Baelor Targaryen x fem!reader x Maekar Targaryen
Chapter 2 - The Weight of a Touch
Masterlist Chapter 1 Chapter 3 Chapter 4
Careful not to mistake closeness for something more.
But not everyone mistakes it.
And not everyone is willing to ignore what they see.
English is not my first language!
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
The changes begin with things most of the court does not notice.
Patrol strength at the southern crossing increases—slightly, without announcement. Two extra men one day, three the next. Officially, “rotation.”
Messengers from Dorne receive replies faster than usual. Too fast to be coincidence.
And at the council table, the map appears more often than before.
Baelor Targaryen does not speak openly of danger. He does not accuse. He asks questions.
“How many men are needed to secure the crossing when the river runs high?”
“How quickly could a detachment be sent from King’s Landing to the south?”
“Which bridges see the least traffic in winter?”
The questions are practical.
Not because Baelor says more.
Because he speaks of the exact same places you pointed out on the map several evenings earlier.
During one council session, Baelor leans over the parchment and indicates the crossing you had called the most “invisible.”
“Here,” he says calmly. “Reinforce it. Discreetly.”
Maekar does not look away from him.
He does not question him before the council.
Only later, when the chamber empties, does he stop his brother by the door.
“You’re changing the patrol distribution.”
“Rotation,” Baelor answers evenly.
“At the same crossing the queen’s lady mentioned.”
“She pointed it out first.”
The silence between them is not hostile.
“She brought a pattern,” Baelor replies calmly. “Not a decision.”
Maekar watches him for a moment longer.
“And you believe that is enough?”
“I believe it is worth listening to those who see sooner than others.”
It doesn’t sound like a defense.
But something new enters his tone.
Something closer to vigilance.
A few days later, you notice it yourself.
During an audience, Baelor turns to you to confirm the date of one of the reports. He doesn’t have to. He could ask a scribe.
“If I recall correctly, the last letter from Dorne arrived three days before the report?” he asks.
A brief, approving smile.
But Maekar stands several paces away.
The report arrives at dawn.
Short. Precise. Devoid of emotion. A small armed group attempted to cross the southern ford after nightfall, claiming to have lost their way. They turned back when they encountered the increased patrol. No clash occurred.
But someone tested the border.
That same day, you are summoned to the Hand’s chambers.
This time without guards or formality. One of the scribes delivers the message as though it concerns an ordinary report.
You enter to find Baelor Targaryen standing by the window. Morning light illuminates the parchment in his hand.
He turns when he hears the door.
“They tried to cross,” he says calmly.
You read carefully. The account is dry, almost indifferent—as though it were merely a navigational mistake.
“Had the patrol not been reinforced, they would have passed unnoticed,” he adds.
Your eyes rest on the location name.
“This is not rebellion. Not yet.”
“No,” he agrees. “But someone was measuring how far they could go.”
The silence is focused, not heavy.
“It was wise to increase the guard beforehand,” you say.
“It was wise that someone noticed beforehand.”
“You made the decision, Your Highness.”
He closes the report and sets it aside.
“Many people see small details. Few can arrange them into a whole.”
You stand closer than necessary now. Morning light catches in his hair.
“You assembled it, my prince,” you answer softly.
Baelor smiles faintly, as if not entirely convinced.
“Sometimes it is enough that someone points the direction.”
It is a simple sentence, spoken without official tone.
Footsteps pass in the corridor.
Baelor steps slightly away from the table.
“For now, that is all,” he says more formally. “But continue watching.”
You leave knowing something larger was avoided.
You have not taken three steps before you hear heavier, quicker footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.
He does not slow as he passes you. His gaze rests on you for a fraction of a second—long enough to note which chamber you are leaving.
He passes you and enters his brother’s chamber without knocking.
The door does not fully close.
Not because you intend to listen.
“It did,” Baelor answers calmly.
“The patrol was in place.”
“So they tried,” Maekar says.
You stand in the corridor one second too long.
That evening the air in the Red Keep’s gardens is cooler than usual. Candles in the stone niches cast soft light across marble balustrades.
Baelor Targaryen stands near a column, without a cloak, as though he stepped outside only briefly.
“Escaping the court?” he asks quietly when he sees you.
“Sometimes one must breathe away from it.”
For a moment you stand beside one another, looking at the dark ribbon of the Blackwater in the distance.
