Savior Ten
What's this...? Another update? Surely not? Only because I love you guy! Authors note at the end!
Baelor rose early, long before the castle had properly stirred, the pale light of dawn only just beginning to creep through the tall windows of his chambers. Sleep had come to him, but not deeply, not peacefully. It had been filled with thoughts of you, of your voice, your warmth, the way you had looked at him when you said yes. Even now, as he sat at his desk, he could still feel the ghost of it lingering, a quiet, steady pull beneath everything else.
He forced himself to focus. Scrolls and parchments lay spread before him in careful disorder, urgent matters of the realm demanding attention before anything else could be indulged. He worked through them with practiced efficiency, answering ravens, sealing letters, issuing commands in a hand that remained steady despite the distraction of his thoughts. A steward stood nearby, bleary-eyed and struggling to keep pace as Baelor passed him ledgers and instructions, his voice calm but brisk as he moved from one matter to the next.
But even as he worked, his mind returned, again and again, to the most pressing matter of all. His marriage to you.
It would have to be soon.The memory of the night before pressed in on him, vivid and impossible to ignore. The way you had stood before him, uncertain yet resolute. The way your voice had softened when you accepted him. And then… the kiss.
Gods. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose to steadying himself. He had kissed you soundly, perhaps more so than he had intended, every careful boundary of restraint tested by the quiet, breathless sounds you had made against him. Those small, involuntary responses had undone him more thoroughly than any bold gesture could have. They had slipped past every shield of honour he had so carefully built, leaving him grasping for control.
It had taken everything in him not to pull you closer still, not to gather you fully into his arms and refuse to let go. He had wanted, with a startling intensity, to keep you there, to sit with you upon his bed, to let the night stretch endlessly as he spoke softly to you, nonsense perhaps, or gentle promises, anything to keep you near. Nothing unseemly. Nothing dishonourable. But his mind had wandered dangerously close to it all the same.
Soon, he reminded himself. Soon you would be his wife, and such restraint would no longer be required. The way your eyes had grown heavy with sleep, your body leaning unconsciously into him, trusting, yielding. He had felt it, that quiet surrender, and it had nearly broken his resolve entirely. For a moment, he had simply held you, unmoving, as though time itself had stilled.
But he had pulled away.He had placed you gently into the care of his Kingsguard, forcing himself to step back, to release you before he forgot himself entirely. The knight had given him a look, something between amusement and approval, his gaze flicking briefly to your lips, slightly swollen from his affection, before offering a respectful nod.
Baelor had not trusted himself to walk you back. Not when every instinct in him urged him to follow, to remain at your side, to prolong the moment for as long as possible. And yet you had turned back. Just before leaving, you had looked at him, your expression soft, your voice gentle as you bid him goodnight and promised to see him with the sunrise.
That had been enough to let him sleep.
Now, seated once more in the light of morning, he looked down at the spread of parchments before him, his thoughts shifting from memory to action.
It would be a royal wedding. It could not be anything less.Invitations would need to be sent across the realm, to great houses and lesser ones alike. The wardens of the North, the lords of the West, the Reach, the Vale. His brow furrowed slightly as he considered the distances involved. A wedding by the next moon would be too soon. Many would not arrive in time, and to exclude them, intentionally or not would breed resentment.
No. Two moons at the earliest…even that would be ambitious.
Preparations would need to begin immediately. Seamstresses were already at work for your wardrobe, but a wedding gown would require special care, something worthy of you, of the moment. He would have to get them working immediately. Feasts, musicians, decorations, accommodations for visiting lords… it would be no small undertaking.
“I take it you have good news, my son.”
Baelor looked up.
King Daeron stood at the entrance, already dressed, his presence commanding even in relative informality. Beside him, the queen practically glowed, her expression bright with anticipation.
“She has been so generous as to pledge me her hand,” Baelor replied, a warmth entering his voice that he did not bother to conceal.
The queen’s eyes filled instantly, her composure breaking as she crossed the room without hesitation. She reached up, cupping his face in her hands as though he were still a boy rather than a grown man.
“And why wouldn’t she, my handsome son?” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “You give so much. It is the gods’ gift to you. She will be a most wonderful wife… and queen.”
“With you guiding her, I have no doubt, Mother,” Baelor said gently, his smile softening.
