Summary: When Lord Stark brings his eldest daughter to King's Landing, it is not for celebration — it is for alliance. With a new son born in the North, her fate has quietly shifted from heir to bargaining piece. A southern marriage will secure her house. She simply doesn’t know it yet.At court, beneath King Daeron II Targaryen, she clashes with his dutiful son, Baelor Targaryen — steel against steel, winter against flame. He falls first. She refuses to bend. Between sparring matches, sharp words, and almost-kisses stolen by interrupted breaths, something dangerous begins to bloom.But honour is a cage, and politics do not forgive weakness.And in King’s Landing, a Stark daughter does not belong to herself.
Summary: When Lord Stark brings his eldest daughter to King's Landing, it is not for celebration — it is for alliance. With a new son born in the North, her fate has quietly shifted from heir to bargaining piece. A southern marriage will secure her house. She simply doesn’t know it yet.At court, beneath King Daeron II Targaryen, she clashes with his dutiful son, Baelor Targaryen — steel against steel, winter against flame. He falls first. She refuses to bend. Between sparring matches, sharp words, and almost-kisses stolen by interrupted breaths, something dangerous begins to bloom.But honour is a cage, and politics do not forgive weakness.And in King’s Landing, a Stark daughter does not belong to herself.
Warnings: slow burn, swearing,
The Tower of the Hand was quiet at this hour.
Not silent, it was never silent, but subdued. The distant crackle of torches, the murmur of guards changing posts, the faint lap of blackwater bay below the cliff edge.
In his chambers, Baelor stood before the narrow window, hands clasped behind his back.
He had dismissed his attendants early.
He told himself it was to think.
The table behind him was scattered with reports - unrest in the Reach, minor skirmishes in the Stepstones, letters from houses that had bent the knee too late during the Blackfyre uprising. Ink dried in careful lines where he had already drafted replies.
And yet, he had not written a single word in the last hour. Because everyone he tried, he saw you.
Not as you had stood in the gallery, grey-clad and composed.
But as his mind had placed you.
Red and Black. Beside him.
He closed his eyes.
It had been a reflex. A strategists mind exploring possibility. That was all. It was not desire, it was not losing. It was not indulgence.
Baelor Targaryen did not indulge in impossibilities.
He exhaled slowly.
The Iron Throne was not a place for romance. It was a seat of knives and calculation. His father ruled by diplomacy, he would rule by strength tempered with judgement.
He had no space in his life for - you.
The thought intruded his mind again.
Your answer.
If it is born of hunger, it must be fed. If it is born of insult, it must be acknowledged.
You had not spoken like a lady eager to please. But like someone who expected to be obeyed.
He turned from the window abruptly, pacing once across the chamber. The floor cool beauty his boots, his hands moving to play with the rings on his fingers.
He prided himself on discipline, on clarity, on separating feeling from function. But something about your composure unsettled him.
You were undeniable. Stark colouring, sharp eyes, restraint that made one look twice.
What unsettled him was that you had not tried to impress him. You had not simpered. Had not softened your answers. You had answered as though the question mattered, not who asked it.
He stopped pacing, resting his hands on the edge of the long table in the centre of his chambers, hanging his head.
There it was again. The image.
The throne room bathed in torchlight.
The Lords assembled.
Your voice cutting through the great hall with calm authority.
He inhaled sharply.
"No." He murmured to the empty room.
It was reckless. More than reckless. It was dangerous.
She was the daughter of Winterfell.
The North was stable, loyal and needed to remain so. Especially now, with whispers still coining to the name Blackfyre like smoke.
A marriage alliance could strengthen the realm. If your father wished.
It would make sense. Strategically. Politically. But that was not why his mind had gone there. And that was the problem.
He straightened slow.
He had seen you bristle when he mentioned your brother.
That had not been political. It has been personal.
A daughter displaced. An heir reshaped. Still you stood like stone. He respected that, too much.
A knock sounded at the door.
He ran a hand over his face before turning, his composure restored.
"Enter,"
A steward stepped inside, bowing low.
"You Grace. A raven from Storm's End."
Baelor nodded once, "Leave it."
When the door closed again, he broke the seal.
The message was brief.
Lyonel Baratheon would arrive in King's Landing within the fortnight to reaffirm Storm's End's loyalty and discuss rebuilding after the rebellion.
Bear's jaw tightened faintly.
Lyonel.
The Laughing Storm.
Brash. Characteristic. Fiercely loyal but only on his own terms.
He would bring noise into a court that only just remembered how to breathe. And he would look at you.
Baelor did not know how he knew that. He simply did.
He folded the letter carefully, setting it aside. The realm need unity and Storm's End needed reassurance. The North needed respect.
He needed discipline. He moved back to the desk and sat, dipped his quill into ink and forced his mind to settle. But as he began drafting a reply to a lord in the Reach, the words blurred.
He could still hear your voice.
I would ride myself.
Seven Gods.
You would have.
He set the quill down again, leaning back in his chair, he stared at the ceiling beams, jaw tight as he ran his hands over his face.
This is how it began, not with wild declarations or stolen kisses. But with admiration. Respect. Shared understanding.
The kind of connection that did not announce itself until it was already rooted. He had seen marriages forged for less.
He had seen men choose wives for beauty, dowry and proximity. He had never once considered choosing for -
He stood abruptly again.
Enough.
This was indulgence.
She was a Stark. He was heir to the Iron Throne.
Duty would decide such matters, not imagination.
He crossed the chamber to the hearth and stirred the embers with a poker, sparks rising briefly into the mines. The heat licking his face, grounding him.
He would not let a conversation in a gallery unmake years of discipline.
And yet he could not deny it.
When he imagined her beside him, it had not felt absurd. It felt right.
That realisation unsettled him more than any rebellion or battlefield ever had.
A knick sounded again. However this time the one who knocked did not wait to enter.
Maekar stepping inside, "You look as though you've swallowed sour wine."
"I have not." He grunted.
"Good. Father wishes you at council early in the morrow. Something about Storm's End and marriages." Maekar planted himself on the chair at the desk, kicking his feet up on the carved wood.
The word landed like a blade wrapped in silk, Baelor's expression tightened.
"Very well." His voice was tight.
He moved once more to the window, looking out over King's Landing - the city sprawling fragile and proud.
He exhaled slowly, he would master this. He would master himself.
But as the night deepened and the torches burned low, his brother ranting something about his sons behind him, Baelor remained at the window longer than necessary.
The corridor that led beneath the Red Keep was colder than the halls above.
Torchlight guttered along the stone walls, casting long wavering shadows that made the passage seem older than the castle itself. Your footsteps echoed softly as you followed Baelor down the winding stairs.
You folded your arms against the comfort of the chill.
"You understand," You said, eyeing the dark descent ahead, "that every story about southern castles insists that staircases like this end with someone being murdered."
Baelor glanced back at you, one brow lifting.
"I assure you, Lady Stark, I did not bring you here to murder you." He said.
"I thought princes were meant to be more dramatic." You teased.
He huffed a quiet laugh that echoed against the stone.
"You think so little of me?" He joked, and you rolled your eyes in return.
"Where exactly are we going?" You questioned, hand sliding on the cold stone as you descended.
Baelor stopped at the bottom of the stairs and pushed open a heavy iron-bound door, the hinges groaning with effort.
"Somewhere few people in this castle think to visit."
You stepped inside.
And immediately forgot what you had been about to say.
The chamber beyond was vast, the ceiling lost in the shows. Dozens of torches burned along the walls, illuminating something enormous resting on the iron supports at the centre of the room.
For a moment, your mind struggled to understand what you were seeing.