“The border has quieted,” he says after a moment.
The silence is not awkward.
“At the council I could not say everything,” he adds. “But had it not been for your observations, we would have reacted later.”
He does not look at you immediately.
As if the admission costs more than it should.
“It was only observation.”
“No,” he says softly. “It was more.”
Candlelight traces the line of his face.
“Do you know how many come to me with ambition?” he asks. “With hunger for influence?”
“I serve the crown,” you say more quietly than usual.
“But not everyone serves it with such devotion.”
The distance between you narrows.
“I should have thanked you sooner.”
“It is enough that you listened.”
His gaze lingers on your face a moment too long.
The wind stirs a loose strand of your hair.
Baelor lifts his hand—and this time he does not stop midway. He brushes the strand from your face carefully, as if each movement carries weight.
His fingers graze your cheek.
He does not withdraw immediately.
“I’m glad you came that day,” he says softly.
The distance shrinks again, almost imperceptibly. You are not sure which of you steps forward first. Perhaps both.
Your heart beats faster, but you do not look away.
Candlelight reflects in his eyes when he looks at you as he never has before—not as the Hand of the King, not as a prince. As a man who has allowed himself to stop weighing every word.
“That was risky,” you whisper.
His thumb traces lightly along your jaw.
This is not a hurried decision.
It is something you have both been approaching for weeks.
Baelor leans down slowly.
He gives you time to step back.
His lips touch yours gently, almost uncertainly—as though testing whether this is real or only a moment that will vanish.
Warmth and tension—long contained within reports and maps and shared decisions—finally surface.
When he pulls back slightly, his forehead rests against yours.
Your breaths mingle in the cool night air.
You lift your hand and touch his face, as if to confirm he is truly here.
“I did not plan this,” you whisper.
He smiles faintly, but there is no jest in his eyes.
He kisses you again, slower this time. His hand slides to your waist, drawing you closer until you feel his heart beating faster than it should.
Your fingers slip into his hair.
The kiss deepens naturally, like a conversation without words—careful, and yet increasingly bold.
When he pulls back a fraction, his thumb still strokes your jaw.
“I’ve thought of this for days,” he murmurs. “Of you. The way you look at maps. The way you speak. The way you are not afraid.”
“This is dangerous,” you say—but your hands do not push him away.
His forehead touches yours again.
“But when you’re beside me, everything else stops being the most important thing.”
Your heart climbs into your throat.
“Don’t say that if you’re not certain.”
The word falls without hesitation.
His hand slides slowly along your side, as if memorizing the shape of you through the fabric of your gown. There is no haste. Only desire that has finally stopped being restrained.
“I don’t want this to be only a moment,” he says softly. “Not with you.”
Your fingers lace with his.
He kisses you again, deeper now, as if the answer lies in your mouth. His hand tightens gently at your waist, and you pull him closer, allowing yourself this without calculation.
The garden suddenly feels smaller.
The world reduces to your shared breath.
When he finally draws back, his lips still brush the corner of your mouth.
“Will you stay a while longer?” he asks quietly.
As a man who does not want the night to end.
A few days pass, and the afternoon sun glints off steel.
The air is thick with the smell of sweat, dust, and heated stone. Knights finish their drills, laughing louder than they should. Shields drop to the ground.
You’re only cutting through, a report tucked beneath your arm.
You’re not looking for him.
And yet you see him immediately.
Maekar Targaryen is pulling off his training gloves, hair damp against his temples, his shirt darkened with sweat. His shoulders are tense; his breathing is still quick from sparring.
You lift your eyes only for a moment.
And he doesn’t look away.
His voice stops you mid-step.
He comes closer. Too close for a yard that still has people in it—though no one seems to pay attention.
“I didn’t know military exercises interested you,” he says evenly.
“Everything that can threaten the realm interests me.”
He stands in front of you now. You can feel the heat of him even with the space between you.
“You’ve changed,” he adds after a moment.
“You look more carefully.”
He isn’t looking at the report beneath your arm.
“I’ve always looked carefully.”
For a second you don’t understand.
“If the prince has something specific in mind—”
His hand closes around your wrist.
Exactly as it was in the corridor.
Your body reacts faster than reason.
“Let go,” you say softly.
But you don’t tear your hand away.