She huffed lightly, though her expression remained fond. “Always the charm with you. I thank the gods she has brains. She will keep you on your toes.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek before her gaze drifted to the desk. “…It would seem you are already preparing…Well we will remind the kingdom of what a proper Dornish wedding is.’’
The king let out a warm laugh, stepping further into the room. “Well then, I am glad she said yes, otherwise all this effort would be for nothing.” His smile lingered, thoughtful now. “We will meet with her parents, arrange an announcement, have it sent across the realm by day’s end. The sooner this marriage is secured, the sooner I gain another daughter. And I would very much like to hear her thoughts on improving King’s Landing.”
“Husband!” the queen exclaimed, half scandalised, half amused.
“Oh, and your mother would like more grandchildren,” the king added, entirely undeterred. “As if we do not have enough already. But I must confess, I am intrigued to see what the two of you produce. I am sure you will have great fun discovering that.”
“Husband!” she repeated, sharper this time, though her cheeks had coloured.
“That is what a grand tour is for...remeber ours..” he continued with a grin.
Baelor pressed his lips together, a quiet, helpless amusement breaking through despite himself. A faint flush rose along his neck at his father’s words, though he did not look away. Instead, he let out a low breath, shaking his head slightly, caught between embarrassment and something softer.
There was fondness there. Deep, unshaken. His parents’ teasing did not unsettle him so much as it grounded him, reminding him that this was real, that this was happening, that what he felt was not something fleeting or imagined.
“I believe,” he said at last, his voice steady once more though a hint of warmth lingered, “that I shall focus first on ensuring she becomes my wife… before I concern myself with anything further.”
The king laughed again, clearly pleased and Baelor, despite the flush still lingering on his skin, found himself smiling.
xxxxx
“Why the fuck is he here,” Maekar growled, his voice low and dangerous as his sharp gaze settled on Daeron, suspicion etched deep into every hard line of his face.
The maester’s solar had never been meant to hold so many bodies, and yet it had been overtaken entirely, transformed from a place of quiet study into something resembling a cramped, chaotic council chamber. Shelves heavy with books loomed overhead, scrolls piled in precarious stacks, while the narrow windows let in only thin streams of pale morning light. The air felt warm, crowded, thick with the scent of parchment, ink… and lemon cakes.
Your three ladies fluttered endlessly about the eldest prince, fussing over him with an enthusiasm that bordered on relentless. Cushions were pressed behind his back, tea poured and replenished before he could finish a cup, delicate slices of cake placed insistently within his reach. Their laughter and whispers filled the small space, a stark contrast to the tension that coiled through the rest of the room.
Maester Yormwell sat enthroned in his high-backed chair like a contented king of crumbs, while beside him young Aemon remained entirely absorbed in his book, his nose buried so deeply in the pages it was as though the world beyond them did not exist.
Ser Duskendale stood rigid against the only remaining stretch of wall, his broad frame carefully angled so as not to disturb the already overcrowded space. His presence was steady, watchful, the quiet anchor in a room otherwise brimming with movement and noise. The final available corner had been claimed by Maekar’s eldest son, who leaned there with the ease of someone far too comfortable and sober for his father’s liking.
Maester Yormwell reached eagerly into a large specimen pot, retrieving a lemon cake with unconcealed delight. “My prince,” he said brightly, crumbs already beginning to scatter across his robes as he bit into it, “your son has most generously offered his assistance.”
“With what?” Maekar snapped, his lip curling. “I fail to see how his skills in draining a flagon of Reach red will prove useful.”
“Do not be so bitter, father,” came the easy reply, smooth and entirely unbothered. “What will the ladies think of you?”
Maekar grumbled under his breath, something deeply unflattering muttered in a tone that suggested long-standing frustration, his arms folding tightly across his chest as his glare sharpened.
“I heard Uncle was up early today,” Aemon said calmly, not once lifting his eyes from his book, his voice mild and detached as though he were commenting on the weather rather than the growing storm in the room.
“I fear the arrival of the parents has lent a certain urgency to our… mission,” Maester Yormwell said, frowning now as he brushed crumbs from his robes with little success.
“The mother is such a ghastly creature,” Brieanne declared, her expression tightening in clear distaste.
The other ladies gasped at once, scandalised.
“What? She is!” Brieanne insisted, entirely unapologetic.
“That is true,” Mysa added quickly, stepping in with a nod as she poured more tea. “But our lady sent her away. I am thankful for Ser Duskendale and Ser Crakehall. I feared she would never leave… or worse, that she might drag our lady away with her.”