Then the shape resolved. A skull.
A massive skull.
Blackened with age, its teeth longer than daggers, its empty eye sockets staring endlessly into the darkness.
You took an unconscious step forward.
"Gods..." You breathed.
Baelor watched your quietly.
"Balerian, the Black Dread." He introduced.
You moved closer, boots scraping softly against the stone, eyes locked on the skull of a dragon. Of the greatest dragon that ever lived. Up close it was even larger than it had seemed from the doorway. You could stand inside its jaw with room to spare.
"I've heard stories," You said slowly, "In the North they say his wings could block out the sun."
Baelor came to stand beside you.
"Some say that is an exaggeration." He said.
"And you?"
His mouth curved faintly, and turned to look down at you as you stared at the skull.
"I've seen the skull since I was a boy. I'm beginning to suspect the stories were not exaggerated enough." He said.
You tilted your head back further, studying the curved horns and massive teeth.
"Imagine meeting something like that in the sky." You whispered, amazed.
Baelor continued to watch you.
"I think," He said thoughtfully, "You would look it in the eye."
You snorted, "That would be a poor survival strategy."
"And yet," He said, "I suspect you would do it anyway."
You folded your arms, turning to him.
"You make me sound reckless, Prince."
"You rode into King's Landing and immediately began arguing with half the court." He said dryly.
"That is not recklessness." You agreed, "That is northern honestly."
He laughed softly, "I stand corrected."
Your eyes drifted back to the skull then.
"You know," You said thoughtfully, "In the North we have stories too."
"About dragons?" He asked.
"About wolves."
Baelor leaned slightly closer, "Are they as terrifying?"
"Far more." You said solemnly.
He laughed again, the sound felt warm in the cavernous room.
You eyes traced the dragons massive teeth.
"It's strange, standing here." You murmured.
"How so?" Baelor pushed, yes tracing your features as you stared at the beast.
"All that power," You said, "And now its only bones."
Baelor followed your gaze, the both of you staring at the aged skull.
"Perhaps that is the lesson," Baelor spoke, "That even the greatest things in the world do not last forever."
You looked at him then, "Is that meant to be comforting?"
He smiled faintly, looking back at you.
"No."
You snorted, bumping his shoulder lightly with your own.
"You are terrible at comfort." You teased, "Next time perhaps bring me somewhere a little less ominous."
"Ominous?" Baelor echoed.
"You brought me to stare into the mouth of the greatest dragon to ever have lived." You stated.
"Admit it," He said, eyes glistening, "You're impressed."
You tried to sound unimpressed, "I've seen bigger." You shrugged.
Baelor blinked, then laughed outright.
"You have not." He snorted
"Maybe I have."
"In the north?"
"Yes."
"What could possibly be larger than Balerion?"
"My fathers disappointment if he discovers I was wandering underground with the crown prince."
Baelor groaned, "That is unfair."
"You walked into that one." You shrugged, looking back at the skull.
The chamber grew quiet again, for a moment you both stood there beneath the shadow of the dragon.
Comfortable and easy.
As if neither of you needed to pretend to be anything other than yourselves. Not your titles. Yourselves.
Baelor looked at you then. Really looked at you.
"You are not afraid of it." He said quietly.
"The dragon?" You asked.
He shook his head, "I wasn't talking about the dragon."
Your breath caught for the briefest moment. But before you could ask what he meant, he stepped back slightly and gestured toward the stairs.
"Come," He said lightly, "Before your father decides I've kidnapped the Warden of the North's daughter."
You smirked, "If you had kidnapped me, Your Grace, I imagine you would have chosen somewhere far more romantic."
Baelor paused halfway to the door. Then glanced back with a teasing spark in his eyes.
"Next time," He teased, "I'll plan better."
And as you followed him back up toward the torchlit halls of the Red Keep, neither of you noticed the quiet heaviness that lingered in Baelor's expression.
Or the knowledge he carried alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The afternoon light spilled through the high arched windows of the Red Keep's solar, turning dust motes to drifting gold. Beyond the glass, Blackwater Bay shimmered, deceptively peaceful. The City below bore the scars of rebellion, not visibly, perhaps, but in whispers. In the way men watched each other a second too long.
You stood near the long carved table, a finger tracing the inland map of Westeros world into the wood. You hair was braided tightly today, coiled at the nape of your neck, northern, precise and deliberate. You wore grey silk edged in white fur, despite the southern warmth.
You were listening.
Opposite you stood Baelor.
He had shed the formality of the council chamber, his clock draped over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up just enough to suggest comfort without impropriety. His hair caught the light. But it was his posture that struck you - straight, contained, like a sword in its scabbard.
"The Dornish envoy will press again," He was saying evenly, "My father believes concession will secure loyalty."
"And you?" You ask.
He glanced at you, not too quickly, not accidentally.
"I believe loyalty secured by concession must be watched carefully." He spoke.
Your lips curved faintly, "A cautious dragon."
"A living one." He replied.
The air between you hummed, not with impropriety, not even with open flirtation, but with something coiled and aware. You had been speaking like this for a fortnight now. Political matters, council summaries, trade, unrest, rebuilding alliances after the Blackfyre bloodshed.
Yet every conversation seemed to stretched slightly longer than necessary.
"You disagreed with Lord Rowan," you observed lightly.
"I did." Baelor nodded.
"You let him believe he won."
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. "I did?"
"You shifted the vote before the adjournment." You complimented.
He looked at you fully then, and for one suspended second, the formal prince vanished.
"You notice everything." He noted.
You raised your chin, "I was raised to."
His voice lowered then, his eyes softening and his head inclined slightly toward her, "Yes. You were."
A beat passed.
And then - laughter.
Not polite laughter. Not courtly laughter. It echoed down the corridor before the man himself appeared. Loud. Confident. Unrestrained.
The doors were thrown open without announcement.
"Gods, it smells like ink and politics in here."
He filled the doorway before stepping inside, broad shoulder, black hair and dressed in storm grey and gold. His doublet strained slightly across his chest, less tailored more practical. A sword hung openly on his hips, as though court decorum bored him.
Lyonel Baratheon did not bow immediately.
He looked at Baelor first, then at you.
And when he smiled, it was bright and full of teeth, entirely unbothered by rank.
"Well," He said, spreading his hands, "The prince and the she-wolf plotting over maps. Should I fetch my armour?"
Baelor did not bristle, but he did straighten. You noticed that.
"Lord Baratheon,"
"Prince," Lyonel gave the barest incline of his head, an acknowledgment without submission.
Then his attention returned to you, in full.
"You must be Stark," he said, not my lady, not lady stark. Just Stark, as though the name itself were enough.
"I am," You answered coolly.
He studied you opening, the braid, the fur trim, the steel in your posture. Hi gaze was assessing, but not leering.
"Hm." That was all he said for a moment, "You look disappointed." He laughed softly.
"Should I not?" You replied.
Baelor shifted subtly closer to your side, not possessive, but present. Lyonel noticed.
"Oh, you should," He said cheerfully, "Most people are."
"Do you enjoy that?" You asked.
"I enjoy honesty," He replied, "And disappointment is honest"
He turns away abruptly and begins to circle the table lazily, boots heavy against stone.
"I was summoned south to celebrate peace," He continued, "But all I've seen is parchment and men pretending they don't want to strangle each other."
His eyes flicked briefly to Baelor, then back to you.
"You don't look like you're pretending, Stark."
You lifted your chin, "Nor do you."
That earned you something real, a spark in his gaze that looked like approval.
Baelor's voice cut through, smooth and controlled, "Lord Baratheon, we were discussing matters of state."
