Saviour Part Three
I am warning you now this is longgggggggg.
Prince Maekar Targaryen strode into the solar without ceremony. No herald announced his arrival. No guards preceded him to soften the intrusion. One moment, the chamber was filled with the hush of parchment and the crackle of the hearth; the next, the doors were flung wide, slamming hard enough against the stone walls to send a hollow echo ringing through the room.
He entered like a storm given flesh.
His cloak hung heavy with dust and dried rain, travel-stained and torn at the hem. His armor, dulled by countless miles, bore fresh scratches along the vambraces and breastplate, the marks of both battle and brutal road. Strands of dark hair clung to his brow, damp with sweat. The sharp scent of horse and steel followed him inside, cutting through the warmth of pinewood smoke.
His presence swallowed the chamber’s quiet whole.
Your father jerked upright from his desk, shock flickering across his features before discipline forced him into a deep bow. Your mother rose at once, embroidery slipping forgotten into her lap.
“Your Grace,” your father said cautiously, voice respectful yet strained.
Maekar did not return the courtesy. His gaze swept the solar in a single, incisive glance, across the maps, the architectural plans, the scattered books before fixing upon your father with focus.
“Do you have a daughter, my lord?” he demanded, voice low, edged with iron. “if so, bring her before me.”
The words rang through the room like struck steel.
Your father blinked, visibly thrown. “Yes… she is…she is not here, Your Grace but I...”
Maekar’s eyes narrowed, sharpening. “And she is your only daughter? Not yet wed?”
“Yes,” your father answered, unease deepening his tone. “And no, she is not married.” He hesitated. “May I ask what this concerns, Your Grace?”
“That is between her and the Hand,” Maekar cut in sharply, the authority in his voice leaving no space for defiance. “He will decide what he requires of her.”
Your father stiffened.
“She will come with me to King’s Landing,” Maekar continued, every word falling heavy and final. “She will travel under my protection. You will see her depart within the hour. By horse, or by wheelhouse if that is all you can spare. I will not wait.”
The weight of the command settled like a crushing stone. Your father opened his mouth again, protest trembling at the edge of his voice, but Maekar’s unyielding stare froze the words before they could form. He offered no explanation. No comfort. No reassurance. Only certainty.
And so, the quiet of your life fractured.
Xxxxx
The river murmured softly beside you, water slipping around smooth stones as your mare picked her way carefully along the winding bank. The scent of wet moss and pine hung heavy in the cool air, and sunlight filtered through the tall trees, scattering pale gold across the rippling surface.
Your brother rode beside you, his fishing rods clinking faintly in the rhythm of his horse’s gait, his cloak tied loose against the warming day. A satchel lay strapped behind your own saddle, heavy with books, rolled parchments, and half-finished sketches, your small attempts at carrying your mind with you wherever you went.
“You know,” he said idly, eyes scanning the river’s surface, “most women gather flowers when they ride. Or sketch birds. Not… drawbridge mechanisms.”
“Then most women must be terribly dull,” you replied lightly, loosening the reins to allow your mare to drink. You cast him a mischievous glance. “And how would you know, brother? Been lingering down by the river with the local ladies, have you? Lady Borrell, perhaps?”
He sputtered, nearly pitching forward. “If you so much as whisper that to Mother…”
“Brother,” you smiled sweetly, urging your mare onward, “when have we ever betrayed each other’s secrets?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then muttered, “…Yet they always know. Father especially.”
Your soft laughter echoed through the trees. Then his horse stopped dead. The abrupt halt jerked your mare to a near collision, forcing you to rein in sharply. “Brother?” you asked, heart stuttering. “What is it?”
He did not answer, his face had gone pale, his eyes fixed ahead, unblinking. You followed his gaze.
Black banners dominated the courtyard beyond the gate, snapping sharply in the wind. Their dark silk shimmered ominously, and when they twisted, the crimson three-headed dragon emerged, fierce and unmistakable. Beneath them stood rows of men clad in white cloaks, armor gleaming, helms tucked beneath their arms.
The Kingsguard. A knight stepped forward as you approached, his movements smooth and precise. “My lady, you must come with me.”
“Under whose authority?” your brother demanded, though your voice wavered.
“Prince Maekar.”
Your brother stiffened in front of you. “We will speak to our father.”
“You may,” the knight replied evenly, “but your sister will come with us.”
“But I…”
“You may come willingly, my lady,” he interrupted gently, “or we will remove you from your horse.”
Your breath stalled painfully in your chest. The Kingsguard closed in, not roughly, but firmly, guiding you away from your brother, their horses shifting to block his path as they ushered you toward the gate. You twisted back, meeting his helpless stare.
“My prince,” one knight called. “We have her.”