She moved to refill Daeron’s cup as well, but he lifted a hand politely, declining with a small, careful smile under his father’s watchful gaze.
“It is our pleasure… and our duty,” Ser Duskendale said, his voice steady, though there was a faint edge of concern beneath it. “But I, too, have my doubts. Her father remained with her until the last bell.”
“We must prepare for a difficult campaign,” Yormwell added, steepling his fingers now, his earlier cheer fading into something more thoughtful. “We may have the king’s support, but the parents hold influence. And Lord Baratheon has never been inclined toward Targaryen favour.”
“Poncy, overgrown fawn,” Maekar muttered darkly.
“Ser Crakehall took the night watch,” Duskendale continued, shifting slightly in his armour. “When I relieve him, I may have more insight.”
“That might not be necessary,” Daeron murmured, a faint grimace touching his lips as he sipped his tea.
“Who asked you?” Maekar snapped, turning on him instantly. “We must plan. The ladies are not to leave her unattended. Aemon, you will assist. You are an irritating little leech, so you may as well be useful. The father has some sense...I will speak with him. My mother may be persuaded to manage the mother. And if all else fails…” his voice dropped slightly, “…we may need to consider more direct methods.”
“The prince would never!” one of the ladies protested at once.
“My prince…”
“Father…”
“Gods, I meant threats,” Maekar cut in sharply, irritation flaring. “Though if my brother were capable of such things, it would make matters considerably easier. But no he is an honour-bound, love-struck fool. Your lady’s maidenhead is quite safe… at least until after the wedding.”
A ripple of scandalised laughter and protests followed, though Daeron only shrugged lightly, his gaze drifting elsewhere entirely.
“Hmm…it would make them get straight to it but I think the castle should first be modified. Thicker walls to start and…l” he mused idly. “Perhaps concealed balconies would be useful… Private beaches are not a bad idea and yes, hedges would be quite effective…”
Slap!
“Foolish boy,” Maekar muttered, pulling back his hand, content with his son rubbing his head.
Maester Yormwell eyed him with open distrust before clearing his throat. “We must first determine where our lady’s inclinations lie. Once that is established, we can proceed with greater certainty. I shall visit her before the midday meal and...”
A sharp knock cut him off.
The door creaked open just enough for a young scribe to peer through, his face pale as he took in the crowded, improbable assembly before him.
“What is it, Cadefael?” Yormwell snapped, clearly irritated. “I said we were not to be disturbed.”
The boy blinked, his gaze darting from prince to prince, to the Kingsguard, to the ladies, clearly overwhelmed.
“Out with it, boy,” Maekar barked.
“The king has commanded...” Cadefael stammered, clutching the parchment in his hands. “All ravens are to be sent to the great houses… and the lesser ones across the realm. It is to be done at once. He said it is a matter of urgency… and that you are to oversee it personally.”
Yormwell was on his feet before the boy had even finished speaking. The king did not send orders like this. Not directly since the rebellion.
“Isn’t it wonderful, my lord?” Cadefael added, a nervous smile flickering.
Yormwell read. Silence fell.
“What is it?” someone pressed.
“Tell us.”
“Out with it!”
“Prince Baelor has been betrothed to your lady,” Cadefael blurted at last. “The banns are to be read today, and the wedding is to take place in three moons’ time, to allow the realm to gather. I have just come from the solar, her lady mother is weeping with joy…and there is to be a grand tour and….”
“Get out!” Maekar surged to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the stone, the sound cutting through the room like a blade.
Cadefael flinched visibly, shrinking back toward the door, his face draining of colour as the full weight of the prince’s temper bore down on him. He stumbled in his haste to leave, nearly tripping over the threshold as he fled.
Ser Duskendale moved at once, stepping forward toward the maester. “Maester…”
But Yormwell was smiling. Wide. Bright. “It is true,” he said, his voice almost giddy as he scanned the parchment again. “They are to be married… it is all here. A full year touring the realm together…” He let out a soft, astonished breath. “My word…”
Relief broke first, soft and immediate. Your ladies clasped their hands together, their faces lighting with excitement, whispers bubbling between them as they clung to one another in delight. Brieanne looked vindicated, Mysa positively glowing, Carlys near breathless with joy.