"And I," Lyonel replied easily, "am a matter of state."
He leaned one hip against the table, far too casual for the room.
"Or have you forgotten Storm's End stood firm when half the realm wavered?" His tone remained light, but there was steel edging his voice.
Bealor inclined his he'd slightly, "No one forgets Storm's End."
Lyonel's gaze returned to you, "And what do you think? Do you prefer princes who whisper or storms that break windows?"
The room went very still. Baelor did not speak. You met his gaze without flinching.
"I prefer men who understand when not to break windows." You said calmly.
Lyonel laughed, louder this time.
"Oh, I like you." He grinned, eyes full of heat.
Baelor's jaw tightened.
Lyonel pushed off the table and stepped closer, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, not close enough to crowd you, but enough to test boundaries.
"Tell me," He said, his voice lowering slightly, "Does the North breed all its daunts like this? Or are you the only dangerous one?"
You did not step back, "Dangerous?"
"Yes," He said simply, "You look like someone who would bite."
Baelor moved then, subtle but unmistakable, placing himself just slightly more at her side.
"Lord Baratheon," He spoke evenly, "You forget yourself."
Lyonel's eyes flicked between them.
Understanding dawned. Not romance. Not yet. But something alive.
And that delighted him.
"My apologies," He said, though he did not sound it, "I did not realise the prince had claimed the wolf's company."
The air shifted.
Baelor voice cooled, "I have claimed nothing."
Lyonel grinned, "Good." He turned back to you, "Then perhaps I shall claim a proper introduction."
He bowed then, exaggerated but not mocking.
"Lyonel Baratheon, They call me the Laughing Storm." He grinned.
She tilted her head, "And do you laugh often, my lord?"
"Only before something breaks." He answered quickly.
A pause. His gaze holding yours for a fraction too long.
"Lady Stark has been assisting with council matters." Baelor spoke before it could stretch furhter.
Lyonel raised a brow, "Have you now?"
You answered before Baelor could, "I listen."
"And what have you learned?" Lyonel asked.
"That men who speak the loudest often wish to be heard." You said evenly.
His grin widened, "And what do men who speak softly wish?"
Your eyes flicked, just once, to Baelor, then back at Lyonel.
"Sometimes," You spoke, "They wish to be understood."
For the first time since entering, Lyonel fell quiet. He studied you again, more seriously now.
"Well," he said at last, pushing off his lazy stance, "I suspect this will not be the last time we speak." He looked to Baelor, "And I suspect you already know that."
Baelor met his gaze without blinking, "Yes."
Thunder met fire. Storm met dragon.
And you stood between them, not yet claimed, not yet promised, but already the centre of a coming collision.
As Lyonel turned to leave, he paused at the doorway and looked back at you.
"Try not grow bored of politics, Stark. It would be a shame if you chose the quiet before you've seen the storm."
Then he was gone. And silence returned to the room.
Baelor did not look at you immediately, but when he did, there was something new in his eyes. Something sharpened.
"He is not a man to take lightly." He said quietly, his gaze softening as he looked down at you.
You watched the doorway Lyonel had disappeared through.
"I don't think he takes himself lightly either."
Bear's voice lowered, "No. He does not."
And somewhere beneath the measured calm of the prince, jealously had begun to bloom.
Summary: When Lord Stark brings his eldest daughter to King's Landing, it is not for celebration — it is for alliance. With a new son born in the North, her fate has quietly shifted from heir to bargaining piece. A southern marriage will secure her house. She simply doesn’t know it yet.At court, beneath King Daeron II Targaryen, she clashes with his dutiful son, Baelor Targaryen — steel against steel, winter against flame. He falls first. She refuses to bend. Between sparring matches, sharp words, and almost-kisses stolen by interrupted breaths, something dangerous begins to bloom.But honour is a cage, and politics do not forgive weakness.And in King’s Landing, a Stark daughter does not belong to herself.
Warnings: slow burn, swearing,
Masterlist
Part one
The Red Keep was quieter in the early evening of the following day.
The revelry of another great feast had added into a distant murmur somewhere deep in the lower halls, but up in one the western galleries overlooking Blackwater Bay, the air was still still and tinged with salt. The sea reflected the streaks of molten orange and bruised violet from the dying sun.
You stood at the carved, marble balustrade, palm resting lighting on its cool edge. You were dressed in grey again, though lighter today - a softer wool rather than the southern court silk. Your hair was half bound, half loose, a compromise between northern severity and the southern expectations, loose strands flying from your vision as the sea winds blow gently.
You did not hear him approach.
"You left before the final course." Baelor's voice said evenly behind you.
You did not startle.
"I am not fond of sugared figs," You replied calmly, "Too much sweet in your kitchens."
A pause.
"I meant the company."
You turned then, leaning back against the marble with your hands behind you back.
Baelor Targaryen stood a respectful distance away. No clock or armour today. Just a dark red doublet, simple and yet precise, the three headed dragon worked in black three at his breast. The wind caught in his pale streaked hair, softening him in a way that the court would rarely allow.
"I did not realise I was so interesting, Your Grace." You said.
"You are not," He answered calmly, watching a flicker of amusement cross your face, "You are...observant."
"That is a kinder word, Your Grace."
He stepped closer to the balustrade then, resting one ringed hand against the stone beside you, facing out toward the bay. Close enough to see the view, but not close enough to presume.
For a moment, he simply watches the sea. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, the way the moonlight begins to highlight the ridges of his face.
"Storm's End remains restless," He said at last, "The Iron Throne may wear peace, but the realm does not forget rebellion so easily."
You didn't ask which rebellion, both of you were aware of which he spoke of.
"Peace imposed is not the same as peace earned." You replied, looking down at your hands as you spun the silver band on your index finger that was engraved with the direwold on your house.
His eyes flickered to you, "You speak as though you have ruled."
"I have not ruled," You corrected smoothly, turning your body to the bay, "But I have been raised to understand what is means to rule."
There it was, not pride or arrogance, but fact that you always spoke so plainly. Baelor studied your profile then, the line of your jaw, the controlled stillness of your shoulders. You stood like a lord at council, not like a maid observing.
"You have the habit of speaking carefully," He said, "Even when you do not need to."
You response is quick, "I was taught to."
Baelor hesitated, then deliberately-
"Your brother was born recently."
He said it neutrally, gently and still he saw it.
The small change. Not in your face, no that still remained composed. But in your hands. How your fingers tightened against the stone.
He noticed.
"Yes," You respond tightly, "He was."
"You have not returned North to meet him." Baelor counters.
"I will."
A beat.
"And how do you feel," He asked, carefully, "about Winterfell's future secured in a son?"
That did it. Not visibly to a casual observer, but to him. He saw the flicker, sharp and quick, like steel catching the light in the depth of a battle.
"I feel that Winterfell has what it needs." You replied evenly.
It was the perfect answer, political, controlled, utterly devoid of personal sentiment.
Baelor turned fully toward you now, leaning against the marble but still towering over you. Closer now.
"That is not what I asked." His voice is softer, quieter, mismatched eyes not leaving your side profile.
Your gaze shifts to him now, turning to face him, the space getting smaller between the two of you again.
"You asked how I feel." Your voice had an underlying shake, "I answered as a Stark."
"And as yourself?" Baelor counters.
You stay silent, the wind moving your hair slightly across your cheek but you do not brush it away. Baelor watched it fly, eyes flickering with what you thought was desire.
"That is the same thing." You said, quietly.
He held your gaze.
"No," His voice is soft, "It is not."
For the first time, something sharp enters your gaze.