His gaze moves over your face, as if searching for proof of something he cannot name.
“Don’t think I don’t see it,” he says quieter.
Your pulse pounds in your ears.
“That when my brother speaks, you listen differently.”
And a faint shadow beneath it—
You breathe more slowly, trying to regain control.
“He is the Hand of the King…”
It shouldn’t sound personal.
His thumb shifts—just slightly—along the inside of your wrist.
Your knees almost soften.
“You’re not afraid of me.”
But your body is too aware of his closeness.
Maekar leans in a fraction.
He doesn’t touch anything but your wrist.
And still the space between you thickens.
And only then does he release you.
But your gaze catches on his mouth for a heartbeat too long.
And this time, he smiles—very slightly.
Like someone who has just discovered something important.
“Careful,” he says softly.
And he leaves you with a heart beating faster than any report ever managed.
Late that night, the door to your chamber closes behind you more quietly than usual.
The room is cold. A single candle burns by the looking glass, casting uneven light over the stone walls. You pull off your gloves slowly, as if your fingers don’t quite belong to you.
Your wrist still remembers his touch.
It should have vanished by now.
And yet you feel it more clearly now than you did in the yard.
You brace your hands on the top of the dresser and close your eyes.
It wasn’t even tenderness.
Your heart speeds up when you remember the way he looked at you. Not like a lady-in-waiting. Not like an ally.
Like something he wanted to understand.
“This is foolish,” you whisper to yourself.
About the fact that your body reacted faster than your mind. That you didn’t wrench your hand away. That for one second you didn’t want him to let go.
The warmth of his hand at your waist.
The softness of his kiss.
What happened today was not safe.
It was a spark set to dry timber.
You touch your own wrist where Maekar held you.
Your heart stutters again.
“Dragonfire,” you murmur with faint irony.
You always knew there was something intense in him.
You just didn’t expect to feel it so clearly.
You turn away abruptly, as if you can cut the thought off.
You are not a girl who loses her head over a look.
You are not someone’s pawn.
You lie down, but sleep doesn’t come.
The darkness doesn’t soothe your thoughts. You turn onto your side, eyes closed, and memory returns faster than you want it to.
The warmth of a hand at your waist. The way Baelor kissed you without haste, as if giving you a choice with every second. The steadiness in his gaze. The certainty.
A heat of an entirely different kind. A hand tight around your wrist. A voice lower, nearer. The fact that you didn’t pull away. The fact that, for a moment, you didn’t want him to release you.
It isn’t the same feeling.
Baelor is like a flame you can warm your hands beside.
Maekar is like a fire that can burn.
And you stand between them, feeling both.
You raise your hand and touch your lips, as if checking whether the kiss is still there. Then you slide your fingers over your wrist, as if searching for the trace of something else.
You don’t know which of them you mean.
Maybe yourself most of all.
You are not a girl who chooses the easy road.
But tonight, for the first time, you realize you may not want to choose at all.
The report is delivered without warning.
Not by a messenger from Dorne.
By a royal clerk who barely stayed in the saddle.
The southern crossing has been “temporarily secured” by Yronwood men.
Additional guards stand at both ends of the bridge. They allow travelers through—but keep them waiting for hours. The royal overseer has been detained “to clarify discrepancies in documentation.”
The room is silent as you read the report.
Baelor stands at the table, one hand braced on the parchment.
Maekar prowls the chamber slowly, like a predator who has already decided.
You stand on the other side of the table.
“This isn’t border defense,” you say evenly. “This is taking a position.”
“It’s a provocation,” Maekar answers without hesitation.
“The test ended when they raised banners,” Maekar snaps.
“He hasn’t renounced fealty,” Baelor counters.
“If we allow him to hold the bridge even a week, it will look like silent consent,” you say. “If we strike without summons, the Reach will gain a reason to involve itself openly.”
Both of them look at you at once.
His hand lands on the map beside yours. His fingers graze your knuckles before he draws them back—barely.
“What do you propose?” he asks calmly.
“A summons to appear before the king. Official. Public. If he refuses, it becomes open disobedience. Then our response won’t look like aggression, but enforcement of law.”
Maekar studies you carefully.
“And if he comes with an escort?”
“Then he shows he’s afraid.”
Baelor leans back a fraction, analyzing.
“And if he doesn’t come?”
Baelor doesn’t respond immediately.