Even Aemon looked up then, curiosity sparking in his eyes, while Duskendale allowed himself the smallest hint of a satisfied smile, the tension in his shoulders easing at last. Maekar, however, only exhaled sharply through his nose, his scowl deepening, though there was something beneath it now, resignation, perhaps.
Daeron leaned back slightly, watching it all unfold with quiet amusement before speaking, his tone light, almost mischievous. “Well,” he said, “now that matter is settled… let us turn to another marriage.”
Every eye turned to him. “Which one of you lovely ladies,” he continued, entirely unfazed, “will be my new mother? Perhaps all three? The old ways are sometimes best and he will give each of you strong babes”
“You little shit!” Maekar snapped instantly.
The ladies burst into girlish giggle, bright and unrestrained, but moved closer to the poor prince
Xxxxx
“My darling girl, I am truly happy. I am sure the prince will make you happy. Our little princess will become a true princess… we are happy, aren’t we, wife.”
Your father’s voice was warm, steady, filled with a kind of quiet pride that settled gently over the moment, even as everything around you felt too large, too overwhelming to fully grasp. His hand lingered briefly at your shoulder, grounding, reassuring.
Your mother stood beside him, and for a fleeting moment it seemed as though she might match him, might gather herself into that same warmth.
“Ye… esss. So ha… aa… ppy,” she managed, though the words fractured as they left her, breaking apart under the strain of the emotion she could not contain. Her chest rose sharply, uneven, each breath catching as though it hurt to draw. Her hands clenched in the fabric of her skirts, knuckles whitening, and then, without another word, she turned.
The movement was abrupt, almost frantic. Her skirts swirled around her as she fled, the sound of her retreating steps echoing faintly as she disappeared out toward the gardens, as though the open air might somehow steady what she could not control within herself.
The room did not follow her Instead, her departure left behind a strange stillness, one that drew the attention of the king and queen alike. Their gazes lingered where she had been, thoughtful, measuring, before slowly returning to you, who seems wholly unfazed but your husband could see the way your body tensed ever so slightly, the way your breath caught, the way your composure, so carefully held, threatened to falter at the edges.
Without a word, his arm moved, linking gently with yours. The gesture was quiet, unobtrusive, but firm in its intent. His presence settled beside you, steady and warm, offering support without drawing attention to it. His thumb brushed faintly against your arm, grounding, a silent reassurance that you were not alone in this moment, not exposed.
“Daughter… may I call you my daughter already?”
Queen Myriah’s voice was soft, filled with a warmth that felt entirely different from your mother’s. She approached you with open affection, no hesitation in her steps, and when she reached you, she slipped her arm through your free one with an ease that felt almost natural.
“I am so happy to have another daughter,” she continued, her smile bright, her eyes kind as they searched your face. “We have so much to plan, so much to prepare.” There was excitement there, but also sincerity, a genuine welcome that eased something tight within your chest.
Then, with a lightness that carried a hint of playful authority, she glanced toward her son. “May I borrow your beloved Baelor?”
“Of course, Mother,” Baelor replied, his voice warm, the faintest hint of amusement touching it. He turned slightly toward you, leaning in just enough to press a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering only a moment before stepping away.
You felt the absence of him almost immediately, though the queen’s arm remained, steady and supportive.
From the edge of the room, your brother approached. His steps were slower than usual, hesitant, as though each one required more thought than it should. The confidence he so often carried was gone, replaced by something quieter, something uncertain. When he reached Baelor, he bowed deeply, his posture stiff with nerves.
“My prince… I am sorry. I beg for your forgiveness.”
Baelor regarded him calmly, his expression unreadable for a moment as he took in the boy before him. “Forgiveness for what?” he asked, his tone even, neither harsh nor overly gentle.
Your brother swallowed, his hands tightening slightly at his sides before he spoke again.
“For taking my sister,” he admitted, his voice lower now, edged with unease. “I was trying to protect her. I thought… I thought you would be angry. That she might be punished… or called a witch.”
For a brief moment, silence stretched between them. Then Baelor’s expression softened, not into indulgence, but into something measured and understanding. “I cannot fault you for trying to protect your sister,” he said, his voice steady. “It pleases me to know her family cares for her… even if that care is sometimes misplaced.”
Your brother lifted his head slightly at that, uncertainty still lingering in his eyes.