"You resume much, Your Grace."
"I observe much."
He stepped closer, standing to his full height, but not threatening or intimate. Just present. A distance between them not proper anymore.
"You have been conditioned," He said carefully, "to answer as a lord would answer. And yet you are not one."
You lifted your chin to him, "And that is a flaw?"
"No." He answered immediately, then his voice softened, "It is....impressive."
You said nothing.
"You listen like a rule. You measure consequence. You remove yourself from sentiment in favour of stability." He continued, you said nothing but your eyes did leave his, "And yet, you bristle."
The word landed between the two of you, and yet you did not deny it.
"My brother," You said carefully, "did not take something from me. He simply altered expectations."
"That is a diplomatic phrasing." Baelor states, a tug on his lips.
"It is an accurate one, Your Grace."
Baelor's gaze then softens, only slightly, but enough that you turned your gaze down to no where but the space in between the two of you. He follows the movement, eyes studying your face, the way your hair has come undone throughout the day and how the wind made it dance gently around your face. He fists his hands to stop himself from reaches up and brushing them away from your features.
"May I ask you something, Lady Stark." He speaks after a few beats.
You do not look up as you reply, "You may."
"If Winterfell faced rebellion tomorrow," He said, voice lowering as though the sea itself might overhear, "how would you respond?"
You raise your gaze to meet his again.
"From within? Or from an external force?" You do not hesitate in your answer.
His brows lifted faintly.
"Either." He challenged.
"From outside," You began, your voice taking on that measured cadence he had come to recognise, "I would response swiftly and visibly. Not with slaughter, but with presence. A rebellion must know it has been seen."
"And from within?"
"That depends on why it formed."
Baelor gestures for you to continue.
"If it is born of ambition, it must be crushed. If it is born of hunger, then it must be fed. If it is born of insult..." You paused, he watched your eyes go distant for a moment, "It must be acknowledged before it festers."
He stared down at you, "You would not simply send men?"
"I would send a message." You respond quickly.
"And what if that message fails?" Baelor counters.
"Then I would ride myself."
The air between you seemed to shift then. A emotion much like shock grazes his features.
"You would ride into rebellion personally?" You nod, "Why?"
"Winterfell is not a crown," You said quietly, "It is a hearth. If the hearth is threatened, the one who tends it must stand before it."
He felt it then. Not attraction, not yet, but something deeper.
His mind moved then, without his permission.
A hall of black stone.
The Irone Throne rising like a jagged flame.
Red and black banners hanging high.
And beside him grey turned crimson.
Fur edged with dragon silk.
You.
Standing not behind him.
Beside Him.
Hand resting lightly against the arm of the throne.
The other on the swell of your belly.
Not as a consort decoration.
But as an equal.
The image is so vivid it startled him. He inhaled sharply.
You noticed. The change was subtle, a stillness then a flicker of something almost unguarded behind his mismatched eyes.
You take a small step forward.
"You Grace?" You asked, voice soft and gentle.
He blinks once, the vision vanishing, the gallery returned.
Sea. Stone. Wind.
"I apologise," He spoke, his voice steady, "I was considering your answer."
"You disapprove?" You ask.
"On the contrary." He hesitated, "I find it...formidable."
You studied him, eyes trailing up and down his body, only now noticing how close the two of you are stood. You could feel the heat rolling off of him.
"You asked as though you expected folly." You challenge, swallowing thickly as his eyes bore down at you.
"I did not expect you to speak like a queen." He whispered, voice rough.
The word slipped out before he could temper it.
Queen.
Silence fell between you two. Not awkward but charged.
"A queen?" You repeated lightly.
"It was a comparison." Baelor said quickly, too quickly.
"To what, your Grace." You ask, he held your eyes.
"To what ruling requires."
You searched his face then, but carefully. Something had shifted. He was too controlled for you to see the full extent of it. But you felt it. A current beneath calm water.
"You imagine much, Your Grace." You said queitly.
He almost smiled.
"I imagine possibilities, it is a weakness." He admits.
"It is a dangerous one." You said lightly.
He breathes out a laugh, "Yes."
There is another pause, the sky deepening to indigo. Below you, torches flickered alive across the city.
"You would have made a strong heir." He said suddenly.
The words were not pity. They were not consolation. They were fact.
He watched as your composure held, but softer now. Your face softening into caged sadness.
"Winterfell will have one." You replied.
"And what of you?" He asked, a small step toward her, closing the gap beyond what was acceptable for the crown prince, his head dipped to catch your gaze.
"I will serve." You said quietly.
"As what?"
"As required." You whispered.
He looked at you then, not as a prince to a lady. But as a man to a woman.
"And if what is required is less than what you are capable of?" He asks, voice low.
You, for the first time, did not answer immediately.
"I do not concern myself with what cannot be changed." You said at last.
"That," He said quietly, "is where we differ."
Your eyes narrow, "You would change it?"
"If I believed something was wasted?" His voice dropped, "Yes."
The air around you thickened then. The unspoken hung heavy.
He could not say what he had seen. Could not voice the safe that still danced throughout his mind.
Her in red and black, beside him.
He stepped back half a space, reclaiming the distance property demanded.
"The realm will test many of us in the coming years," He spoke more formally now, "I am...glad to know Winterfell produces minds such as yours."
"And I," You replied evenly, "am glad that the crown still listens."
Your eyes held one last moment, mutual assessment and awareness.
Footsteps echoed faintly from the corridor beyond. Voices approaching, the world returning around you.
Baelor inclined his head.
"Lady Stark."
"Your Grace."
As he turned to leave, the image of her flicker again - unbidden.
He did not look back, but you watched him go. And you knew, something had changed. He had seen something and you did not know what, but you had felt it.
And that unsettled her more than politics ever could.
The godswood of King's Landing was smaller than the one at Winterfell, but in the early morning it almost felt like home.
Mist club low over the woodland, drifting lazily across the shallow lake that followed you, your father and two knights who trailed behind you. The air was cooler here, shaded by thick branches that shut out much of the southern sun, thank the gods.
Your grey mare stepped softly over the damp earth beside your father's.
Lord Stark rode slightly ahead, his posture relaxed in a way you rarely saw within the castle walls of the Red Keep. In the court of the King, he was every inch the Warden of the North - stern, watchful and unyielding.
But, here, he was simply your father.
"You ride too stiffly." He said without looking back.
You snorted, "I ride perfectly well."
"Aye," He said dryly, "Perfectly well for someone trying to look impressive in front of a prince."
You nearly choked.
"I'm not trying to impress anyone." You grumbled, narrowing your eyes at your father.
He turned then, one eyebrow raised beneath the dark fall of his hair.
"No?"
You straightened in the saddle, "No."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Good," He said, "Because if any prince requires impressing, he is not worth the trouble."
A small laugh escaped you, shaking your head.
That was Lord Stark, your father - sharp as northern wind, yet always ready to shield his daughter from the world.
The horses slowed as the trees parted slightly. Ahead of you the stream turned to a shallow lake. It was not large, but the water mirrored the sly so perfectly it seemed deeper than it truly was. Long reeds whispered under the shore.
Beside it stood a large willow tree.
Its pale branches spilled downward like silver curtains, trailing over the surface of the lake.
You guided your mare closer.
"It almost looks like the godstree." You muttered.
Your father studied the tree for a moment before dismounting his stallion, handing him off to one of the knights.
"Almost." He nodded.
You followed, dismounting your own mare, but keeping ahold of the reins, boots sinking slightly into the soft earth.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the quiet ripple of the water against stone.
Your father rested a hand on your mares neck as he stepped toward you.
