. “She will be well cared for. I have never seen someone hold so many men of the court so effortlessly in her grasp.”
Lyonel let out a quiet, sheepish breath at that, shifting slightly under her pointed look.
“She has good ladies at her side, and friends already forming around her. And perhaps…” the queen added, her tone turning thoughtful, though her eyes flicked sharply toward the stag, “perhaps my son might find a place on the small council for Lord Baratheon. He seems… particularly invested in her safety.” Her gaze hardened just slightly, enough to send a ripple of discomfort even through Lyonel’s usually unshakable confidence. “What was it again?” she continued coolly. “Ah yes. Threatening to slit my son’s throat to find her.”
Lyonel blinked, caught off guard, his usual bravado faltering for the briefest of moments.
“…Baelor will need assistance,” the queen went on smoothly, as though the moment had not passed. “Especially when he is called away on his tour.”
“…If that is Mother’s wish,” Baelor said, inclining his head, though there was a faint, thoughtful note in his voice.
“It is,” she replied simply, then turned, her expression brightening once more as she gently tugged your mother along with her. “Now go, rescue your intended before your father convinces her to redesign the entire pulley system for the blasted moat.”
There was a hint of laughter in her voice as she began to guide your mother away, already shifting into something more practical, more focused.
“Come, my lady,” she continued, her tone light but purposeful. “We have much to discuss. Now… What do you think of Dornish styles? I have always thought the colours are far more flattering, and the cuts…oh, we must consider the cuts…”
Xxxxxx
The moment Baelor found you again within the gardens, he reached for your hand with quiet certainty, his fingers warm as they closed around yours. “This way,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear, already guiding you gently from the path.
The gardens stretched wide, but he knew them well enough to avoid the main walks, leading you instead along a narrower trail where the hedges grew thicker and the air felt softer, quieter. The noise of the court faded with each step, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of life beyond.
Behind you, a heavy sigh followed.
“If I hear any heavy panting,” Maekar’s voice grumbled from somewhere just out of sight, thick with irritation, “I am walking away and leaving you both to deal with the consequences.”
Baelor did not even turn, though the faintest hint of amusement touched his expression. “I will endeavour to behave,” he called back dryly, before finally stepping into a small clearing, half-hidden by overgrown greenery and dappled with soft light.
It was quiet there. Private. For the first time that day, truly so.
He turned to you then, properly, his hands finding yours again, though this time he did not rush to speak. His gaze lingered on your face, searching, softening, as though he needed to reassure himself you were still there amidst everything that had happened.“I am sorry,” he said at last, the words quieter now, stripped of the confidence he wore so easily before others. “For all of it.”
His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, an absent, grounding motion. “It has been… rather a great deal, all at once,” he admitted, a faint, self-aware smile touching his lips. “Your parents arriving, my father making proclamations, my mother already planning half a wedding before you have even had time to breathe.”
There was a softness in his voice, but also sincerity. He did not dismiss it, did not pretend it was anything less than overwhelming. “I had hoped to give you time,” he continued, his gaze steady on yours. “To allow you space before pressure pressing in from every direction. And yet…” he exhaled lightly, shaking his head just slightly;For a moment, he said nothing more, simply holding your hands, his grip gentle but sure.
“I would not have you feel trapped in this,” he added, more quietly now. “Not by me. Not by them. Not by anything.”
His expression softened further, something more personal slipping through, less prince, more man.
“But I cannot pretend I am not… selfishly glad,” he admitted, a small, almost sheepish breath leaving him. “That you said yes.” His hand lifted slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face with a care that felt instinctive. “I have thought of little else since last night,” he added, a faint warmth returning to his voice, though it was gentler now, more contained. “Which is… deeply inconvenient, given the amount of work I am meant to be doing.”
There was a quiet humour in it, but also truth. He stepped a fraction closer then, not crowding you, but close enough that the space between you felt intentional rather than distant.
“Are you well?” he asked softly, his gaze searching for yours again, more serious now. “Truly?”
For a moment, you simply looked at him. Without speaking, you shifted your grip, turning one of his hands slightly in yours. Your fingers traced lightly over his palm, and before he could quite anticipate it, you bent your head and pressed a gentle kiss there. Lifting your gaze to his then, your expression open, steady, far more certain than he seemed to expect.
“I am well,” you said quietly, your voice warm with sincerity. “Truly.” Your thumb brushed lightly against his hand, echoing the comfort he had offered you earlier. “There is much to take in,” you admitted, a faint smile touching your lips, “but I am not afraid of it. Not with you here. I am quite... elated”
His breath caught slightly at that, his eyes searching yours again, as though trying to measure the truth of it and finding only reassurance. A hint of brightness crept into your expression then, something more animated, more like yourself.
“I find myself rather excited,” you added, almost shyly at first, before it grew into something more genuine, “to travel. To see the realm properly. The grand tour…” your eyes lit slightly at the thought, your mind already drifting ahead. “All the places, the libraries, the people… I have never seen so much of the world.”
Baelor stared at you for a moment, swallowing tightly because for him, the words carried something… different.
Not entirely different, not untouched by what you saw in it, but deeper, threaded with something far more intimate. The grand tour, to Baelor, was not only a journey across the realm, not only an obligation of a prince and his new bride to be seen, to be known. It was time. Time away from the suffocating eyes of court, away from whispers and expectation, away from the constant presence of others.
Baelor’s chest tightened with a mixture of fondness and mischief as he watched you chatter excitedly about the grand tour, completely oblivious to the layers of meaning he already carried in his mind. How sweet you were, so innocent and earnest, thinking of the roads and cities, the libraries and markets, as if the journey were nothing more than an adventure of sights and stories. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too broadly, the thought both thrilling and tender because to him, the “grand tour” was a thinly veiled excuse for the two of you to steal away from the eyes of the world, to learn one another’s bodies and desires in the privacy that marriage alone would afford, to explore every curve, every breath, every sensation that sharing yourself completely could bring. And yet, as he imagined it, he could not bring himself to dampen your delight, only let it bloom, keeping your wonder intact while quietly imagining the joys that awaited behind closed doors, all for him and her alone.
His gaze softened as it settled on you again, something deeply affectionate there, something quietly resolute.
He could not wait to make you his wife. Then, slowly, colour began to rise along his neck, creeping up into his cheeks in a way that was both subtle and unmistakable.
“Ah,” he said faintly, his composure slipping just enough to betray him. “Yes… the grand tour has much to explore and learn.”
You, entirely unaware, only smiled up at him. From somewhere far too close, a voice broke in.
“Gods, I am going to have to do this until the wedding, aren’t I,” Maekar muttered, his tone thick with long-suffering irritation.
There was a rustle and then, quite suddenly, he emerged from the bushes. Leaves clung stubbornly to his cloak, a twig caught in his hair, his expression thoroughly unimpressed as he shoved aside a branch and stepped into view as though he had always belonged there.
Baelor’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Must you lurk,” he said flatly.
“Must you sneak off like a pair of lovesick idiots,” Maekar returned without hesitation, brushing at his sleeve with little success. “I am hiding from her ladies, by the way. They are relentless.”
As if summoned by the mere mention of them, distant voices began to carry faintly through the garden. Baelor exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose for a brief moment. You, however, only smiled, stepping closer to Baelor once more, rising just slightly to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering only a moment before you drew back.
“I shall handle this,” you said quietly, a hint of mischief threading through your voice.
Before either of them could respond, you turned and moved lightly back toward the path, your steps quickening just enough to intercept the approaching voices, drawing attention away from the hidden clearing.
Silence followed your departure. Baelor watching you go, something soft and helpless settling into his expression.
Behind him, Maekar snorted. “You are doomed,” he muttered.