“You are forgiven,” Baelor continued. “But perhaps, in future, you might listen to your sister more closely. She is… rather astute.”
There was the faintest hint of warmth in his tone now, a quiet acknowledgment of you that did not go unnoticed.
Your brother nodded quickly, relief softening his features, though a trace of sheepishness remained. “Thank you, my grace,” he said earnestly. “I will.”
Xxxxx
“Oh Lyonel… she hates me…”
Your mother’s voice broke beneath the weight of it, thin and trembling, her composure finally unraveling now that she was beyond the crowded hall. The gardens stretched wide around her, quiet and green beneath the soft light, but she seemed not to see any of it. Her hands twisted tightly together, knuckles pale, her breath uneven as though each word cost her something.
“She does not,” Lyonel said gently, his tone steady in contrast to her distress. “I know only a little of your daughter, but she is not capable of that. Far too intelligent for something like that.”
Your mother let out a shaky breath, though it did little to calm her. Her gaze drifted upward, toward the towering keep, its walls rising high and imposing, and something like unease crept into her expression.
“She is to be married to the prince,” she said, her voice quieter now, though no less strained. “She will be a princess… one day a queen. She will live here.” Her lip curled faintly as she took in the vastness of it all. “A viper pit. Married to a dragon. A dragon! What chance has she got? How is she to make friends… allies? She cannot even cross stitch.”
Lyonel pattered sympathetically. Nodding as he murmured softness to the mourning lady. His softness all but evaporating as her new son in-law appear at his side. His mismatch eyes sad.
“My lady, may I speak…”
“Did it matter if you may not?” she snapped, turning on Baelor before he could finish, her grief sharpening into something defensive, something brittle. “You have already taken my daughter. What more is there to take? She hate me! She could barely look at me through the meeting.”
Baelor did not flinch, though his posture stilled slightly, his expression softening rather than hardening.“My lady, your daughter is…”
“Do not tell me how she is,” she cut him off, her voice rising, emotion spilling over. “You have known her less than a moon. I birthed her. I nurtured her. I fed her from my own breast, not some simpering wet nurse touch my child” Her voice wavered, breaking as her composure cracked entirely. “I cried when she would not speak… when she was slow to walk. They said she was lacking, that something was wrong, but I told them no. I told them she was only delayed. I waited. I fought for her.”
Tears slipped free now, unchecked.
“Do you know what a curse it is?” she continued, her voice trembling, uneven. “When she finally spoke, I was so relieved… so grateful. But then… then I realized she was different.” Her breath hitched sharply, her shoulders shaking as she struggled to contain herself. “She could read before we could teach her. She learned anything just by watching, as though the world simply… unfolded for her. Yet she would not sit still for the simplest things, would not learn the Lazy Daisy stitch no matter how I tried…” A broken, disbelieving laugh slipped through her tears. “And yet she had endless patience to learn how a level hitch worked. I do not even know what that is.”
Her hands came up to her face as she cried again, softer this time, exhausted rather than frantic, as though the weight of years had finally found release.
“Oh, my good lady,” Queen Myriah said gently, stepping forward from behind her son, her voice warm and steady as she reached to take your mother’s hands. “Sons are easy. Frustrating, yes, but simple in their wants. Daughters… daughters are far more complex.” Her smile softened, filled with quiet understanding. “Your daughter is fortunate to have you. And with us to guide her, how could she fail?”
She glanced briefly toward Baelor, something proud and certain in her gaze.
“She has Baelors protection. And Maekar’s as well, whether he admits it or not. I have never seen my second son tolerate someone he was not forced to endure, and yet he does with her.” A small, knowing smile touched her lips. “She will be well cared for. I have never seen someone hold so many men of the court so effortlessly in her grasp.”
Lyonel let out a quiet, sheepish breath at that, shifting slightly under her pointed look.
“She has good ladies at her side, and friends already forming around her. And perhaps…” the queen added, her tone turning thoughtful, though her eyes flicked sharply toward the stag, “perhaps my son might find a place on the small council for Lord Baratheon. He seems… particularly invested in her safety.” Her gaze hardened just slightly, enough to send a ripple of discomfort even through Lyonel’s usually unshakable confidence. “What was it again?” she continued coolly. “Ah yes. Threatening to slit my son’s throat to find her.”
Lyonel blinked, caught off guard, his usual bravado faltering for the briefest of moments.