“We cannot send a prince without the king’s clear stance.”
They begin speaking at once—
You don’t raise your voice.
But they both fall silent.
“We need both,” you say steadily. “Time, which a summons gives. And force, ready if he refuses.”
Maekar looks at you as if weighing whether it’s courage or madness.
Baelor looks at you as if seeing the solution.
“We go to the king,” Baelor says at last.
“This isn’t an ordinary council session.”
“It’s because of her that we know this isn’t an ordinary incident,” Baelor replies evenly.
Maekar shifts half a step nearer you, as if testing your reaction.
“The king doesn’t like surprises,” he says quietly.
“Then all the more reason he should hear the truth,” you answer.
For a moment his hand brushes yours again.
But enough to make the tension between you almost visible.
“Then,” he says at last, “we go together.”
Stone floors catch the echo of your footsteps.
You walk together, but not evenly.
Baelor on your left—calm, focused.
Maekar on your right—silent, drawn tight as a bowstring.
And yet you feel their presence on both sides more clearly than ever before.
“The king dislikes matters slipping from his control,” Baelor says quietly.
“Then we must be careful not to make it seem he is losing control,” you reply.
Maekar glances at you, brief.
The doors to the throne room open slowly.
Daeron II Targaryen sits the Iron Throne with more calm than the report on his lap should allow.
He is not a warrior king.
The queen stands beside him—silent, watchful.
The guards step back as you approach.
“Speak,” the king says to Baelor.
Baelor kneels briefly. Maekar does as well.
“Your Grace,” Baelor begins. “Lord Yronwood has increased armed presence at the southern crossing and detained the royal overseer under the pretense of discrepancies.”
The king doesn’t react at once.
“Pretense?” he asks softly.
“Yes, Your Grace,” you say before you can stop yourself. “The documents match the council registry. The detention was unilateral.”
Now the king looks at you.
Not like a lady-in-waiting.
Like someone who has just stepped over a line.
“And how do you know that?”
Baelor doesn’t interrupt.
“Because the pattern in the letters from Dorne suggested preparation for such a move,” you answer evenly. “It was presented to the Hand of the King weeks ago.”
Maekar remains silent, but you feel him behind you.
The king shifts the report aside.
“Are you suggesting rebellion?”
“I am suggesting a test of loyalty, Your Grace,” you say calmly.
“And if it is overinterpretation?”
“Then summoning Lord Yronwood to stand before the crown will dispel doubt,” Baelor says.
“And if he refuses?” the king asks.
“Then he isn’t refusing us,” Maekar says for the first time. “He’s refusing you.”
Silence falls so thick you can hear the torches crackle.
The king looks at his sons for a long time.
“Were your eyes the first to see this pattern?”
“And are you prepared to take responsibility for this assessment?”
The question is sharper than it sounds.
Baelor straightens subtly beside you.
Maekar doesn’t drop his gaze.
The king leans back against the throne.
“Then Lord Yronwood will be summoned to appear before the crown. Publicly.”
“And if he refuses… Prince Maekar will ride south.”
“Prepare the letter,” the king orders Baelor.
“And you will remain with the queen.”
The queen looks at you with the faintest, almost invisible smile.
As if she knows more than she says.
The brothers leave the throne room without haste.
The doors close behind them heavily, with a metallic echo that vibrates through the stone corridor for a long moment.
Neither of them speaks right away.
The letter will be sent before sunset.
The summons will be public.
Maekar walks half a step ahead of his brother, gaze fixed somewhere distant—as if the south is already closer than it should be.
Baelor pauses by one of the narrow windows and looks down into the yard.
For the first time in weeks, the map isn’t on the table.
And everything depends on who makes the next move first.
The scent of myrrh and rosewater hangs in the air.
The queen sits at a low table, reviewing letters. Light pours through tall windows, soft across the marble floor.
“Close the door,” she says gently without looking up.
“You were brave today,” she adds after a moment.
“I was vigilant, Your Highness.”
“Vigilance is rarely so firm.”
She lifts her eyes to you.
“My husband does not ask questions unless he wishes to know the answers. And today he asked you a very clear one.”
“I was prepared for consequences.”
“Are you prepared for all of them?”
The question hangs in the air.
The queen sets the letter down.
“Court does not forget who first sees a pattern. And it does not forget who stands between brothers.”