"You've handled King's Landing well." He said.
"That sounds like praise." You teased.
"It is."
You smiled softly, praise from Lord Stark was not given lightly, unless you were his daughter.
"It's different here," You admitted, "But not unbearable."
"Different..." He repeated.
You studied him carefully, watched as his gaze drifted over the water again, thoughtful. There was a tension in his shoulders you hadn't noticed before.
"What is it?' You asked, voice gentle.
"Hmmm?" He looked back at you.
"You're thinking too loudly."
He huffed a quiet laugh, "You're mother says the same thing."
That softened you. He stepped closer then, resting a heavy hand on your shoulder.
"You have grown into a strong woman." He said, the words feeling oddly serious.
"Father..."
"If I ask something of you one day," He continued, eyes full of an emotion you couldn't place, "something difficult..."
He trailed off to a stop. Your brows furrowed.
"You know I would do anything for the North." You said.
His jaw tightened slightly, and he removed his hand from your shoulder.
"Aye," He said, softly, "That's what I fear."
The wind stirred beneath the willow branches, brushing them across the lake's surface. You stepped beneath the hanging limbs, watching the ripples spread across the water.
"Its peaceful here," You spoke quietly, "I might come back."
"You should." He said, watching you, "When the world becomes...complicated."
You glanced back at him.
"Is something complicated now?" You asked, brows furrowed.
For a heartbeat, he did not answer.
Then, Lord Stark gave the same calm expression he wore in every council chamber from Winterfell to King's Landing.
"Nothing you need trouble yourself with." He straightened.
You frowned, that was not truly an answer.
Before you could press further, he gestured for the Knight to bring his horse forward.
"Come," he said suddenly, "If we linger any longer, the court will begin wondering what mischief the wolves are planning."
You laughed softly and moved to mount your horse again.
But as you rode away from the lake, you glanced back once more at the willow tree trailing its branches against the water.
Your father remained there a moment longer than you did, watching the ripples spread across the surface.
Like a man considering the consequences of a choice already made.
Summary: When Lord Stark brings his eldest daughter to King's Landing, it is not for celebration — it is for alliance. With a new son born in the North, her fate has quietly shifted from heir to bargaining piece. A southern marriage will secure her house. She simply doesn’t know it yet.
At court, beneath King Daeron II Targaryen, she clashes with his dutiful son, Baelor Targaryen — steel against steel, winter against flame. He falls first. She refuses to bend. Between sparring matches, sharp words, and almost-kisses stolen by interrupted breaths, something dangerous begins to bloom.
But honour is a cage, and politics do not forgive weakness.
And in King’s Landing, a Stark daughter does not belong to herself.
Warnings: slow burn, swearing, tension, hinted age gap,
Notes: I haven't written in years, but the son 'The Hand' by Annabelle Dinda has been stuck in my head for weeks, that mixed with binge watching AKOTSK and here we are.
The south was disgustingly hot.
It had a completely different feel to your home, the weather at Winterfell felt sure and sturdy and yet Kings Landing air felt as though it held to many secrets and spread itself too thin. The Red Keep towered over you as you approached, most would be relieved to see their destination after months of long travel on horseback and carriage, and yet it felt as though it was about to swallow you open and keep you in its belly for the rest of your life.
Your grey mare snorted as you stared up at the intimidating structure before you, as though she was letting you know she felt your thoughts through your thighs on her sides. And that she agreed.
You lay a hand on top her neck, calming yourself or her - you weren't sure.
The knights and banner men surrounding you pull to a stop in front of the large, carved wooden gates, and you pull your mare up with them, running a hand down the back of your neck so lessen the damp of sweat from falling down the back of your gown. The mid morning sun had been beating down on your neck since you left your final camp in the early hours.
You hear men shout, then the load groan of the carved wood as the great gates begin to open before you.
Ahead, you watch your father shift in the saddle of his large black stallion, straightening his back and raising his head. Like a man about to enter the battlefield.
Lord Alaric Stark had faced many foes, and yet the dragons den was ahead of him and he seemed more nervous riding in than facing a fleet of armed men thirsting for his blood.
You straighten your own back to follow suit of your fathers posture, raising your chin and kicking your mare forward to follow your father as the gates of the Red Keep opened before you.
Baelor stands beside Maekar, whose hands fiddled with a gemmed dagger through boredom, watching the servants and Kingsguard scatter about the courtyard in preparation for the arrival of Lord Stark and his company.
His Father, the King Daeron, stands above him on the curved steps, dressed in a deep red with the Targaryen house symbol stitched in black on his chest, the golden crown that has been passed down throughout their household upon his head. He looked every part the king.
Lord Stark means to strengthen his household.
Baelor has heard the whispers. A son has finally been born to Winterfell after 22 summers since the young Lady's Stark birth. That she is no longer the heir to Winterfell.
He spins the ring on his pinky finger out of habit, not nerves. Although his chest felt tight, not worryingly tight, but subtle enough that he noticed.
His attention then snaps up at the groan of the carved oak doors, the metal surrounding them creek in a way that he knows too well. Moments later, the thundering on hooves enters the courtyard and he straightens his posture to greet his guests.
Among the first is Lord Alaric Stark upon a massive black stallion whose large hooves thundered on the ground and nostrils flared as the beast snorted to make its entrance known. Much like his ride, Lord Stark was a large man, board and proud. Dressed in dark grey with a dark metalled sword strapped to his waist. The Stark Direwolf stitched to his chest in a subtle but strong way. The mans face, solid and proud, was creased with years of responsibility of his position as warden of the north evident.
He pulls his massive beast to the bottom of the steps in which Baelor stands below his father and next to his youngest brother, the stallion stomps his two front legs at the command of being stop, almost in a slight rear, and yet Lord Stark ignores him.
"Lord Stark, we welcome you to Kings Landing." The King greets, moving down the steps to stand beside his heir.
Lord Stark swings from his horse as a stable boy holds the reins, landing sturdy on his feet despite his showing age.
"Your grace," He bows, "We are grateful for your hospitality."
We.
Baelor looks to the gate then, watching as a grey mare with a flowing white mane and tail trots into the courtyard. Riding the beautiful creature, sits the Lady Stark he has heard so many whispers about in the last few weeks.
You sit tall, chin raised high and sure. You look undisturbed, unwaveringly against the bustle of the Red Keeps courtyard. You pull your mare up a few metres away from where your father stood, eyes scanning the high walls of the courtyard.
To the naked eye, you are composed and proper.
But Baelor, he saw your eyes. The way they flickered just slightly too quickly around, the slight shudder in your shoulders despite the southern heat.
You swing your leg over your mares rump before a stable hand has the chance to grip the reins for you. Instead, you hold your mare yourself, running a gloved hand down her neck and standing close to her but making sure that your back was not turned from the strangers around you.
He watched as you whispered things to the mare, and waved off the stable hand reaching for her reins. As thought you didn't want to part with the mare, like she was grounding you in this uncomfortable situation.
He tuned out the conversation between Lord Stark and his father, until you were called over and he watched your steps as you walked toward them, mare loosely held in your hands by the woven leather reins.
"May I introduce you to my daughter," Lord Stark gestured to you, "Lady (Y/N) Stark of Winterfell."
You look up from your mare then, curtsying before the king and the princes.
Your eyes meet with Baelor's.
"It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Your Grace." You speak to the King, although you look longer at Baelor than the King, "My Father has spoken of you in great detail, and with great kindness."
You spoke smoothly, practised although it was not rehearsed and did not feel ungenuine. You spoke like a true warden of the north.