Baelor did not deny it he meant to reply but from behind him another voice filled the little heaven.
“What,” came the unmistakable voice of the queen, cool and utterly unimpressed, “are you two doing in a bush?”
Both men froze. Queen Myriah stood just beyond the hedging, her gaze sweeping over them, taking in the leaves, the disturbed branches, the state of their cloaks with a precision that suggested she missed nothing.Her expression darkened. “Honestly,” she said, stepping closer, reaching out to pluck a stray leaf from Baelor’s shoulder with firm disapproval. “You look like stable boys, not princes of the realm.”
Her eyes flicked to Maekar, lingering on the twig still lodged in his hair. “And you,” she added sharply, “have entirely ruined that cloak.” Maekar scowled but did not argue. ‘’Out of this bush immediately, you boys honestly. We have a wedding to plan and your playing with sticks.’’
Soooooo what do you think? Cute righ?
Favorite part? Mine is probably Maekar. He is my fav!!! Queen is also becoming my fav!
Also the reader who send me message about rereading this fic, you messages give me so much joy.
Quick authors note
Good new and bad.
Good news- I have lots of new fic outline (I am talking juicy stuff) and have finished planning my outstanding fics all the way up to the end (A Claims a Claim and my anime ones too)
Savior is nearly complete one more chapter then its request time baby!!!
Bad news- My supervision got my feedback for my exam modification and is not happy so wants me to appeal while doing (insane rewrites like whole sections) which I have like 2 month to do..... so all the amazing stories and bi weekly update are going to go on hold. I swear as soon as I have something good going I get hit by crap like this.
Fear not! I will be updating but maybe every couple of weeks. But please keep up the likes/comments coming, they nourish me!
Special shout out to @angelx112 you are so lovely. As well as all you anonymous messagers, you rock!
This is a long one soooo hope it was worth the wait.
Baelor did not panic. He had stood on battlefields slick with blood and lived. He had bargained beneath the shadow of rebellion, feeling the weight of men’s ambitions like a blade at his throat. He had heard whispers of blood magic and faced them without flinching. He had taken a wife he scarcely knew and, through patience and duty, shaped that union into something steady, something almost warm, all while navigating the quiet dangers of courtly life.
Yet none of it compared to this. Nothing had ever set his pulse racing as it did now, as he forced himself to pull away from you.
Every instinct in him cried out in protest. He wanted, with a desperation that bordered on madness, to fall to his knees before you. To beg. To cast aside pride, rank, reason, everything that had been drilled into him since boyhood, and plead until you relented. He could already see it, the two of you before the High Septon, vows spoken in the hush before dawn, the world remade with a single binding promise.
But he did not yield to that impulse. He felt the way you softened beneath his lips, the warmth of your body answering his own, and that alone was enough to drive him back. Desire surged through him, sharp and insistent, urging him to draw you closer, to let his hands wander, to lower you gently onto the cool grass beneath a sky scattered with stars that seemed to watch in silent approval.
For the sake of honour, he would not. He could not. Not with the weight of his name. Not with the storm that loomed, unseen but ever present. The stag that waited within the castle walls, restless and ready to charge at the slightest provocation.
Lyonel Baratheon was nowhere to be found when Baelor had gone to seek him. The Laughing Storm was not a man easily summoned, and sending guards would only invite spectacle. Lyonel would turn it into something loud and public, something impossible to contain.
Baelor needed time. Time to think, to plan, to act without the world crashing in around him. But time had already slipped through his fingers.
Your parents’ company had been sighted along the kingsroad, their arrival no longer a distant concern but an approaching certainty. Maekar’s harsh and abrasive nature had a way of setting events into motion that others were left to resolve. And Lyonel’s presence here was surely tied to that same tangle of consequences.
A low groan escaped him as he pressed a hand briefly to his temple. The beginnings of a headache throbbed behind his eyes, dull but persistent. Even so, the lingering sensation on his lips, the memory of you, softened the pain, made it almost bearable.
Wine would help. A cup of Gold Arbor, perhaps two, something to occupy his hands and quiet the restless ache within him. Better that than remembering the curve of your waist beneath his palms, the way you had fit against him as though you had always belonged there.
He exhaled slowly as he retreated into his chambers. The fire was already lit, casting a steady glow across the room, and for a moment he thought himself alone. Then he saw the figure seated in his usual armchair, gaze fixed deeply upon the flames.
“Father.”
Baelor paused, taking in the sight of his son. Valarr’s face was half lit by the firelight, the rest lost in shadow, making him appear older than his years.
“Valarr,” Baelor said, his voice steadying as he crossed the room. “What do I owe for such a late visit?”
He moved to the table between them, pouring two glasses from the waiting pitcher before settling into the chair opposite. The familiar motions grounded him, even as unease lingered beneath the surface.
“I have been unable to settle,” Valarr replied after a moment. “Kiera would not retire until I did, so I came here instead.”
A faint smile touched Baelor’s lips, softened by genuine affection. “You are always welcome, my son.”
He eased back into the plush cushions, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly.
Valarr did not immediately drink. His gaze remained on the fire, thoughtful, distant.
“I have been thinking,” he said at last, his voice quieter now. “About mother.”
Baelor’s brow lifted, curiosity stirring. “I take it you have asked her to marry you, then? Am I to call her mother now?” Valarr’s eyes shifted, catching the firelight fully. They burned like molten metal, bright and intense, revealing more than his calm expression ever would.
“I have asked… but I await her reply.”
Baelor watched the flicker of uncertainty pass across Valarr’s face, the way his brow drew together as though burdened by thoughts he could neither order nor cast aside. The young man shifted in his chair, restless, as if the very act of waiting was a strain he had not been prepared to endure.
“Why…” The question lingered, unfinished, heavy with disbelief.
“I am giving her time,” Baelor said gently, his voice measured, deliberate. “Time to consider. Time to choose freely.”
Valarr’s expression tightened, confusion plain upon his features. “But she will accept… won’t she?” There was a note of urgency now, something almost pleading beneath the surface. “She would be queen one day. She saved you. Surely she must…”
Baelor exhaled softly, leaning back as he turned the cup between his fingers. “Perhaps,” he said after a moment. “Or perhaps not. She possesses a mind of her own, and a formidable one at that. I would not care to imagine what thoughts she might entertain if she felt cornered or compelled.” A faint smile touched his lips, though it carried more respect than amusement.
Valarr leaned forward abruptly, his restraint cracking. “If Grandfather spoke, her father would have no choice but to listen.”
“I would rather not force her into a life she does not wish for,” Baelor replied, the firmness beneath his calm tone unmistakable.
“That does not anger you?” Valarr pressed, incredulous. “Does it not frustrate you?”
“It does,” Baelor admitted without hesitation.
The honesty seemed only to fuel the younger man’s agitation. “Then why not go to her now?” Valarr demanded. “Tell her. Make her understand. That… that Baratheon has been in her chambers all evening, saying gods knows what.” His voice sharpened, frustration bleeding through. “He has been storming through the castle as though he owns it.”
“I am very aware, Valarr,” Baelor said, lifting his cup and taking a slow sip, letting the sweetness of the wine temper his thoughts. He lowered it again, his gaze settling steadily upon his son. “But I find myself wondering… why this concerns you so deeply. You were not long ago quite clear in your dislike of her. What was it you called her?” A faint arch of his brow. “A witch, was it not?”
Colour rose swiftly to Valarr’s cheeks. “I did not…” He faltered, then sighed, the fight leaving him in a rush. “I mean… I did. But I do not think so now. Not truly.” He glanced away, gathering his thoughts. “My wife believes she is… something else entirely. A gift. Sent by the Mother herself.”
Baelor regarded him with quiet interest. “And what do you believe?”