Maekar stood at the center of the courtyard, cloak snapping sharply in the wind, his eyes already fixed upon you. For a moment, just a moment, his gaze lingered on your face, then resolved to harden it once more. He was all the tales told and more. Stoic and fair, like all Tarygereiens. No not like all Targeynens, beneath the blood of his injuries Baelor had dark threads of hair. Your heat sank and dread filled you. If the Prince had come for you that could only mean one thing….
“Then we ride.”
You were lifted onto a fresh horse, a dark stallion with thick muscle, your satchel strapped hastily behind you. Steel and white cloaks surrounded you on all sides, their presence both shield and cage.
Maekar took the lead, the great gates groaning open in front of him. Beyond them stretched the long, dust-choked road to King’s Landing, winding away. The prince didn’t turn back but barked orders, hard and harsh.
You looked back once. Your brother stood frozen in the courtyard, small and powerless beneath the towering walls of your childhood home. Then the gates closed and the road claimed you.
Xxxxx
The day’s ride was long and hard, the kind that settled deep into bone and muscle, leaving every joint aching and every breath faintly strained. The sun bore down without mercy, bleaching the road pale and drawing sweat from beneath armor and linen alike. Dust clung to cloaks, hair, lashes, coating everything in a fine, persistent grit. By midafternoon, even the horses moved with a dulled heaviness, their sides slick and darkened, nostrils flaring with each labored breath.
Yet Maekar found himself unexpectedly attentive.
Maester Yormwell’s description had been uncannily precise even down to the lively intelligence of your fine eyes. Though Maekar was no poet, nor possessed of his brother’s careful phrasing, he could not deny the truth of it. There was something alert in your gaze, something quietly observant, as though your mind were constantly working even when your body stilled. It made the retrieval easier. And far less irritating than he had anticipated.
He had ridden with noblewomen before. Many times. Most had been intolerable. There had been whining and complaints, tearful laments over sore backs and bruised thighs, endless chatter meant to distract from discomfort. Their voices lingered in his ears long after the rides ended, grating and persistent.
You did none of it.
You rode in near silence, posture steady, movements economical. When you did speak, it was low and brief, your attention focused on the road ahead. If you spoke to either Ser Roland Crakehall or Ser Donnel of Duskendale, Maekar did not hear it. By dusk, the encampment rose around them, tents unfurling beneath practiced hands, fires springing to life with sharp snaps and soft hisses. The air filled with the scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat. The steady murmur of men unwinding from the road drifted through the trees, mingling with the low stamping of restless horses.
“What your servants packed has been taken to our tent, after dinner you will rest. We start out tomorrow at first light.”
Maekar delivered the words as he always did clipped, efficiently, leaving no space for debate. No wonder he was called the Anvil. The firelight carved sharp planes across his face, shadows catching beneath his brow and along the hard line of his jaw.
You paused mid-motion, fingers tightening slightly around your cup before lowering it to the small wooden table beside you.
“Your grace, I must ask what this is about.”
Your voice was calm, but beneath it lay an unmistakable thread of tension, restrained yet trembling like a wire pulled too tight, ready to frey. Your gaze did not quite meet his not in defiance, but in caution.
“You have business with my brother, the hand of the king.”The words landed heavily between you, like a stone dropped into still water.
“I am but a simple lady, I have no business with the hand of the king.”Your head tilted faintly as you spoke, confusion crossing your expression, though your shoulders stiffened bracing.
“So you were not Ashford a year ago?.”
The air seemed to sharpen. Your breath stilled, chest rising shallowly. Across the fire, the two Kingsguard stood silent and unmoving, white cloaks stirring faintly in the night breeze. Their helms lay at their feet, polished steel reflecting the flicker of flame. Without their armor, their faces appeared carved from stone, eyes fixed upon you with unwavering intrige.
“Well? It is an offence to lie to the royal family.”
The crackle of burning logs punctuated the silence that followed.
“I… did not say that my lord.” Your gaze dropped, lashes casting long shadows across your cheeks. The admission felt heavier than the quiet surrender of inevitability.
“As I thought.”
Maekar exhaled slowly through his nose, the tension easing only slightly from his stance.
“Our travels will be long and hard, I hope that we will get to Kings Landing this weeks ends. I will send word to the capital to arrange a wheelhouse for you at one of the inns in the Kingsroad, till then it is horse back.”
Your fingers curled briefly against the edge of the table, knuckles paling. You nodded once, swallowing against the tightness in your throat.
You finished your meal without tasting it, suddenly aware of every gaze cast in your direction, of the murmurs that hushed as you passed, the faint rustle of cloaks as men turned to look. The firelight seemed harsher now, the shadows deeper.
xxxxxx
“My lady. Water.”
The Kingsguard’s voice broke gently through your thoughts. The faint glint of polished steel caught the firelight as he poured from a sheep-skin flask into a waiting cup, the clear stream briefly flashing silver before settling.