She hasn’t raised her voice.
She hasn’t said their names.
“I do not stand between anyone,” you say calmly.
She rises slowly and steps closer.
You know which one she means.
The queen studies you as if weighing your words.
“Strength can be loyal,” she says at last. “It can also be jealous.”
“You will remain by me not because we doubt your judgment—but because I want you visible at my side. This is a time when women are rarely given a shield.”
She stops a step from you.
“Do not allow yourself to become a prize they fight over.”
“I understand, Your Highness.”
The queen touches your hand lightly.
She smiles with the same nearly invisible knowing she wore in the throne room.
“Now go. And remember—silence can be a choice.”
The door closes with a heavy thud.
Maekar doesn’t notice you’re already inside.
He unbuckles his sword belt in one sharp motion. Metal strikes the table. His shirt clings to his back; the tension in his shoulders is visible from several paces away.
“It’s not enough,” he throws out at last. “Securing the bridge. Detaining an official. That isn’t coincidence.”
“The summons changes nothing.”
“It changes everything if he refuses.”
“And if he comes humble, with a small escort, and denies everything?” he says low. “Then there will be no reason to move against him.”
“Then he shows he’s playing a longer game.”
“Then he shows he’s testing us.”
His breathing is heavier now.
You lift your hands and place them on his shoulders—tight as steel.
“Breathe,” you say quietly.
“No,” you say, firmer. “But you’re wound too tight.”
Your hands move over his shoulders, pressing into tense muscle. You feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric.
“If he refuses, I ride,” he says softer. “And it won’t be a conversation.”
Your hands slide lower, to his forearms.
“You don’t have to fight,” you add, quieter. “Not yet.”
His hands suddenly seize your hips.
“You shouldn’t calm me,” he says low.
“Because it makes me stop wanting to be calm.”
His mouth is firm, almost hungry. The kiss is deep and sudden, as if all the adrenaline he’s been holding pours out in a single motion.
Your fingers tighten on his shoulders.
You don’t shove him away.
You breathe in the same harsh rhythm for a moment.
His hand moves stronger along your back, drawing you closer until you feel every inch of him.
And then—something shifts.
He doesn’t break the kiss.
As if he remembers, suddenly, that it’s you.
His hands soften slightly. The grip at your hips stops being impulse and becomes holding.
The kiss turns slower. Deeper. No longer an explosion—more like a fire settling into an even burn.
When he finally pulls back a fraction, his forehead rests against yours.
“That wasn’t sensible,” he murmurs.
His thumb shifts on your hip.
“You haven’t left yet,” you cut in.
For a moment he looks at you as if trying to memorize your face.
“Don’t look at me like that when you’re with him,” he says suddenly, quieter.
It doesn’t sound like a command.
More like something torn out of him against his will.
“Like you’ve already chosen.”
“Careful, Maekar,” you say evenly.
And you leave before either of you crosses the line even further.
Fire crackles softly in the hearth.
Flame-light dances over stone walls, catching on the silver detailing beside the maps spread on the table. The air is warm, calm—nothing like the tension you left a few corridors away.
Baelor Targaryen sits in a chair near the fire without his cloak, the clasp at his doublet loosened. He looks tired, but focused.
When you enter, his face softens.
“I thought you wouldn’t come,” he says quietly.
He doesn’t ask why it’s late.
He doesn’t ask where you were.
He draws you in gently and settles you onto his lap as if that is the most natural place in the world.
One arm wraps around your waist. The other moves along your shoulder, slow, unhurried.
“There was a great deal of tension today,” he says.
You rest a hand on his chest.
You feel the steady rhythm of his heart.
Different from what it was in the other chambers minutes ago.
“You didn’t hesitate before the king,” he adds.
His fingers trace along your back, light, as if reassuring himself you’re truly here.
“I trust you,” he says after a moment.
It doesn’t sound political.
He leans in and kisses you.
Warm and deep—but calm, as if he isn’t trying to prove anything, only to remain.
His hand slides higher on your back, drawing you closer until your forehead rests against his.
“Whatever Yronwood does,” he murmurs, “we will handle it.”
Your fingers slip into his hair.
“I don’t want you to carry it alone,” you whisper.
His thumb strokes your waist.
“I don’t. Because you’re here.”
The silence between you isn’t heavy.