Valarr hesitated, the firelight dancing in his eyes as doubt and wonder warred within him. “I think…” he began slowly, “I think it is possible. She saved you. Uncle tolerates her, which is no small thing. Matarys all but worships her. Even Maester Yormwell seems taken with her mind.” He swallowed. “She is… extraordinary. The kind of person one might believe the gods had a hand in shaping.” His voice softened further. “And you love her.”
“I do,” Baelor said simply.
Valarr’s frown returned, though it lacked its earlier sharpness. “Not as you loved my mother.”
Baelor’s gaze grew distant for a moment, touched by memory. “Do not mistake me, Valarr. I loved your mother. We built a life together, one forged from duty, from responsibility, from shared purpose. We gave the world two remarkable children.” His voice was gentle. “But what existed between us was a partnership.”
He paused, searching for the right words, then let them come plainly.
“With her… it is something else.”
“It is different,” Valarr said quietly, understanding dawned. “You… revere her. I have seen it.”
Baelor did not deny it.“And that troubles you?” he asked.
Valarr nodded, though slower now, more uncertain. “It did. It does” he admitted. “But…” He faltered, drawing in a breath that trembled despite his effort to steady it. “She saved you. I cannot ignore that. I was wrong about her, and I can admit that.” His voice dropped, the words becoming more fragile. “I only… I do not want to lose you. Not as I lost Mother.”
The admission seemed to take something from him, leaving him exposed in its wake.
“When I saw you that day…” Valarr continued, his voice breaking despite himself, “with her gone, and you so… lost… I thought I would lose you as well. Forever.”
The first glimmer of tears in his son’s eyes was enough. Baelor moved without hesitation, setting his cup aside as he rose and crossed the space between them. He drew Valarr into a firm embrace, one arm wrapping securely around his shoulders. The young man clung to him, the composure he had fought to maintain giving way at last.
“I will not leave you,” Baelor said quietly, his voice steady and certain, meant to be believed. “Never. You are my son. I am here, and I will remain so. Always.”
He held him there, offering what comfort he could, allowing the moment to stretch without interruption. The crackle of the fire filled the silence, and somewhere beyond the chamber walls, the bells tolled softly in the distance. Baelor did not release him until their echo had faded entirely.
xxxxxx
You did not sleep that night.
Ser Crakehall walked beside you in silence as he escorted you back to your chambers, his usual steady presence replaced by something far more rigid, almost uneasy. He did not speak, nor did he meet your gaze even once, as though whatever had passed in the gardens had placed an unspoken distance between you. When he left you at your door, it was with a stiff nod, and then he was gone.
After that, no one disturbed you. Your mind churned endlessly, dragging you through every moment that had led you here. The past day unraveled, then the past weeks, then further still, until your thoughts circled back to the tourney. That single, fateful day that had set everything into motion, though you had not known it at the time.
Kissed by Baelor Targaryen. A prince. The heir to the Iron Throne.
The man who had not only taken your breath beneath the starlit sky, he intended to marry you. The thought alone felt unreal, too vast to settle properly in your mind. It repeated itself over and over, as though saying it enough times might make it solid, might make it something you could truly grasp.
You let yourself fall back onto the bed, still dressed, the fabric of your gown whispering softly against the sheets. Your eyes closed, though rest did not follow.
You had never imagined leaving your home, not truly. Kings Landing had been a distant place in stories, not somewhere you would ever see with your own eyes. Marriage had always been a matter of quiet discussion, of alliances considered and dismissed. You knew offers had come and gone, but your father and mother had always been resolute. Your place was with your family. Where you belonged.
You turned every possibility over in your mind, examining each angle, each consequence, until exhaustion finally dragged you into a shallow, restless sleep.
Xxxxx
It was far earlier than you were ever usually roused.
The castle should have still been wrapped in sleep, quiet corridors and dim hearths, but instead it breathed with restless energy. Servants hurried past in clusters, arms laden with linens and polished silver. Banners were being unfurled and fastened along the stone walls, their colours bright even in the soft morning light. From somewhere deeper within the keep came the unmistakable rush of the kitchens in full motion, the clatter of pots and the shouted coordination of cooks preparing for something far larger than an ordinary day.
It reminded you, unmistakably, of home. Of the way your family’s keep would stir when guests of importance arrived, every corner brought to life with purpose and expectation. The way your mother demanded the spiced wine to be simmered through the night which is made in particular and sugary and one glass was enough to send the bannermen cheeks a light pink and well on the way to tipsy. Or how your father declared all welcome to his feasts, for intellectual debates, which turned into squiffy half unintelligible rambles when the moon hung fully in the sky. Even your brother dancing with way too many ladies and wearing far too much cologne.
You missed them.
Mysa leaned in close as you walked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The prince has ordered all the rooms in the west wing to be aired and cleared. We are expecting visitors.”
Carlys all but lit up beside you, her arm looping eagerly through yours as she half skipped to keep pace. “He must wish to make them feel most welcome,” she said brightly, her curiosity barely contained. “I wonder who it could be…”
You kept your gaze forward, though their excitement did not quite reach you.
Instead, a quiet unease began to take hold, curling slowly in your chest. You were happy, in truth. There was no denying that. But beneath it, something heavier lingered.
Your parents.
The thought of them pressed sharply against your mind. They would already be displeased with your absence, but this… this would be something else entirely. Far worse than the time you had slipped away under the guise of collecting books from the Old City, only for the truth to unravel later. Worse still, you had not only lied…
You had saved a prince and now that same prince intended to marry you.
The weight of it all settled deeper, your thoughts tangling as you walked. You were so lost within them that you barely noticed where you were being led, until a sudden gasp broke the haze.
Your gaze lifted.
Before you stretched a table laid as though for a feast day. It was abundant to the point of excess, platters upon platters arranged with deliberate care. Fresh breads still warm from the ovens, bowls of porridge steaming gently, cured meats and crisped bacon, delicate whole charred fish, fruits glistening with freshness, jugs of milk and neatly arranged teapots sending thin curls of steam into the air.
And seated at the center of it all, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Prince Daeron, sober.
“Our Lady Saviour,” he greeted warmly, gesturing grandly toward the spread before him. “Do join me. You are even earlier than I expected. Even my sour-faced father remains abed, which means more time in my delightful company.”
He leaned back slightly, clearly satisfied. “We have porridge, breads, fish, bacon, fruits, cold meats, teas, milk… no wine, I am afraid. I am attempting to rid myself of such vices.”
“Prince Daeron…” you began carefully, uncertainty threading your voice.
“Is he well?” you asked instead, the more pressing concern slipping free before you could temper it.
Your ladies exchanged a quick, uneasy glance.
“I will fetch Maester Yormwell…or perhaps his father,” Mysa said quickly, her tone shifting with quiet urgency. “My lady, come with us…”
“My lady…stay! Join my breakfast... lovely ladies please do gather my father and Master Yormwell, we have much to discuss… but go let me break my fast with our saviour” Daeron’s voice cut through, softer now, yet no less insistent.
You turned back to him, studying him more closely as hurried feet departed behind you There was something… off. Not madness, not quite, but something unsteady beneath the surface, something that made the air feel subtly wrong. “You look well.”
“I am well,” he continued before you could respond. “Because I have hope, my lady.” His smile lingered, though his eyes carried something deeper. “Hope that you will save me.”
You frowned faintly. “Save you? You hardly appear in need of saving.”
“I have seen it,” he said, his voice lowering as his gaze seemed to drift beyond you, unfocused. “In my dreams. I have seen you.”
A chill traced lightly along your spine.