“Thank you Ser…” Your voice trailed off as you accepted the cup, eyes lifting toward him.
“Duskendale.”
“Ser Duskendale…”
“And I am Ser Crakehall,” the other knight added, stepping closer from the shadowed edge of the camp. His broad frame blocked a portion of the firelight, casting long shadows across the ground.
“We will be your escorts.”
“Then I am very lucky to have you.” The smile you offered was soft, but strained, gratitude wrapped tightly around unease.
“I fear this is the best use of your time.”
“It is never a waste of time to do as the Lord Hand commands.” His tone was firm, steady, the voice of a man well accustomed to obedience. “We are honored to escort you, My Lady.”
Ser Duskendale’s words came more gently, his expression softening in the flicker of firelight. You were not certain whether he meant the journey or what awaited you beyond it. The fire crackled low between you, embers glowing like scattered stars, while above, the vast dark sky stretched endlessly.
xxxxx
The small council chamber was heavy with the slow grind of governance.
The long oaken table was strewn with ledgers, sealed scrolls, and carefully folded petitions. Beeswax candles burned low despite the midday sun, their faint sweetness mixing unpleasantly with the scent of ink and parchment. Outside, King’s Landing groaned beneath the press of summer, the distant clang of hammers, the rumble of carts, the endless murmur of thousands of lives unfolding at once.
Baelor Targaryen sat at the head of the table, posture rigid, hands folded loosely before him.The Master of Coin droned on, detailing shipments delayed by river flooding, the rising costs of transport, the hoarding behavior of certain merchant guilds. Valarr circled the room, filing the goblets as he did, before lingering at his father side, peering over his shoulder. Baelor listened, truly listened, because it was his duty. Because the realm depended upon such dull, grinding details.
Yet his thoughts strayed. Too often.
“And so, my lord Hand,” the Master of Coin concluded, tapping the edge of his ledger, “I propose we draw upon the surplus stored at Meer and Banterbury until the river trade stabilizes.”
Baelor inclined his head slightly. “A sound solution. See it done.” A faint flutter of wings brushed the tall windows. He did not turn.
But then came the soft tapping. The meeting paused as a servant hurried forward, unlatching the narrow pane. The bird swept inside in a rush of black feathers and sharp wind, settling upon the iron perch near the wall. The ribbon at the raven’s leg bore the deep red wax of House Targaryen. He forced his face into stillness.
“Continue,” he said calmly, though his heart had begun to hammer.
The servant retrieved the message, hesitated, then crossed the chamber and placed it carefully before him. Baelor did not touch it at once. He waited. Waited for the Master of Laws to finish a tedious explanation concerning harbor tariffs. Waited for a minor lord to voice a grievance regarding road patrols. Waited until decorum allowed.
Only then did he break the seal.
Three short lines.
She is secured. We reach the Kingsroad inns within three days. Have the wheelhouse ready.
Valarr stiffed at his fathers hand.
Baelor’s fingers tightened around the parchment. His chest warmed. He closed his eyes and just breathed, the tension left his body. But when he looked up, his expression was once more the composed mask of the Hand of the King.
“Gentlemen,” he said smoothly, folding the message and tucking it into his sleeve, “we will reconvene at the sixth bell. I expect revised figures.” There were bows, murmured acknowledgments, the scrape of chairs across stone. Valorr linger though, eyes trained on his father as he set the pitcher down, sparing him one last burning glance before he too disappeared beyond the door.
Only once the chamber emptied did Baelor rise.
He crossed the solar in swift strides, cane forgotten against the wall. Servants startled as he passed, murmuring hurried bows. He barely noticed. His chambers were already bright with afternoon sun, pale gold spilling across rich carpets and carved furniture. He stopped in the center of the room, breathing in the stillness, the anticipation swelling in his chest.
“Silks,” he commanded, turning sharply. “Summon the seamstresses. I want new gowns prepared, simple, elegant, warm in tone. Nothing overly ornate.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And books. A selection of everything healing, architecture, nature, philosophy, romance and history. From the royal libraries, the Citadel collections, my own personal holdings. I want them cleaned, bound if necessary, and arranged.”
“At once.”
“And the wheelhouse with cushions, fresh linens…”The servants hurried away, a flurry of motion and hushed excitement trailing in his wake.
Baelor moved to the wardrobe himself, fingers brushing against bolts of fine fabric, rich silks from Lys, delicate lace from Myr, soft wool spun in the Reach. He imagined her hands upon them, on him.. A faint smile tugged at his lips. Then the cane reminded him of its presence, a sharp ache lancing briefly through his head, he steeled himself before doubt or pain could settle.
xxxxx
By the first bell in the morning, Baelor was mounted. He wore no crown, no heavy regalia, only simple riding leathers, his sigil stitched quietly at the collar in gold. The road stretched westward, flushed pink beneath the new light.
