Her Beautiful, Haunting Eyes
Summary: A grieving prince begins seeing a strange woman with obsidian eyes in his chambers. Whether she is a ghost, a dream, or something else entirely remains unanswered.
There are many things Prince Baelor can explain. Her beautiful, haunting eyes are not one of them.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Elia Martell
Warning: blood, grief/mourning
Time moved strangely after the woman entered his life.
Baelor never knew when she would appear. There was no pattern to it. Eventually, he stopped trying to understand what she truly was. The longer he knew her, the more impossible it seemed to find an explanation that made any sense. And every time she returned, Baelor found himself wishing time would slow down, because she never stayed long. Sometimes only a few minutes. Sometimes an hour, if he was lucky. She came whenever she pleased and left the same way, without a single explanation.
At first, Baelor paid it little mind. But with every visit, he became increasingly aware that he had started keeping track of time. He counted the moments until she would eventually rise to her feet, offer him a small smile, and disappear again for who knew how many weeks or months. It was strange to realize that the most peaceful part of his days came from brief conversations with a woman who had never even told him her name.
Baelor couldn't pinpoint exactly when he began looking forward to her visits. Perhaps it was when he caught himself glancing toward his chamber window each night. Or when he started storing away little stories in his mind, just in case she returned and there was an opportunity to tell them. Most troubling of all, he had begun to hope. He hoped she would come back. Not because he needed answers about who or what she was, but because he enjoyed her presence.
One evening, she spent nearly an entire hour trying to convince him that most court poets weren't actually in love with the women they wrote about. With a serious expression and furrowed brows, she explained her reasoning.
"They're in love with the tragedy," she said, lounging lazily across a sofa near the hearth. "Men enjoy feeling miserable. It makes them feel interesting."
"That is a rather cruel accusation."
Baelor hid a faint smile behind his wine goblet.
On another occasion, she commented on the unfortunate habit Westerosi nobles had of hosting far too many tournaments. She rolled her eyes as she spoke.
"I still don't understand why men willingly get hit with wooden sticks just for applause and compliments."
"That's called a head injury."
Baelor nearly choked on his wine at that and laughed so hard that one of the servants outside his chambers knocked on the door, fearing something terrible had happened.
Sometimes she simply kept him company while he worked. She would sit by the window reading a random book she had taken from one of his shelves, occasionally offering comments that completely destroyed his concentration.
"You look like the sort of man who'll die from reading too many tax reports."
"Entirely possible," Baelor admitted with amusement. "These documents weren't written to be enjoyed like epic tales and tragic poems."
"How tragic. The heir to the Iron Throne defeated by a pile of boring parchment that will one day kill him."
And Baelor hated the fact that he had begun looking forward to remarks like that. Because every time she left, the room felt far too large afterward.
On another evening, she sat cross-legged on the floor while absently moving his cyvasse pieces and spoke about war with a level of detail that felt disturbingly personal, as though she had experienced its consequences herself. Sometimes she knew far too much about politics as well like how hunger could spark rebellion faster than a king's poor speech, or how smallfolk and innocent people were always the first to suffer when nobles began playing their games.
Moments like those reminded Baelor just how much he still didn't know about her. But for now, he found that he didn't need answers. He was content with what they had. Sometimes questions were better left unanswered. Sometimes a person didn't need to understand everything in order to appreciate its presence.
The sun had barely risen when Baelor was already seated in the Small Council, listening to yet another endless debate that left a dull ache behind his eyes. The room felt suffocating, thick with ambition and the scent of melting candle wax. From morning until well past noon, he found himself trapped between stacks of documents and squabbling lords determined to undermine one another. There were disputes over harbor taxes in King's Landing, reports of smuggling in Blackwater Bay, and a ridiculous border disagreement between two Stormlands houses that had nearly escalated into bloodshed. Baelor spent the day forcing his mind to remain sharp, acting as a fair mediator before the king whenever grown men decided to behave like children fighting over toys.