“I have dreamed of you since that day at Ashford. That dragon was meant to fall,” he murmured. “But you changed it. You made him rise instead, made him soar.” His lips curved faintly. “And you… you will become the mother of what is to come.” He paused, blinking slowly, as though returning to himself. “But there is time for such things,” he added lightly, as if brushing the weight of his own words aside. “First…”
“Are you a dreamer?” you asked, your head tilting slightly, your curiosity sharpening despite yourself. Your eyes roving greedily over his features, dragon blood was strong with that. Your mind drifted back to the tragedy of poor Haelana the dreamer, and you frowned.
He huffed a soft, almost self-deprecating breath. “Such an extraordinary gift bestowed upon such an entirely mediocre man,” he said with a crooked smile. “A cruel jest, perhaps.”
Then, as easily as if he had not spoken of visions at all, he gestured toward the table. “But I have every faith in you curing me,” he added, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. “Provided you intend to remain.”
He reached for a platter and lifted a strip of bacon between his fingers. “Bacon?”
Xxxxx
Your family’s arrival did not come with grandeur. The gates opened without ceremony, the great wooden beams creaking as though even they felt the weight of what passed beneath them. No horns sounded, no voices rose to announce noble guests. Instead, the courtyard filled slowly with the dull, uneven rhythm of tired hooves striking stone.
The horses were the first sign of it. Their heads hung low, reins slack in the hands of men too exhausted to keep a proper hold. Foam had dried along their flanks in uneven streaks, their coats darkened with sweat and road dust. One limped as it crossed the threshold, its gait uneven, each step placed with reluctant care.
The guards fared little better. They remained mounted, but only just. Shoulders slumped, armour dulled beneath a film of dirt, cloaks hanging heavy and unkempt. One man swayed slightly in his saddle before correcting himself, jaw tightening as though sheer will alone kept him upright.
Behind them, the wheelhouse rolled in last. Its once-polished sides were now dulled by travel, wheels coated in layers of mud and dust. It creaked as it moved, each turn sounding laboured, as though it had carried more than its fair share of burden across the miles.
When it finally came to a stop, there was no pause. No moment to gather oneself, no breath taken, the door flew open.
Your mother emerged in haste, all urgency and disarray. She nearly stumbled as her feet met the ground, catching herself only just before she fell. Her hair, usually so carefully kept, had been hastily bound, strands escaping in every direction, tangled by wind and neglect. The ribbon that held it was frayed, barely doing its duty. Her gown bore the marks of the road, creased, dusted at the hem, pulled slightly out of shape from long hours spent confined within the carriage.
But none of that mattered. Her eyes moved quickly, desperately, scanning the courtyard as though she might find you simply standing there waiting.
Lyonel Baratheon saw her first.
Something in his expression shifted, softened. The ever-present storm within him quieted, replaced by m something gentle as he watched the frantic search in her gaze.
Your father followed, though his descent from the saddle was slower, more deliberate. When his boots struck the ground, he lingered for a heartbeat, shoulders rising and falling as he steadied himself. The journey had carved its mark into him, lines deeper at the corners of his mouth, the weight of worry etched plainly across his face.
But the moment passed. Purpose took hold. In three long strides, Lyonel closed the distance between them, grasping your father firmly by the arms. The gesture was solid, grounding, the kind shared between men who had weathered much together.
“Lyonel, thank the gods you are here…” your father’s voice was rough, worn from strain and lack of rest. His grip tightened. “Have you seen her?”
“Do not trouble yourself, my friend,” Lyonel answered, his voice carrying across the courtyard with ease, deep and assured. “She is safe. No harm has come to her.” His hold remained steady, reassuring. “She has been treated as though she were royalty.”
Your mother stilled at those words, but only for a moment. Relief did not come easily, not without seeing you with her own eyes.
Lyonel’s grip tightened briefly on his friend's arms. “I have secured you an audience with the king. We must be steady and strong.”
Above them, the doors of the keep opened.
Baelor descended. Each step was measured, controlled, his expression composed in the way only years of training and expectation could shape. Yet his eyes betrayed him, flickering across the scene below with quiet intensity.
He saw exhaustion, the desperation, the undeniable truth of what this journey had cost them. They looked smaller, somehow. Not in stature, but in the way hardship stripped away the careful layers of nobility, leaving only what lay beneath and it unsettled him. Then his gaze found your brother.
Then his gaze found your brother and irritation sparked. The memory was immediate. That boy,no, that young man had stood between you before, had interfered, had spoken out of turn when Baelor had neither the time nor the patience for it. The recollection alone was enough to tighten something in his chest.
Your brother met his gaze and faltered. Whatever resolve he might have carried seemed to drain in an instant. His shoulders stiffened, but not with defiance. His eyes dropped briefly before lifting again, uncertain this time, lacking the sharp edge they had once held. There was something almost sheepish in the way he stood now, as though aware painfully of the difference between them.
Baelor held his gaze a moment longer, his annoyance not hidden entirely, before letting it pass. The boy was no threat, he could not snatch you away from him, not again but he would make sure both Ser Duskendale and Crackenhall remained at your side till the matter was resolved.
“My lord. My lady,” he said smoothly, inclining his head. “I welcome you to the capital.”
“Where is my daughter?”
Your mother’s voice cut through the air without hesitation, sharp and unyielding.
Baelor did not take offense, he understood it, if anyone dared to rip you from his grip he would tear the kingdom apart till he held you in his arms agan.
“My Kingsguard will escort you to the stronghold,” he replied evenly. “You will find her there.”
At once, the white cloaks stepped forward.
Your mother did not wait. She moved immediately, urgency overtaking exhaustion as she followed, gathering her skirts in her hands. Your brother hurried after her, close at her side, though his earlier stiffness had not fully left him.
Baelor’s gaze lingered on them.
Your mother was fierce and unyielding, She would not need force when she had love, expectation, and years of influence to wield in her stead. And your brother, uncertain though he had seemed, would stand at her side, adding his own voice, perhaps quieter but no less persistent, urging you to return, to leave this place, to leave him, convincing you it was for your safety, your happiness, your rightful place in the world. Baelor’s jaw tightened as the thought settled heavily within him, that between them they could surround you with everything familiar, everything safe, until what he offered felt distant, reckless, even foolish by comparison. And if they asked you to go… if they persuaded you, not with force but with love and duty intertwined so tightly they became impossible to refuse…
Baelor exhaled slowly. Then turned away.
Lyonel had already begun leading your father toward the keep, toward the throne room where his father waited and the greatest matters waited. Baelor followed, a grave, sombre feeling settled in his bones. Whatever came next would demand more than composure, it would demand resolve
xxxxx
The throne room felt vast in its stillness. It was a cavern of stone and shadow, the high vaulted ceiling disappearing into darkness where banners hung like silent witnesses, their long, heavy folds unmoving in the stale air. Torches burned steadily along the walls, their light flickering across ancient carvings and polished floors, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to stretch and breathe with every shift of flame. The great hall, so often filled with courtiers, petitioners, and the low murmur of politics, now stood almost entirely empty.
Almost.
At its heart, raised upon a series of worn, imposing steps, sat King Daeron on the Iron throne
He did not lounge, nor did he sit in ease. His gaze moved between the men before him, not hurried, not distracted, but keenly observant, as if measuring each word before it was even spoken. There was a strange contrast to him, a man who seemed at once entirely present and yet touched by something distant, something only he could see.
At the base of the throne, flanking either side, stood his sons.
Maekar stood his presence hard, unyielding. His arms were folded across his chest, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with barely concealed irritation. There was no patience in him, no tolerance for what he clearly viewed as a waste of time. Valarr, by contrast, stood with careful composure. His hands rested loosely before him, his posture straight but not tense. His expression was controlled, measured, though his eyes flicked occasionally between the speakers, thoughtful, watchful, as though trying to soften what might otherwise turn sharp.