"Congratulations on the birth of your son, Lord Stark." The Queen said, her face showing a gentle kindness, "I'm sure you are overjoyed."
The Lord Stark grins, letting out a huffy chuckle, "It has been a long time coming, I believe Winterfell is still celebrating Bearon's birth as we speak."
Bealor offers a courteous smile, his miss matched eyes floating back toward you. He noticed the strain in your smile, how it didn't quite reach your eyes at the mention of the birth of your younger brother.
It was well known that over the course of your life, being your fathers only offspring and his brothers dead, that you were to be your fathers heir. That on the day of his death, you would take the seat at Winterfell as Lady Stark and warden of the north.
However, with the recent birth of your brother, whispers started about the line of succession. It was well known that a son would and always will over take the eldest daughter as heir.
Baelor's own family destroyed each other over the very same situation.
"Lady Stark," The King speaks, moving down the steps to stand in front of you, "Allow my stable boys to take care of your horse, and the ladies maid's to take you to your chamber they have prepared for you. I'm sure your journey has been long on that horse of yours. I'm surprised you did not travel in the comfort of the carriage."
You offer a formal smile as the king stands two steps above you, "I have always preferred the back of a horse to a carriage, your Grace." You say.
Then, a young boy appears and leads your mare toward the stables. You watch your mare go, feeling as though your link to home was walking away before your eyes. Beside you, a young woman offers a small curtsy to you and the Royal Family, before guiding you up the stairs.
You spare a glance to your left as you pass the heir to the Iron Throne, to find him watching you out of the corner of his mismatched eyes. His gaze is soft, despite his formal posture with his hands held behind his back.
You move your gaze away, following the maid up the stairs and into the red keep.
Despite the hustle of the hall, and being surrounded by servants darting around filling cups and bringing out plates heaped with flavoured foods, King's Landing did not whisper like Winterfell did. It does not echo with the wind through the corridors. It swelters. It gleams blindingly.
Bright colours, rich smells of winds and foods and boisterous laughter fills your senses. Silks surround your vision, jewels flash at every throat and wrist. The South was loud and obnoxious.
You sat to your father's side, who sat beside the king and they spoke loudly like old friends, running your finger over the tongs of the fork that laid next to your empty plate, dressed in your house hold grey with your hair half braided away from your features while the rest travelled down your back. You looked every part the heir of Winterfell.
You could feel the weight of the stares from noblemen around you, their eyes hungry with desire for the power you held. After all, you were the Northern girl, ice made flesh, the daughter of a Lord who rarely leaves his snow.
You clock the exits, noting where each Kingsgaurd stands, where the servants came from and what they carried, and noted who allied with who in this great feast.
It is the noise around her that subtly shifts that she notices before she hears him.
"Lady Stark." The voice is calm, even. Not loud - but it carried.
You turned.
Prince Baelor stood before you without herald or spectacle.
His was taller now you see him properly. Broad shoulder, built like a knight rather than a court ornament Princes are so known for. His dark hair touched by silver, but not from the famous Targaryen colour, from age. His eye - gods - his eyes are not the pale violet of songs you've heard.
One dark, one light. Both thoughtful and assessing, yet gentle. They take you in, not the gown you were, or the way your hair is knotted together. But you.
You take a quick stand, curtsying before him, precisely and respectfully but not fawning like so many other Lady's have done before him.
"Your Grace," You greet, standing before him now with your hands held politely in front you of, "This is a pleasant feast your father has held in our honour."
He studied the depth of the curtsey, his eyes never leaving your own, but you note how he spins the ring on his finger in front of him - not out of anxiety but out of habit.
"I hope King's Landing has not proved too overwhelming, my Lady." Bealor speaks, even and strong, a polite opening.
A Southern test you came to learn on your teachings with the maester of your home.
"It is...very bright." You said, lifting your chin.
There is a flicker that touches his mouth, one that would go unnoticed to others who had not be taught in the way you were taught.
"Brightness offends you?" He countered, a slight lightless on his tone this time.
"No," You said evenly, "But it reveals things one might prefer remain hidden."
There is a pause. A breath.
A flicker of amusement, of a man intrigued, darts across his face.
"And what has it revealed tonight?" He asks, his hands moving to link behind his back, his body language opening toward you.
You had a chance to retreat, offer a milder answer that would be the dutiful response, to not test the kindness that the Targaryens have offered your household so far.
"That the South confuses comfort for strength."
It was a dangerous thing to say. To challenge the strength of the strongest household in the seven kingdoms. Not rude, but sharp.
You feel your father quieten his conversation with the king, leaning in to listen to your conversation with the crown prince.
But Baelor does not bristle, in fact, his posture eases. As though the raw truth is a comfort for him to hear.
"And the North?" He counters, leaning fractionally forward, "What does it confuse?"
"Isolation for safety."
The honesty in your response surprises even you. And for the first time, something shifts behind his eyes. Respect, maybe even relief.
"You speak plainly." He states, a soft smile on his lips.
You drop your head, overly aware of how bold you have been speaking, noting your father watching you out of the corner of his vision.
"Apologies, Your Grace," You say, looking down at the ground, "I was taught not to waste words."
"No," He agrees softly, "I do not think you were." There is no mockery in his words, only observation, "It is...a relief to be spoken to as though we are the same. Not to have words hidden from me."
You meet his gaze again this time, seeing a man in front of you, not the crown prince of Westeros.
"I have read of Winterfell," He says, continuing the conversation, "Hot springs beneath stone. Snow that never fully leaves."
"You have read correctly, your grace." You offer a smile, reminiscent of your home.
Baelor offers you his arm then, aware of the listening ears from the table around you. You accept, holding the bend of his arm with your hand and he begins to lead you away, toward the outskirts of the room where colourful tapestries hand from the stone walls.
"I would like to see it one day." He speaks only once you are far enough away from your fathers.
"And I would like to see the remains of the Dragon Pit." You reply before you can stop yourself.
The words hang between you. Bold.
Bealor doente not laugh.
"Would you?" He asks quietly, stopping at the open doors to the large decorated balcony on the far side of the room, the evening air gently blow through you, and you almost sigh at the smell of fresh air.
"I would your Grace." You nod, moving to stand in front of him.
"Why?" His tone is not aggressive, not defensive, but naturally curious.
"Because if something so terrible could have existed," You say, referring to the beasts that used to rule the sky, meeting his mismatched gaze fully now, tiling your head up, "then perhaps so can something truly magnificent."
The hall fades around you as Baelor looks upon you.
He sees you differently in that moment, not as a lord looks at a daughter of another house or as a prince looking at a potential alliance. But as a man confronted with something unexpected.
"It would not scare you?" He asks.
You share your head, "I fear many things, your Grace, but dragons were honest about what they are."
A heartbeat passes between the two of you. He studies you as though he is committing this moment to his memories.
"And, Lady Stark," He takes a small step forward, illuminated by the moonlight from the clear night sky, "What are you honest about?"
The question, it landed deeper than was intended. You hold his gaze, not moving as he steps closer.
"I endure."
Baelor stills, he understands that word. Of course he does.
Music sweeps around the both of you, the court noise although loud, feels distant now, as thought the two of you stand inside a circle carved from the chaos.
He inclines his head, lower than necessity demands.
"It is a rare thing," He speaks lowly, "to find someone who does not bend at court."
You raise a brow, a small teasing smirk dancing on your mouth, " Stone should remain stone, Your Grace."
His own mouth curves, not into a polite court smile, but a real one.
"Even stone," His voice is gentle, "can be shaped."
"Only by something stronger." You return quickly.
Silence.
Something unnamed passes between you, not desire yet. But recognition. Dangerous recognition.