The strain followed him into the evening during a formal feast in the great hall. Neither the wine nor the food held any appeal for him. Then again, what was there to enjoy when both body and mind were begging for rest? Unfortunately, despite being at the very edge of his patience, Baelor couldn't yet retreat to his chambers.
So he slipped away in search of fresh air. His feet eventually carried him toward the godswood, quiet and beautiful beneath a scattering of fireflies. It felt strangely fortunate to witness something so peaceful amidst the endless tangle of politics. Things would have been easier if his brother Maekar were in King's Landing to help shoulder some of the burden .Unfortunately, Maekar had duties of his own in Summerhall.
And that was where Baelor found her.
She was standing atop a fallen tree trunk, both arms stretched wide as she tried to keep her balance. The movement looked almost childish, and yet somehow graceful all the same. Her white nightgown stirred softly in the evening breeze, while a thin cloak hung loosely from her shoulders. Moonlight filtered through the branches overhead, making her seem almost unreal.
Baelor slowed to a stop. He watched from a distance with his arms folded across his chest. Without realizing it, the corner of his mouth lifted into a small smile. The exhaustion that had plagued him all day seemed to vanish at once.
"If you fall from there, I'm not helping you," Baelor called out, breaking the silence.
The woman didn't startle. She merely turned her head without lowering her arms and smiled so broadly that her eyes crinkled with amusement.
"What sort of prince would let a poor woman fall, Your Grace?"
Baelor approached at a measured pace. "The sort who has spent the entire day dealing with lords more childish than the woman currently balancing on a log."
She laughed softly before hopping down. "I was beginning to think you'd died of boredom at the feast."
The corner of Baelor's mouth twitched. "Perhaps I would have, had I stayed among the nobility instead of coming here to enjoy the company of fireflies."
The woman walked closer, her hands clasped behind her back. Leaning forward playfully, she studied his face.
"That explains your dreadful expression."
"I thought you only appeared in my chambers."
"I appear wherever you are."
Together they wandered beneath the canopy of the godswood, letting the fireflies light their path. They spent most of the evening as they always did. Talking about things that seemed unimportant and therefore somehow became important. Baelor told her about a lord who had once attempted to smuggle exotic birds into the Red Keep, only to spend an entire week chasing them after they escaped.
The woman laughed so hard that her eyes watered by the time he finished. Then she answered with a story of her own. A story about a naïve young girl who believed her political marriage would end as happily as the one before hers. There was no love, perhaps, but there had been trust. Respect. The girl thought that would be enough. When she followed in her predecessor's footsteps, she was left broken.
"What a miserable fate," Baelor commented quietly.
The woman smiled faintly. "Yes. And perhaps that girl will raise her children to choose duty and obligation above all else."
Baelor stopped walking. "Why?"
"Because what is the point of chasing love if it destroys everything?"
Baelor watched the fireflies reflected in her eyes as dark as obsidian. And for reasons he could not explain, he found himself asking the question that had lingered in his mind for some time.
For a moment, he thought he saw something flicker across her face. Sadness. Horror.o Something raw enough to make his chest tighten.
"I think I loved the hope of who he was," she answered softly. "Most days I don't think about it. It belongs to the past, and I have little time to spend dwelling on the past."
When she resumed walking, Baelor reached out without thinking and caught her wrist. The gesture made her stop and look back at him, confusion written plainly across her face.
"Then," he said quietly as their conversation faded into silence, "after all the time you've spent distracting me from my work, I think I deserve to know one thing."
One of her brows lifted. "And what might that be?"
Baelor held her gaze for a few moments. "Your name."
The night wind stirred gently between them. The woman lowered her eyes for a moment, as though deciding whether she would offer another cryptic answer or finally give him something real.
Then, at last, she smiled. A small, soft smile. "Elia," she said.
It was a beautiful name, one that settled perfectly on his tongue the moment he repeated it in his mind. Hearing it out loud felt like finally finding the missing piece to a puzzle he'd been trying to solve for ages.
"Elia," Baelor repeated, a smile settling across his features. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he bowed his head and pressed his lips to the edge of her palm, lingering there longer than courtesy required.
A beautiful name for a woman with beautiful, haunting eyes.