And slightly apart from them. Baelor. He stood tall, shoulders squared, his face a mask of calm control. Only those who knew him well might have noticed the tension held tightly beneath it, the way his focus never quite settled, shifting instead between the king, your father, and Lyonel.
“I demand a trial by combat.” Lyonel Baratheon’s voice broke the stillness like thunder, loud and unapologetic, filling the chamber and echoing faintly against the stone.
Maekar’s head snapped slightly toward him, his expression darkening at once.
“Fuck you are,” he growled, the words low but heavy with threat, his patience clearly already spent.
“What my uncle means,” Valarr interjected smoothly before the tension could rise further, his tone calm, diplomatic, “is that you have had a long journey. Perhaps you should let his Lord and company rest before making such demands.”
‘’You loyalty to your friend is admirable but it is not your place to demand a trial by combat and as far as I am aware no crime has been committed. Now my Lord speak.’’ the king's violet eyes bared down on the man.
Lyonel did not look appeased.
“My king,” your father stepped forward, his exhaustion evident but held firmly beneath a layer of resolve. His voice carried, not loudly, but with weight. “My daughter was taken from her home by a royal convoy.” His hands tightened slightly at his sides. “I ask only that I be allowed to take her home.”
King Daeron’s gaze settled fully upon him now, sharper, more focused. “Your daughter,” he said slowly, “is the saviour of my son. The crown prince. The future of this realm.” His fingers stilled against the armrest. “Which means you ignored the ravens that summoned her to King’s Landing.” There was no anger in his tone. “Had you answered,” he continued, “arrangements could have been made. Your entire family might have come in comfort, with honour.” His gaze flicked briefly toward Baelor. “Instead, my son was forced to retrieve our heroine himself.”
“I was not aware of my daughter’s involvement at Ashford,” your father replied, his voice tightening. “It was a truth my son revealed only after our home had already been entered and my daughter taken.” Your fathers eyes shifted, narrowing slightly as they settled upon Baelor.
Baelor stepped forward, the movement was deliberate, drawing attention without force, his presence steady as he spoke. “I requested your daughter’s presence,” he said clearly. “I wished to see the one to whom I owed my life.” His gaze did not waver. “And upon meeting her, I have no doubt that she is the one to whom I wish to pledge mine.” A pause. Then, with quiet certainty. “It is my intention to make her my wife.”
Your father blinked, the words seeming to strike him harder than any accusation. “My daughter…” he began, but the thought faltered, caught somewhere between disbelief and instinct. “She is not suited to… such a task she is...” he tried again, struggling to find footing.
“Intelligent,” Valarr offered gently.
“Beguiling,” came King Daeron’s voice, almost amused.
“Humble, annoying too,” Maekar added, as though building a case piece by piece.
Your father looked between them, overwhelmed by the sudden shift, the way the room itself seemed to turn in your favour without his consent.
“You can see it, can you not?” King Daeron continued, leaning forward slightly now, interest sharpening his features. “Your daughter has captivated House Targaryen.” A faint smile touched his lips. “I can think of no woman better suited to sit beside my son. To be a queen. To be a mother to this realm.”
“…my daughter has not been raised for such a role,” your father said, though the certainty in his voice had begun to fray.
“From what I have seen,” Daeron replied, “she embodies everything a queen ought to be.” His gaze flicked briefly toward Baelor, something knowing passing through it. “And we are sorely lacking in minds that think as she does. I am surround by fools”
The room stilled once more. Your father stood caught between words, between what he knew and what was being offered, between fear and something far more uncertain. At last, Daeron leaned back, the decision settling into place with quiet finality.
“It something to ponder on,” he said, almost lightly, as though the matter were not as immense as it was, “we shall not press further tonight.” His hand lifted in a small, dismissive gesture. “You have travelled far. Rest.”
His gaze shifted briefly toward Baelor. “I believe my son has had the west wing prepared for his future in-laws.”
xxxxx
The door did not open so much as it burst inward, striking the stone behind it with a force that echoed through the chamber and sent a sharp crack through the air. The quiet sanctuary you had built within these walls shattered in an instant, replaced by urgency, by movement, by the unmistakable presence of family.
Your mother entered first.
She moved quickly, almost too quickly for someone who had only just endured such a journey, her skirts gathered in one hand as she crossed the threshold with little regard for decorum. Your brother followed close behind her, his steps less certain, his posture caught somewhere between duty and hesitation. Behind them came the Kingsguard, their white cloaks falling in controlled lines, silent and watchful. Two you had only ever seen at a distance in Baelor’s shadow, their expressions unreadable beneath the discipline of their order. And then, more familiar, more grounding, Ser Duskendale and Ser Crakehall, both steady, both alert, their presence filling the doorway as they entered last.
But none of that mattered the moment her eyes found you.
Everything in your mother changed.
The sharpness fell away, the tension that had held her rigid loosening all at once. Her breath caught, a soft, broken sound escaping her as relief flooded her features so completely it made her look younger, softer, almost fragile in a way you had never seen before.
“My daughter…”
She reached you in only a few strides, her hands coming to your face, your shoulders, as though she needed to feel you, to assure herself you were real and whole and not some illusion conjured from fear and exhaustion.
“You are well… you are safe…” she murmured, her voice warm, trembling slightly with emotion she rarely allowed herself to show.
For a brief moment, she held you there, close, her forehead nearly brushing yours, her presence enveloping, familiar, grounding.
Relief hardened into something sharper, something structured and controlled. Her hands dropped to your arms, not unkindly, but firmly, as she drew back to properly look at you, her gaze sweeping over you with a critical eye.
“We will have to begin locking doors, I think,” she said, her tone tightening with familiar authority. “If not, who knows what trouble you will get yourself into next.” Her lips pressed together in disapproval. “My dresses will never recover from this ordeal. Do you have any idea what riding in a wheelhouse does to silk? Ruined. Entirely ruined.”
You blinked, the warmth of her earlier embrace already fading beneath the weight of her words.
“Foolish girl,” she continued, turning her sharp gaze briefly toward your brother. “And you, Aston. Letting her involve herself in such nonsense. She is a lady. A lady. And yet she is wandering about in mud at a tourney, of all places. Blood everywhere, filth, noise, men shouting like animals. It is entirely improper.”
“I never told you about Ashford because I knew how you would react,” you said, your voice quieter but steady enough to cut through hers.
She paused, only slightly.
“You would have scolded me. Told me off. You would not have listened.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I saved someone,” you continued, your voice softening but holding firm. “You should be proud. I saved someone. He would have died. He would have been carried from that field and…”
“Stop this silliness,” she said sharply, dismissing your words with a flick of her hand. “Enough of this nonsense. Your father will speak to the king. We will say it was your brother’s doing, that you merely recalling knowledge, and then we will leave. This will be corrected.”
“I am not silly,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
“What are you saying?” she demanded, already turning away from you, already moving as though the matter were decided. “Are these the servants? We must have your things gathered at once. There is no reason to linger here…”
“Mother,” you said, firmer now. “They are not servants.”
She turned back, irritation flashing across her features as her gaze landed on the three women gathered nearby.
They stood close together, instinctively drawn into one another’s space. Brieanne stood slightly forward, her composure intact though her hands were clasped tightly before her. Mysa and Carlys hovered just behind her, their expressions uncertain, their eyes wide as they took in your mother’s presence.
“We are her ladies in waiting, my lady,” Brieanne said, dipping into a respectful curtsy, her voice calm despite the tension. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Your mother stared at her. “Ladies in waiting,” she repeated, disbelief colouring every syllable. Her gaze swept the room then, taking in the towering shelves, the countless books, the quiet order you had built here. Her expression tightened further. “Who do you think she is? The queen? Silly girl”
Your brother said nothing, he only looked at you, there was no anger, no accusation, only a quiet, unsettled guilt. His shoulders seemed smaller somehow, his posture less certain, as though he stood caught between loyalty to your mother and something else he could not quite name.