Across the hall, Lord Stark watches the crown prince and his daughter. Not frowning, not smiling. Just watching.
Baelor then steps back at last, the space between you widening by inches that feel like miles.
"I hope you find you stay in King's Landing to be...englighting." He speaks, his voice all crown prince with the softest touch to it.
"And I hope Your Grace finds the North as unyielding as its reputation." You counter.
"I have no doubt of it."
Baelor lingers a fraction too long before turning away.
You tell yourself that the warmth in you chest is nothing more than the effect of the packed hall you are in. That it is causing your shortness of breath. That the way he listened to you, truly listened, means nothing more than a prince being polite to his fathers guest.
But, as he reaches the seat beside his father at the head table, he looks back toward you.
i have (roughly) written a further 4 parts to this series, and GOD do i have so much to put into this - slow burn is about to burn with these two and i’m sorry in advance coz im about to break some hearts including my own
Summary: When Lord Stark brings his eldest daughter to King's Landing, it is not for celebration — it is for alliance. With a new son born in the North, her fate has quietly shifted from heir to bargaining piece. A southern marriage will secure her house. She simply doesn’t know it yet.
At court, beneath King Daeron II Targaryen, she clashes with his dutiful son, Baelor Targaryen — steel against steel, winter against flame. He falls first. She refuses to bend. Between sparring matches, sharp words, and almost-kisses stolen by interrupted breaths, something dangerous begins to bloom.
But honour is a cage, and politics do not forgive weakness.
And in King’s Landing, a Stark daughter does not belong to herself.
Warnings: slow burn, swearing, tension, hinted age gap,
Notes: I haven't written in years, but the son 'The Hand' by Annabelle Dinda has been stuck in my head for weeks, that mixed with binge watching AKOTSK and here we are.
Masterlist
The south was disgustingly hot.
It had a completely different feel to your home, the weather at Winterfell felt sure and sturdy and yet Kings Landing air felt as though it held to many secrets and spread itself too thin. The Red Keep towered over you as you approached, most would be relieved to see their destination after months of long travel on horseback and carriage, and yet it felt as though it was about to swallow you open and keep you in its belly for the rest of your life.
Your grey mare snorted as you stared up at the intimidating structure before you, as though she was letting you know she felt your thoughts through your thighs on her sides. And that she agreed.
You lay a hand on top her neck, calming yourself or her - you weren't sure.
The knights and banner men surrounding you pull to a stop in front of the large, carved wooden gates, and you pull your mare up with them, running a hand down the back of your neck so lessen the damp of sweat from falling down the back of your gown. The mid morning sun had been beating down on your neck since you left your final camp in the early hours.
You hear men shout, then the load groan of the carved wood as the great gates begin to open before you.
Ahead, you watch your father shift in the saddle of his large black stallion, straightening his back and raising his head. Like a man about to enter the battlefield.
Lord Alaric Stark had faced many foes, and yet the dragons den was ahead of him and he seemed more nervous riding in than facing a fleet of armed men thirsting for his blood.
You straighten your own back to follow suit of your fathers posture, raising your chin and kicking your mare forward to follow your father as the gates of the Red Keep opened before you.
Baelor stands beside Maekar, whose hands fiddled with a gemmed dagger through boredom, watching the servants and Kingsguard scatter about the courtyard in preparation for the arrival of Lord Stark and his company.
His Father, the King Daeron, stands above him on the curved steps, dressed in a deep red with the Targaryen house symbol stitched in black on his chest, the golden crown that has been passed down throughout their household upon his head. He looked every part the king.
Lord Stark means to strengthen his household.
Baelor has heard the whispers. A son has finally been born to Winterfell after 22 summers since the young Lady's Stark birth. That she is no longer the heir to Winterfell.
He spins the ring on his pinky finger out of habit, not nerves. Although his chest felt tight, not worryingly tight, but subtle enough that he noticed.
His attention then snaps up at the groan of the carved oak doors, the metal surrounding them creek in a way that he knows too well. Moments later, the thundering on hooves enters the courtyard and he straightens his posture to greet his guests.
Among the first is Lord Alaric Stark upon a massive black stallion whose large hooves thundered on the ground and nostrils flared as the beast snorted to make its entrance known. Much like his ride, Lord Stark was a large man, board and proud. Dressed in dark grey with a dark metalled sword strapped to his waist. The Stark Direwolf stitched to his chest in a subtle but strong way. The mans face, solid and proud, was creased with years of responsibility of his position as warden of the north evident.
He pulls his massive beast to the bottom of the steps in which Baelor stands below his father and next to his youngest brother, the stallion stomps his two front legs at the command of being stop, almost in a slight rear, and yet Lord Stark ignores him.
"Lord Stark, we welcome you to Kings Landing." The King greets, moving down the steps to stand beside his heir.
Lord Stark swings from his horse as a stable boy holds the reins, landing sturdy on his feet despite his showing age.
"Your grace," He bows, "We are grateful for your hospitality."
We.
Baelor looks to the gate then, watching as a grey mare with a flowing white mane and tail trots into the courtyard. Riding the beautiful creature, sits the Lady Stark he has heard so many whispers about in the last few weeks.
You sit tall, chin raised high and sure. You look undisturbed, unwaveringly against the bustle of the Red Keeps courtyard. You pull your mare up a few metres away from where your father stood, eyes scanning the high walls of the courtyard.
To the naked eye, you are composed and proper.
But Baelor, he saw your eyes. The way they flickered just slightly too quickly around, the slight shudder in your shoulders despite the southern heat.
You swing your leg over your mares rump before a stable hand has the chance to grip the reins for you. Instead, you hold your mare yourself, running a gloved hand down her neck and standing close to her but making sure that your back was not turned from the strangers around you.
He watched as you whispered things to the mare, and waved off the stable hand reaching for her reins. As thought you didn't want to part with the mare, like she was grounding you in this uncomfortable situation.
He tuned out the conversation between Lord Stark and his father, until you were called over and he watched your steps as you walked toward them, mare loosely held in your hands by the woven leather reins.
"May I introduce you to my daughter," Lord Stark gestured to you, "Lady (Y/N) Stark of Winterfell."
You look up from your mare then, curtsying before the king and the princes.
Your eyes meet with Baelor's.
"It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Your Grace." You speak to the King, although you look longer at Baelor than the King, "My Father has spoken of you in great detail, and with great kindness."
You spoke smoothly, practised although it was not rehearsed and did not feel ungenuine. You spoke like a true warden of the north.
"Congratulations on the birth of your son, Lord Stark." The Queen said, her face showing a gentle kindness, "I'm sure you are overjoyed."
The Lord Stark grins, letting out a huffy chuckle, "It has been a long time coming, I believe Winterfell is still celebrating Bearon's birth as we speak."
Bealor offers a courteous smile, his miss matched eyes floating back toward you. He noticed the strain in your smile, how it didn't quite reach your eyes at the mention of the birth of your younger brother.
It was well known that over the course of your life, being your fathers only offspring and his brothers dead, that you were to be your fathers heir. That on the day of his death, you would take the seat at Winterfell as Lady Stark and warden of the north.
However, with the recent birth of your brother, whispers started about the line of succession. It was well known that a son would and always will over take the eldest daughter as heir.
Baelor's own family destroyed each other over the very same situation.
"Lady Stark," The King speaks, moving down the steps to stand in front of you, "Allow my stable boys to take care of your horse, and the ladies maid's to take you to your chamber they have prepared for you. I'm sure your journey has been long on that horse of yours. I'm surprised you did not travel in the comfort of the carriage."