His hand moves slowly along your side, then returns to your waist, as if he doesn’t want to cross a boundary you haven’t set yet.
And this time you kiss him first.
More than a week passes after the summons is sent.
Court returns to its rhythm faster than it should. Breakfast talk drifts back to grain prices and marriages, rumors from the Reach and petty land disputes. Music in the halls doesn’t grow softer. Servants move as always.
Only the air feels heavier.
The silence from the south isn’t accidental.
It is an answer in itself.
In the Hand’s chambers, maps stay spread longer than usual. Parchments shift places but never vanish. Each new message from Dorne is read twice. Every mention of the border is examined more closely than any ordinary incident requires.
When he stands at the table over the map, his face remains calm—but his hands often stay braced on the wood longer than necessary, as if trying to read something from rivers and passes that isn’t visible yet.
Maekar responds differently.
The training yard rings with steel more often. Sometimes he drills longer than his knights do. Sometimes he stays alone, repeating the same movements until sweat runs down the back of his neck.
You return to your role by the queen. Letters, conversations, remembering details. But since you spoke in the throne room, the looks change—slightly.
The queen comments on nothing, but once, as you passed an open window, she said quietly:
“Silence can be more dangerous than rebellion.”
That day, you pause at the stone balustrade above the yard. Below, steel keeps time in metallic rhythm. Maekar spars with a knight; every motion is clean, precise, almost cold.
He doesn’t look like a man waiting.
He looks like a man who has already decided.
When he lifts his head and sees you, he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t nod.
A moment later, footsteps sound behind you.
He doesn’t speak right away. He comes to stand beside you, looking down into the yard.
“He’s training longer than usual,” he observes.
“Silence doesn’t suit him,” you say.
The quiet between you isn’t uncomfortable, but it is tight.
Below, Maekar ends the exchange with one swift move that knocks his opponent to the ground. The knight scrambles up and steps back with unmistakable respect.
Baelor watches his brother for a moment.
Not searching. Not accusing.
“If he refuses,” he says softly, “things will move faster than people think.”
Your hand rests on the stone.
Baelor hesitates for a fraction of a second—then his fingers brush yours.
As if checking something.
But you don’t look at him immediately, either.
Below, Maekar lifts his gaze again.
And this time, he sees it more clearly.
Two figures at the balustrade.
But the next strike of his sword lands harder.
At first they say it’s distance. Then that Lord Yronwood is gathering information. Eventually they stop speaking at all.
In the Hand’s chambers, maps move only to return to the table the next day. Baelor works longer, eats less, sleeps even less. He never raises his voice. He shows no frustration.
But more often now, he stops mid-sentence, as if his mind has already moved several turns ahead.
Crates of supplies appear in the yard. Armorers check straps and buckles. Horses are kept closer to the gates, as if they’ll ride at dawn.
But everyone knows a single word would be enough.
He stands in the center of the yard in half-armor when you approach. Sunlight flashes off the metal plates at his shoulders. He looks different than during drills—calmer, like someone who has already made peace with what’s coming.
“This still isn’t refusal,” you say.
“This still isn’t an answer,” he replies.
Behind him, knights wait. They don’t speak loudly. They tighten tack, adjust belts. The air is dense with focus.
“You’ll ride without a word from the king?” you ask quietly.
Maekar looks toward the gate.
“I’ll ride if silence becomes a decision.”
He hesitates for a fraction of a second.
“I won’t stand by while someone tests borders simply because he can.”
Not in front of all of them.
“And if an answer comes while you’re on the road?”
There is no room left between you for sharp words. Only the awareness that one move will change everything.
In that moment, the gate booms with a dull удар.
A guard runs into the yard, searching for Baelor.
He finds him by the steps.
He bends, speaking too softly for you to hear.
But you see Baelor’s face still.
You see his gaze lift to Maekar.
You see silent understanding pass between them.
The guard raises his voice so everyone can hear.
“Lord Yronwood has arrived in King’s Landing.”
Maekar doesn’t move at first.
Slowly, he removes his gloves.
“Of course,” he says softly.
And suddenly the armor, the horses, the supply crates stop mattering.
Because the war that was meant to begin in the south has just walked through the gates of the capital.
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
Thank you for reading Chapter Two 🤍
Things are getting closer now.
And closeness, in a court like this, is never simple.
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