“I am not silly,” you said again, louder this time.
“Daughter don’t be stupid…”
“Mother, perhaps we should wait for Father to return,” your brother offered, his voice careful, almost cautious, as though he feared pushing too far in either direction.
“I am not silly or stupid,” you said, the words steady now, grounded in something deeper.
“We will wait in the carriage,” your mother said briskly, brushing past it all, reclaiming control with sheer will. “Your father will be done shortly, and these…”She stopped.
Ser Duskendale and Ser Crakehall had moved. They now stood at the doorway, their presence filling it completely, leaving no clear path beyond them. Their posture was firm, unyielding, their expressions composed but resolute.
“My lady will not be going anywhere,” Ser Duskendale said, his voice even, respectful but immovable. “Not unless she wishes it.”
Your mother turned slowly to face them, her expression cooling into something far sharper. “My daughter will do as she is told,” she replied, each word precise. “And you have no authority over that.”
The room seemed to constrict, walls leaning in as the tension thickened. Neither Ser Duskendale nor Ser Crakehall flinched or moved an inch. Their armor gleamed faintly in the torchlight, polished to a severe perfection, but it was their presence that filled the space. Every line of their bodies spoke of restraint, of discipline, of readiness. “Our authority comes from the Crown,” Ser Crakehall said, his voice calm, unwavering, but carrying the weight of steel behind it. “We are sworn to serve and protect our lady. We follow her will.”
The words hung in the air, echoing faintly off the stone walls, heavier than any scolding or command. A hush settled over the chamber. Even the torches seemed to burn slower, as if holding their breath. You could hear only the faint shuffle of your own feet against the cold flagstones and the shallow, sharp intake of your mother’s breath. She turned her gaze from the knights to you, her eyes wide, disbelief flickering across her face, then hardening into anger, sharp as a blade. There was something new there, something dangerous, something that made the hair on your neck rise.
“Daughter! What is the meaning of this?” Her voice rang out, high-pitched, trembling with fury, reverberating against the vaulted ceiling. “Tell them to move! You are coming home!”
The words hit you, but beneath them stirred a more private fear. She did not see you as yourself; she saw only the girl she thought she had raised, the obedient daughter. But you were not that girl anymore. You were someone else, someone who had claimed her own choices, and that someone refused to bend now.
“Did you truly tell Lord Baratheon that you don’t want me to marry…because they could use me in ‘any purpose’ like a gullible idiot?” Her voice trembled as it rose again, a mixture of disbelief, horror, and a mother’s fierce need to protect.
You felt your chest tighten, your heartbeat quickening as heat rose to your face. Her words threatened to crush you under the weight of expectation, judgment, and fear. But then, clarity surged through you. You had spoken your truth, and it was your truth that mattered. Your voice shook slightly, but the edge was there, tempered with the strength you had been cultivating all these months.
“Well, you do seem to be acting this one now…now I will not answer any more of your questions,” she huffed, each word deliberate, controlled.
You realized that for the first time, your mother no longer had control here. You could see it in her eyes, in the slight hesitation in her stance, in the momentary falter of the fury she had carried for so long.
Relief surged unexpectedly through you, warm and dizzying, but it was tangled with the adrenaline of confrontation. You had found your voice. You had carved a space for yourself, even here, even against the force of family. A thrill mingled with fear, and it left your hands trembling faintly, though your stance remained firm.
“Get out, Mother,” you said, quieter now, measured, but no less firm. The words fell between you like iron. “Just… leave.”
Your brother drew in a sharp breath. His eyes widened, pupils dark, almost dilated, the color of guilt and panic dancing together. He shifted from foot to foot, the weight of indecision making his body taut, the color draining from his face as if he had been struck. He looked at you as though he had never truly seen you before, as though the girl he had known had been replaced by someone unrecognizable in her strength and resolve.
Your mother stared at you, her mouth opening slightly, then closing, her lips pressed together so tightly they were pale. The recognition of her own child, no longer pliant, no longer malleable, seemed to fight with her sense of authority and the expectation that you would always yield to her will. Her eyes widened in disbelief, and for a long moment she simply stood there, unmoving, unblinking.
“The lady has asked you to leave,” Ser Duskendale said, stepping slightly forward, the authority behind his voice now undeniable. His stance radiated a calm, absolute power, the kind that brooked no argument. “You may do so willingly… or I will see it done by force.”
Xxxxx
Your mother burst across the courtyard, skirts flying, hair loose in the wind, her hands trembling as she reached your father. Every step seemed hurried, uneven, as if fear and urgency pushed her forward faster than her own balance could manage. Her face was pale, eyes wide, brimming with worry, lips parted in shallow gasps. The moment she reached him, she clutched at his arms, pressing close, as though holding him might steady the world.
“She threw me out,” she murmured, her voice cracking, eyes darting to the white cloaks of the Kingsguard standing at the edges of the courtyard.
Baelor’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner. Relief mingled with amusement, there was a small, stubborn triumph in knowing you had not allowed your self to be swept away.
Aston frowned, stepping closer, his brows knitting together with exasperation and disbelief. “Mother was a bit heavy-handed with her,” he said, voice measured but tinged with unease.
“She is such a headstrong girl,” your mother snapped, wringing her hands with worry, her fingers trembling with each twist of the fabric. “And that is entirely your fault, husband, letting her read and bustle about the keep as she pleases. It gives her ideas….dangerous, foolish ideas!”
“My dear… hush,” your father murmured, leaning down slightly to press a hand against her quivering shoulder, his voice gentle, soothing, but firm, attempting to anchor her frantic energy.
“She was always a difficult child,” she continued, stepping back slightly, voice rising with frustration. “Unruly and opinionated, always arguing, always bossy, always some idea or another. Stupid, terrible ideas!” Her hands fluttered nervously at her sides, twisting in frustration, her fear evident in every motion.
“If she were a man, you would be praising her,” your brother spat indulgently, his tone sharp, the corners of his mouth curled with a mixture of irritation and grudging admiration.
“Enough from you!” your mother howled, spinning toward him, eyes blazing. “This is your fault too, indulging her, just like our father! Letting her abscond to that god-forsaken place! She was never supposed to leave the keep…she is a girl! My babe” Her voice cracked as the words tore out of her, raw with worry, fear, and a mother’s desperate anger.
“Maybe the gods made her a woman,” your father said softly, shaking his head, “to give men a chance to challenge her. I should have trusted her.” His voice carried a mixture of regret and quiet pride, eyes following the path your mother’s energy had left in the courtyard.
Baelor’s eyes flicked toward the retreating form of your mother, still clinging to Aston as they moved toward the carriage. He pitied her, he saw a mother struggling. Struggling to protect a child she didn't understand, forcing her into a safe little world that would not contain you. The pity did not remain for long. A small measure of satisfaction and hope warmed his chest. Perhaps now, with her temporarily restrained, you could speak, act, breathe. Perhaps the seeds of your independence could take root.
Your father turned then toward the assembled nobles and knights, bowing slightly before the king. “My prince, please, allow me to visit my daughter,” he said, his voice low, respectful, tinged with hope.
Lyonel stepped closer to your mother, laying a hand on her shoulder in quiet reassurance, his presence a grounding force against her frantic energy.
“Of course,” Baelor said, frowning slightly, tension tightening his jaw, though inside, that cautious optimism still glimmered. “I would never stop you.”
For a brief moment, your mother exhaled, her trembling easing just enough to lean on Lyonel, her eyes softening with the relief of permission, even as worry still lingered, sharp and urgent, in every line of her face.