“…Baelor will need assistance,” the queen went on smoothly, as though the moment had not passed. “Especially when he is called away on his tour.”
“…If that is Mother’s wish,” Baelor said, inclining his head, though there was a faint, thoughtful note in his voice.
“It is,” she replied simply, then turned, her expression brightening once more as she gently tugged your mother along with her. “Now go, rescue your intended before your father convinces her to redesign the entire pulley system for the blasted moat.”
There was a hint of laughter in her voice as she began to guide your mother away, already shifting into something more practical, more focused.
“Come, my lady,” she continued, her tone light but purposeful. “We have much to discuss. Now… What do you think of Dornish styles? I have always thought the colours are far more flattering, and the cuts…oh, we must consider the cuts…”
Xxxxxx
The moment Baelor found you again within the gardens, he reached for your hand with quiet certainty, his fingers warm as they closed around yours. “This way,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear, already guiding you gently from the path.
The gardens stretched wide, but he knew them well enough to avoid the main walks, leading you instead along a narrower trail where the hedges grew thicker and the air felt softer, quieter. The noise of the court faded with each step, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of life beyond.
Behind you, a heavy sigh followed.
“If I hear any heavy panting,” Maekar’s voice grumbled from somewhere just out of sight, thick with irritation, “I am walking away and leaving you both to deal with the consequences.”
Baelor did not even turn, though the faintest hint of amusement touched his expression. “I will endeavour to behave,” he called back dryly, before finally stepping into a small clearing, half-hidden by overgrown greenery and dappled with soft light.
It was quiet there. Private. For the first time that day, truly so.
He turned to you then, properly, his hands finding yours again, though this time he did not rush to speak. His gaze lingered on your face, searching, softening, as though he needed to reassure himself you were still there amidst everything that had happened.“I am sorry,” he said at last, the words quieter now, stripped of the confidence he wore so easily before others. “For all of it.”
His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, an absent, grounding motion. “It has been… rather a great deal, all at once,” he admitted, a faint, self-aware smile touching his lips. “Your parents arriving, my father making proclamations, my mother already planning half a wedding before you have even had time to breathe.”
There was a softness in his voice, but also sincerity. He did not dismiss it, did not pretend it was anything less than overwhelming. “I had hoped to give you time,” he continued, his gaze steady on yours. “To allow you space before pressure pressing in from every direction. And yet…” he exhaled lightly, shaking his head just slightly;For a moment, he said nothing more, simply holding your hands, his grip gentle but sure.
“I would not have you feel trapped in this,” he added, more quietly now. “Not by me. Not by them. Not by anything.”
His expression softened further, something more personal slipping through, less prince, more man.
“But I cannot pretend I am not… selfishly glad,” he admitted, a small, almost sheepish breath leaving him. “That you said yes.” His hand lifted slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face with a care that felt instinctive. “I have thought of little else since last night,” he added, a faint warmth returning to his voice, though it was gentler now, more contained. “Which is… deeply inconvenient, given the amount of work I am meant to be doing.”
There was a quiet humour in it, but also truth. He stepped a fraction closer then, not crowding you, but close enough that the space between you felt intentional rather than distant.
“Are you well?” he asked softly, his gaze searching for yours again, more serious now. “Truly?”
For a moment, you simply looked at him. Without speaking, you shifted your grip, turning one of his hands slightly in yours. Your fingers traced lightly over his palm, and before he could quite anticipate it, you bent your head and pressed a gentle kiss there. Lifting your gaze to his then, your expression open, steady, far more certain than he seemed to expect.
“I am well,” you said quietly, your voice warm with sincerity. “Truly.” Your thumb brushed lightly against his hand, echoing the comfort he had offered you earlier. “There is much to take in,” you admitted, a faint smile touching your lips, “but I am not afraid of it. Not with you here. I am quite... elated”
His breath caught slightly at that, his eyes searching yours again, as though trying to measure the truth of it and finding only reassurance. A hint of brightness crept into your expression then, something more animated, more like yourself.
“I find myself rather excited,” you added, almost shyly at first, before it grew into something more genuine, “to travel. To see the realm properly. The grand tour…” your eyes lit slightly at the thought, your mind already drifting ahead. “All the places, the libraries, the people… I have never seen so much of the world.”
Baelor stared at you for a moment, swallowing tightly because for him, the words carried something… different.