You offer a formal smile as the king stands two steps above you, "I have always preferred the back of a horse to a carriage, your Grace." You say.
Then, a young boy appears and leads your mare toward the stables. You watch your mare go, feeling as though your link to home was walking away before your eyes. Beside you, a young woman offers a small curtsy to you and the Royal Family, before guiding you up the stairs.
You spare a glance to your left as you pass the heir to the Iron Throne, to find him watching you out of the corner of his mismatched eyes. His gaze is soft, despite his formal posture with his hands held behind his back.
You move your gaze away, following the maid up the stairs and into the red keep.
Despite the hustle of the hall, and being surrounded by servants darting around filling cups and bringing out plates heaped with flavoured foods, King's Landing did not whisper like Winterfell did. It does not echo with the wind through the corridors. It swelters. It gleams blindingly.
Bright colours, rich smells of winds and foods and boisterous laughter fills your senses. Silks surround your vision, jewels flash at every throat and wrist. The South was loud and obnoxious.
You sat to your father's side, who sat beside the king and they spoke loudly like old friends, running your finger over the tongs of the fork that laid next to your empty plate, dressed in your house hold grey with your hair half braided away from your features while the rest travelled down your back. You looked every part the heir of Winterfell.
You could feel the weight of the stares from noblemen around you, their eyes hungry with desire for the power you held. After all, you were the Northern girl, ice made flesh, the daughter of a Lord who rarely leaves his snow.
You clock the exits, noting where each Kingsgaurd stands, where the servants came from and what they carried, and noted who allied with who in this great feast.
It is the noise around her that subtly shifts that she notices before she hears him.
"Lady Stark." The voice is calm, even. Not loud - but it carried.
You turned.
Prince Baelor stood before you without herald or spectacle.
His was taller now you see him properly. Broad shoulder, built like a knight rather than a court ornament Princes are so known for. His dark hair touched by silver, but not from the famous Targaryen colour, from age. His eye - gods - his eyes are not the pale violet of songs you've heard.
One dark, one light. Both thoughtful and assessing, yet gentle. They take you in, not the gown you were, or the way your hair is knotted together. But you.
You take a quick stand, curtsying before him, precisely and respectfully but not fawning like so many other Lady's have done before him.
"Your Grace," You greet, standing before him now with your hands held politely in front you of, "This is a pleasant feast your father has held in our honour."
He studied the depth of the curtsey, his eyes never leaving your own, but you note how he spins the ring on his finger in front of him - not out of anxiety but out of habit.
"I hope King's Landing has not proved too overwhelming, my Lady." Bealor speaks, even and strong, a polite opening.
A Southern test you came to learn on your teachings with the maester of your home.
"It is...very bright." You said, lifting your chin.
There is a flicker that touches his mouth, one that would go unnoticed to others who had not be taught in the way you were taught.
"Brightness offends you?" He countered, a slight lightless on his tone this time.
"No," You said evenly, "But it reveals things one might prefer remain hidden."
There is a pause. A breath.
A flicker of amusement, of a man intrigued, darts across his face.
"And what has it revealed tonight?" He asks, his hands moving to link behind his back, his body language opening toward you.
You had a chance to retreat, offer a milder answer that would be the dutiful response, to not test the kindness that the Targaryens have offered your household so far.
"That the South confuses comfort for strength."
It was a dangerous thing to say. To challenge the strength of the strongest household in the seven kingdoms. Not rude, but sharp.
You feel your father quieten his conversation with the king, leaning in to listen to your conversation with the crown prince.
But Baelor does not bristle, in fact, his posture eases. As though the raw truth is a comfort for him to hear.
"And the North?" He counters, leaning fractionally forward, "What does it confuse?"
"Isolation for safety."
The honesty in your response surprises even you. And for the first time, something shifts behind his eyes. Respect, maybe even relief.
"You speak plainly." He states, a soft smile on his lips.
You drop your head, overly aware of how bold you have been speaking, noting your father watching you out of the corner of his vision.
"Apologies, Your Grace," You say, looking down at the ground, "I was taught not to waste words."
"No," He agrees softly, "I do not think you were." There is no mockery in his words, only observation, "It is...a relief to be spoken to as though we are the same. Not to have words hidden from me."
You meet his gaze again this time, seeing a man in front of you, not the crown prince of Westeros.
"I have read of Winterfell," He says, continuing the conversation, "Hot springs beneath stone. Snow that never fully leaves."
"You have read correctly, your grace." You offer a smile, reminiscent of your home.
Baelor offers you his arm then, aware of the listening ears from the table around you. You accept, holding the bend of his arm with your hand and he begins to lead you away, toward the outskirts of the room where colourful tapestries hand from the stone walls.
"I would like to see it one day." He speaks only once you are far enough away from your fathers.
"And I would like to see the remains of the Dragon Pit." You reply before you can stop yourself.
The words hang between you. Bold.
Bealor doente not laugh.
"Would you?" He asks quietly, stopping at the open doors to the large decorated balcony on the far side of the room, the evening air gently blow through you, and you almost sigh at the smell of fresh air.
"I would your Grace." You nod, moving to stand in front of him.
"Why?" His tone is not aggressive, not defensive, but naturally curious.
"Because if something so terrible could have existed," You say, referring to the beasts that used to rule the sky, meeting his mismatched gaze fully now, tiling your head up, "then perhaps so can something truly magnificent."
The hall fades around you as Baelor looks upon you.
He sees you differently in that moment, not as a lord looks at a daughter of another house or as a prince looking at a potential alliance. But as a man confronted with something unexpected.
"It would not scare you?" He asks.
You share your head, "I fear many things, your Grace, but dragons were honest about what they are."
A heartbeat passes between the two of you. He studies you as though he is committing this moment to his memories.
"And, Lady Stark," He takes a small step forward, illuminated by the moonlight from the clear night sky, "What are you honest about?"
The question, it landed deeper than was intended. You hold his gaze, not moving as he steps closer.
"I endure."
Baelor stills, he understands that word. Of course he does.
Music sweeps around the both of you, the court noise although loud, feels distant now, as thought the two of you stand inside a circle carved from the chaos.
He inclines his head, lower than necessity demands.
"It is a rare thing," He speaks lowly, "to find someone who does not bend at court."
You raise a brow, a small teasing smirk dancing on your mouth, " Stone should remain stone, Your Grace."
His own mouth curves, not into a polite court smile, but a real one.
"Even stone," His voice is gentle, "can be shaped."
"Only by something stronger." You return quickly.
Silence.
Something unnamed passes between you, not desire yet. But recognition. Dangerous recognition.
Across the hall, Lord Stark watches the crown prince and his daughter. Not frowning, not smiling. Just watching.
Baelor then steps back at last, the space between you widening by inches that feel like miles.
"I hope you find you stay in King's Landing to be...englighting." He speaks, his voice all crown prince with the softest touch to it.
"And I hope Your Grace finds the North as unyielding as its reputation." You counter.
"I have no doubt of it."
Baelor lingers a fraction too long before turning away.
You tell yourself that the warmth in you chest is nothing more than the effect of the packed hall you are in. That it is causing your shortness of breath. That the way he listened to you, truly listened, means nothing more than a prince being polite to his fathers guest.
But, as he reaches the seat beside his father at the head table, he looks back toward you.
Hi! So my friend and I both have characters with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. While I know a little bit about it, I feel like I don't know enough to help her much less properly write a character with PTSD. Do you have any resources that could help?
Here are all the links I could find:
A Guide To PTSD
Character Development: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
A Study on PTSD (in adults)
003: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Writing PTSD (and other mental disorders) Accurately