Xxxxx
“You handled your mother remarkably well,” Brieanne said, leaning in close, her voice a mix of admiration and awe. “I never thought anyone could stand up to a mother so firmly. And calmly, too!”
“Yes, my lady,” Mysa added, smiling as she adjusted the folds of your gown. “I feared she might drag you back screaming, but you… you simply stood your ground. It was incredible. I wish I could do the same to my own dear mother!”
Carlys, always more exuberant, clapped her hands together, eyes shining. “And now you are staying! Just think of all the books we can read together. All the sketches we can complete! All the Maester’s notes we can decipher!.....and all the dress we can look at” she blushed as the insidious look she received from the Lannister.
Your gaze drifted past them for a moment, toward the open doorway where your father stood, peering into your rooms. His eyes lingered on the shelves, the stacks of notebooks, the scattered sketches, and the neat rows of Maester Yormwell’s annotations. But when his eyes found you, tears slowly dripped down his face.
The knights accompanying him, Ser Duskendale and Ser Crakehall, hovered quietly, ever watchful. “You are not here to upset our Lady?” Duskendale asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice. Your father shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Without hesitation, you rose from your seat and rushed forward, arms wrapping around him, pressing your face against his chest. The comfort of his presence grounded you, made the tension of the last hours melt away.
“Papa, I missed you.” you murmured into his tunic, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek.
Xxxxx
Your father stayed long after the seventh bell had sounded, long after the castle had begun to quiet and the evening settled into something softer, more intimate. Your ladies had returned, the candles had been lit, and still he remained, seated beside you as though there were no other place he would rather be.
And you spoke.
You spoke as you always had, as though a dam had broken and every thought you had held back spilled forward all at once. You told him of the journey to King’s Landing, of the long roads and the shifting skies, of the strange mix of fear and wonder that had followed you every mile. You spoke of the sept, of its towering arches and quiet reverence, of the way the light filtered through coloured glass and made everything feel almost sacred.
You spoke of books. Each one, in detail. You named authors as though reciting a litany, your hands moving as you spoke, your thoughts darting from one idea to another with bright, restless energy. You lingered on passages, on verses that had caught your attention, on theories that had fascinated or frustrated you.
“In particular,” you said, leaning forward slightly, “I cannot agree with Maester Vareega’s assertion that quinine bark serves no purpose in the treatment of sickness. It is entirely dismissive of its potential properties, and I think…if prepared correctly…it could be…”
Your father nodded, listening, truly listening, his eyes warm with quiet amusement and something deeper. Pride, perhaps. He asked questions where they were needed, gentle prompts that kept you moving, but for the most part he let you wander, let you leap from one thought to another as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Prince Maekar has been most kind,” you continued, barely pausing for breath. “He allows me to lunch with little Prince Aemon, and I have been helping him with his studies. He is quite clever, though he does grow distracted….”
You shifted again, already moving on.
“Brieanne prefers histories, though she pretends otherwise. Mysa and Carlys drift endlessly between romance and poetry, though I did catch Mysa reading a tome on herbal remedies, which she continues to deny quite adamantly, though I am entirely certain...”
You laughed softly to yourself, then pressed on.
“Maester Yormwell says the salve preparation must be kept at a consistent temperature, though I think there may be some flexibility in that if the base ingredients are...”
You spoke until your throat grew dry, until your lips began to crack slightly with the effort, until even your breath came a little shorter between sentences. And still, he listened.
“I must admit,” your father said at last, his voice soft, almost awed, “I never thought I would see the day when you would miss something so obvious.”
You blinked, your thoughts stalling. “Father?”
His smile widened, eyes glistening faintly in the candlelight. “It would seem Prince Baelor’s intentions were clear from the very beginning,” he said, a low chuckle escaping him as he took in your expression.
“A prince does not gift books from his personal collection lightly. Nor does he allow such free reign with them. Nor does he send his own kin across half the realm to retrieve a ‘little bookworm’.” His tone was warm, teasing now, as he reached out to tickle lightly at your side.
“And he certainly does not entrust her with the care and teaching of a young prince.”
You let out a small, embarrassed laugh, pulling your skirts closer as warmth rushed to your cheeks. You shifted away slightly, settling at the opposite end of the lounge, though the space between you felt filled with something soft and understanding.
“Baelor asked me last night,” you admitted, pressing your cheek closer to your father’s chest.
“It would seem,” he said, sighing as he ruffled your hair, “that I have very little say in the matter.”
“But you wish me to decline?” you asked, eyes lifting to meet his.
“I wish you to make your own mind up,” he said, his tone softening, filled with pride. “I sometimes forget how clever you are. I still see you as that little toddler, eyes wide with wonder as I carried you through the castle, so gleeful, so fearless. And yet here you are, grown and capable, making your own choices.”
You smiled against him, the warmth of his words sinking deep into your chest.
“I would not have parted you from any of this for less,” he added more quietly, his voice gentling. “Not unless it is what you truly want.”He rose then, stretching slightly, the weariness of the road finally catching up to him.
“Now, I must find my bed. Two weeks on the road with your mother has left me quite threadbare.” He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Goodnight, my little genius.”
“Goodnight, Father.”
The door closed softly behind your father, the sound barely more than a whisper, yet it seemed to echo through the room in a way that lingered. For a moment, you remained exactly where you were, as though movement might disturb something fragile that had settled in his absence. The warmth of his presence still clung faintly to the space, to the cushions where he had sat, to the air that had been filled with your voice only moments before.
You sat there, hands resting loosely in your lap, and for the first time that day, your thoughts were not rushing ahead of you. They did not leap from one subject to another, did not scatter into a dozen half-formed ideas. Instead, they gathered. Slowed. Turned inward.
You thought of leaving. Of returning home, to familiar halls and known routines and nothing but predictable. You could go back. You could fit yourself into that space again, into the quiet limitations that had once felt normal.
But now…you know what lies beyond it. You had seen the world stretch wider than your parents keep. You had argued with maesters, studied with princes, been entrusted with knowledge, with purpose. You had been seen. And more than that you thought of Baelor again, of the way his voice had softened, his question, his conversation. There was something there that you could not dismiss. Not just affection. Respect.
A slow breath left you, steadying. This would not be easy. Nothing about it would be. Your mother would resist. The court would whisper. There would be expectations you had never been prepared for, roles you would have to grow into without guidance.
But for the first time, that did not feel like a reason to refuse. The uncertainty did not vanish, but it no longer ruled you. Beneath it, something stronger had taken hold. A quiet, unshakable certainty that this path, however daunting, was one you were willing to walk.
You drew in a breath and stood, the movement slow but deliberate, as though sealing the decision within yourself.
“Ser Duskendale…” you called softly as you moved toward the door. “Might I seek an audience with the prince?”
The knight straightened at once, though there was a flicker of surprise in his expression as he took in the hour, the stillness of the corridor beyond.
“My lady,” he said carefully, “it is nearing the middle of the night.”
“I…” You faltered briefly, the weight of what you were doing brushing against you again. “I am sorry. I only…I wished to…”
He studied you then, more closely, something sharper entering his gaze, as though he were measuring not your words, but what lay beneath them. “My lady… do you have an answer for the prince?” he asked, and there was no mistaking the note of anticipation in his voice now.
Your breath caught, your heart quickening.“Does… everyone know?” you asked, your voice quieter than before.
A faint, almost sympathetic smile touched his lips. “Yes, my lady. Most of the castle. Plus a rather terrified septon, he now refuse to attain service if Prince Maeker is there. And at least half of King’s Landing, if they have seen the way the prince looks at you. Prince Baelor has been rather open in his intention”
Heat rose swiftly to your cheeks, and you lowered your gaze, the reality of it pressing in from all sides. For a moment, doubt flickered again. “I shall wait until morning,” you said quickly, retreating slightly from the edge of your own resolve. “I should think about it more.”