Not entirely different, not untouched by what you saw in it, but deeper, threaded with something far more intimate. The grand tour, to Baelor, was not only a journey across the realm, not only an obligation of a prince and his new bride to be seen, to be known. It was time. Time away from the suffocating eyes of court, away from whispers and expectation, away from the constant presence of others.
Baelor’s chest tightened with a mixture of fondness and mischief as he watched you chatter excitedly about the grand tour, completely oblivious to the layers of meaning he already carried in his mind. How sweet you were, so innocent and earnest, thinking of the roads and cities, the libraries and markets, as if the journey were nothing more than an adventure of sights and stories. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too broadly, the thought both thrilling and tender because to him, the “grand tour” was a thinly veiled excuse for the two of you to steal away from the eyes of the world, to learn one another’s bodies and desires in the privacy that marriage alone would afford, to explore every curve, every breath, every sensation that sharing yourself completely could bring. And yet, as he imagined it, he could not bring himself to dampen your delight, only let it bloom, keeping your wonder intact while quietly imagining the joys that awaited behind closed doors, all for him and her alone.
His gaze softened as it settled on you again, something deeply affectionate there, something quietly resolute.
He could not wait to make you his wife. Then, slowly, colour began to rise along his neck, creeping up into his cheeks in a way that was both subtle and unmistakable.
“Ah,” he said faintly, his composure slipping just enough to betray him. “Yes… the grand tour has much to explore and learn.”
You, entirely unaware, only smiled up at him. From somewhere far too close, a voice broke in.
“Gods, I am going to have to do this until the wedding, aren’t I,” Maekar muttered, his tone thick with long-suffering irritation.
There was a rustle and then, quite suddenly, he emerged from the bushes. Leaves clung stubbornly to his cloak, a twig caught in his hair, his expression thoroughly unimpressed as he shoved aside a branch and stepped into view as though he had always belonged there.
Baelor’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Must you lurk,” he said flatly.
“Must you sneak off like a pair of lovesick idiots,” Maekar returned without hesitation, brushing at his sleeve with little success. “I am hiding from her ladies, by the way. They are relentless.”
As if summoned by the mere mention of them, distant voices began to carry faintly through the garden. Baelor exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose for a brief moment. You, however, only smiled, stepping closer to Baelor once more, rising just slightly to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering only a moment before you drew back.
“I shall handle this,” you said quietly, a hint of mischief threading through your voice.
Before either of them could respond, you turned and moved lightly back toward the path, your steps quickening just enough to intercept the approaching voices, drawing attention away from the hidden clearing.
Silence followed your departure. Baelor watching you go, something soft and helpless settling into his expression.
Behind him, Maekar snorted. “You are doomed,” he muttered.
Baelor did not deny it he meant to reply but from behind him another voice filled the little heaven.
“What,” came the unmistakable voice of the queen, cool and utterly unimpressed, “are you two doing in a bush?”
Both men froze. Queen Myriah stood just beyond the hedging, her gaze sweeping over them, taking in the leaves, the disturbed branches, the state of their cloaks with a precision that suggested she missed nothing.Her expression darkened. “Honestly,” she said, stepping closer, reaching out to pluck a stray leaf from Baelor’s shoulder with firm disapproval. “You look like stable boys, not princes of the realm.”
Her eyes flicked to Maekar, lingering on the twig still lodged in his hair. “And you,” she added sharply, “have entirely ruined that cloak.” Maekar scowled but did not argue. ‘’Out of this bush immediately, you boys honestly. We have a wedding to plan and your playing with sticks.’’
Soooooo what do you think? Cute righ?
Favorite part? Mine is probably Maekar. He is my fav!!! Queen is also becoming my fav!
Also the reader who send me message about rereading this fic, you messages give me so much joy.
Quick authors note
Good new and bad.
Good news- I have lots of new fic outline (I am talking juicy stuff) and have finished planning my outstanding fics all the way up to the end (A Claims a Claim and my anime ones too)
Savior is nearly complete one more chapter then its request time baby!!!
Bad news- My supervision got my feedback for my exam modification and is not happy so wants me to appeal while doing (insane rewrites like whole sections) which I have like 2 month to do..... so all the amazing stories and bi weekly update are going to go on hold. I swear as soon as I have something good going I get hit by crap like this.
Fear not! I will be updating but maybe every couple of weeks. But please keep up the likes/comments coming, they nourish me!
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