Ser Duskendale adjusted his stance, his weight moving as though he were considering something carefully, something beyond protocol.
“NO!’’ he winced, straightening himself, his gaze returned to you, steadier now. ‘’I mean... its quite alright. Come with me,”
Xxxxxx
“These passages were meant for discreet meetings,” Ser Duskendale said quietly as he guided you forward through long passages of darkness, his voice low though there was a tightness beneath it. “If you ever intend to seek the prince for....a private liason, my lady, you must allow myself or Crakenhall to escort you. The stronghold is safe… but not without ears or danger.”
Your cheeks burned instantly, heat rising so fiercely it felt as though it might give you away entirely. You nodded, unable to trust your voice, your hands clasping together as you followed him.
The passage was narrow, far narrower than the grand corridors you had grown used to. The stone walls pressed close on either side, the air cooler here, tinged faintly with dust and old mortar. Only a few torches lined the way, their light dim and flickering, casting long, uncertain shadows that danced with each step you took. It felt secretive, hidden, as though you were moving through a part of the castle not meant for open use.
And yet, as you walked, a realization slowly settled in, how close he had placed you. How easily these passages connected your rooms to his. The thought made your breath catch slightly, your heart beating just a little faster as you followed the knight through a final turn before he came to a stop before a door.
He knocked. Then, from within, warm and clear, though edged with mild distraction, came Baelor’s voice.
“Enter.”
The door opened.
Baelor was not dressed in courtly finery, nor clad in the careful composure of a prince before his people. Instead, he lounged in more relaxed attire, breeches and a loose jacket, the fabric slightly rumpled from where he had been reclining. A book rested in his hand, half-forgotten now as he turned toward the door.
At the sight of Ser Duskendale, he surged upright instantly.
All ease vanished. Concern replaced it in an instant, sharp and immediate. His brows drew together, his posture tightening, his gaze searching the knight’s face as though expecting ill news, something urgent, something wrong.
“What is it…is she…”
And then he saw you just behind the knight, half-shadowed by the doorway.
The tension left him in a breath. His expression softened so completely it was almost startling, the worry melting into something brighter, something warmer. A smile spread across his face, unguarded and genuine, and there was something unmistakable in the way his eyes lingered on you. Adoration.
“My lady wishes to speak urgently,” Ser Duskendale said, stepping aside, dunking quickly out of the room into the safely of the corridor.
Baelor moved at once, setting the book aside hastily, running a hand through his hair as though suddenly aware of himself. His movements were quick, almost boyish in their urgency as he tried to compose himself.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he began, his voice softer now, a touch breathless. “I was not expecting…”
“I accept.” The words left you before you could lose them.
He stilled. For a heartbeat, he simply stared at you, as though he had not heard correctly. ''What?” he asked, the word almost disbelieving, barely more than a breath.
“I accept your proposal,” you said, your voice quieter now, your hands twisting slightly in your skirts. “I wish to become your wife… very much so.”
There was something shy in the way you said it, something earnest and unpolished, and it seemed to undo him entirely. He crossed the space between you in an instant. His arms came around you without hesitation, lifting you from your feet as though you weighed nothing at all. You let out a small gasp as he spun you, laughter breaking free from him, bright and unrestrained, the sound filling the room in a way that made everything feel suddenly alive.
“You cannot mean it…you do…gods, you do,” he was saying, words tumbling over themselves, his voice rich with happiness he made no effort to hide. “You have no idea…no idea what you have just given me….”
He set you down but did not step away, his hands still resting at your waist, as though he feared you might vanish if he let go. Up close, you could see him properly.
His hair, longer than was strictly proper, curled softly around his ears and fell in loose strands where he had disturbed it. Without thinking, without planning it, you reached up, your fingers brushing tentatively through it.
He froze. Not from discomfort, he did not move, as though any sudden motion might break the moment.
“You hair…,” you said, your voice small, your cheeks warming again. “It suits you.”
His smile that followed was quieter, but deeper, filled with a kind of fondness that made your chest tighten. “I do have one request,” you whispered after a moment, his expression shifting slightly, something more serious threading through it as he looked down at you.
“Can you kiss me,” you murmured beneath your lashes, your voice soft, almost hesitant, “as you did in the garden?”
His lips found yours again with a quiet certainty, closing the small space between you as though it had never existed. This time there was no pause, no careful testing. His mouth settled fully over yours, warm and sure, the softness of it drawing a breath from you before you could stop it. His hands tightened instinctively at your waist, pulling you closer, not roughly, but with a kind of restrained urgency that betrayed just how long he had held himself back.
You felt his breath catch against your lips, felt the way he steadied himself even as he deepened the kiss, as though he were balancing between restraint and desire.
Your own lips parted slightly beneath his, uncertain at first, then responding, moving with his in a slow, unhurried rhythm that felt as though it belonged entirely to the two of you. There was nothing rushed in it, nothing careless. It was deliberate, lingering, each shift of his mouth against yours thoughtful, as though he were committing the feeling to memory.
A soft sound escaped you before you could stop it, barely more than a breath, but he felt it. You knew he did by the way his grip tightened just slightly, the way his thumb brushed faintly against your side as though grounding himself in the moment.
Warmth spread through you, steady and deep, not overwhelming but impossible to ignore, settling into your chest and blooming outward with every second he remained close.
When he finally drew back, it was only by a fraction.
Your lips still brushed his, your breaths mingling, uneven and shared. His forehead hovered close to yours, nearly resting there, and for a moment neither of you moved, as though breaking the contact entirely would undo something delicate.
His hand rose slowly, almost reverently, brushing along your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw with a softness that made your breath hitch again. His fingers lingered there, as though memorising you, as though afraid to lose the feel of you.
“I fear,” he murmured, his voice lower now, roughened at the edges, “that I must stop myself… before I forget every honourable intention I have ever held.”
You swallowed, your throat tight, your pulse racing in a way that left your thoughts scattered and distant.
He exhaled softly, a faint, breathless smile touching his lips as he leaned in again, not to claim your mouth this time, but to press gentle kisses along your cheek, your temple, the curve just beneath your ear. Each one was softer than the last, but no less filled with feeling, as though he could not quite help himself.
A quiet hum escaped him, something content, something deeply pleased, as he let his lips linger briefly at your neck, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver through you.
“And I will,” he said, though it was clear the promise cost him something. “I will show you how gallant a husband I can be.” His gaze lifted to yours again, softer now, though something playful flickered beneath it, restrained but present.
“But not,” he added quietly, leaning in once more, his lips brushing yours in a lighter, teasing kiss, “until I have thoroughly kissed you…” His mouth found yours again, slower this time, lingering, as though he meant to savour every second, every small sound, every breath shared between you before he allowed himself to step back at all.
Soooo.... What was everyones favorite scene? Mine might have to be the Valarr and Baelor scene... who am I kidding it was the kissing scene! Shout out for Ser Duskendale...wingman legand.
I am gutted to not get any Maeker in here but I have a mazing scene plan between him a Daeron...he is going to havee a breakdown poor man
Thank you for all the lovely messages I got to make sure I was alive and to encourage me on!!!!
are you okay i always see you’re online but we havent heard from you in days
I am sooo sorry! I am alive and writing! My chapter is just taking a little bit longer then anticipated!!! We are currently on about 8000 words and counting.... 🤭🤭🤭
It will be worth the wait! I promise!!!!
Also all your lovely comments and messages actually make me feel so loved 🥹🥹🥹
I will make the next chapter extra special.🥰🥰
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