By noon you would be in the inn, and he would behold you. The thought quickened his pulse.
He did not know precisely what he would say when he saw you again. Words seemed insufficient for the weight of gratitude, curiosity, and the gentle passionate feeling that stirred beneath. But he would find them. When he looked at your face he would be inspired.
And this time, he would not be confined to a sickbed.
xxxxxx
The inn crouched low beside the Kingsroad, its stone walls darkened by soot and age, roof tiles warped by countless seasons of rain and sun. Yet it was a warm welcome to weary travellers. A crooked sign creaked above the door, its painted stag long since faded. Lantern light spilled from narrow windows, trembling in the evening wind. The smell of damp earth, horse sweat, woodsmoke, and roasting meat hung thick in the air, clinging to everything.
Baelor did not wait for the stablehands.
The moment his horse stilled, he swung down, boots striking packed dirt with a jarring thud that sent sharp pain lancing up his leg and into the base of his skull. White flared behind his eyes. His breath hissed through clenched teeth, but he did not slow, did not allow the smallest sign of weakness to show. The world had already taken enough from him.
Behind him, someone murmured, “Your Grace…”
He waved them off impatiently, one hand tightening around his cane as he strode toward the inn. Each step was deliberate, measured, the gait of a man who had spent months relearning how to walk, who still fought his own body for every yard gained. His limp was subtle, but present, a constant companion. The cane barely touched the ground, more symbol than support, though he knew better.
The door groaned open beneath his palm.
Warmth rushed out to meet him, thick with the scent of spiced stew, ale, and smoke. Firelight danced across low beams and scarred wooden tables. The murmur of travelers filled the space, voices dropping instinctively as his presence settled among them like a sudden hush. A few heads bowed. Others stared.
He did not see them.His gaze swept the room, searching with a sharpness that betrayed him.
Maekar stood near the hearth, helm tucked beneath his arm, road-dust still clinging to his boots and cloak. His expression was already sour, shoulders stiff with irritation and fatigue and with good reason to be. The journey from your family's land to here was two weeks at best. His brother had done it in six days. He only hoped in his haste your comfort had not been the price. His eyes swept the room.
No one else. The realization struck deeper than Baelor expected. For a heartbeat, disappointment hollowed his chest, a sharp, quiet ache that left him momentarily breathless. His fingers tightened against the cane.
Maekar snorted, reading his face too easily. “Gods, brother. You look like a man who expected the Mother herself to greet him.”
Baelor exhaled slowly, steadying himself. “You enjoy being unpleasant.”
“Someone must,” Maekar muttered. “And I would have thought you grateful no crowd gathered to gape at your limp and your lovesick expression.”
Baelor shot him a warning look, sharp enough to silence lesser men, but before he could reply
Soft footsteps sounded behind him. Barely audible. The faint rustle of fabric. A breath drawn, not his own. His body went utterly still. Something in his chest tightened, coiling like a drawn bowstring. Instinct, memory, and longing tangled into one single, breathless moment.
Slowly, he turned and there you stood in the doorway
Firelight gilded the edges of your hair, softening the shadows beneath your eyes. Travel had left its subtle marks, dust on your hem, faint fatigue at the corners of your mouth, yet you seemed no less radiant for it. Kingsguard either side of you as you entered.
He saw only you. The ache in his chest deepened, a yearning both fierce and tender. It was not love, not yet but something rawer. Gratitude sharpened into longing. Curiosity tangled with memory. He remembered steady hands holding his head, soft instructions whispered against the ringing in his ears, calm authority grounding him when the world spun. Gentle hands and sweet smiles. He had carried your presence through countless sleepless nights.
Now you stood before him.His breath left him in a slow, unguarded exhale. Gods. You were…
You dipped into a graceful curtsey.
“Your Grace.”
The words cut cleanly through the moment. Reality crashed back..
Pain surged behind his eyes, sudden and brutal, and he swayed despite himself. His breath caught. His fingers tightened around the cane until his knuckles blanched.
Maekar noticed instantly, swearing under his breath as he took a step forward but Baelor lifted a hand, halting him.
“No,” he murmured.
He steadied himself, inhaling slowly, forcing the world back into focus. Then he looked at you again. For months, he had carried only fragments, half-dreamed impressions formed through fever and pain. A soft voice. Gentle hands. The faint scent of herbs and parchment. But none of it prepared him for the reality standing before him now.
You were not a ghost of memory. You were warmth and breath and literally light
Your features were as beautiful as the mothers. In kingslanding you would be a beauty of the count, not the exotic kind of the Dornish women, nor the regal of Westerland, or even the fresh rosiness of the ladies of the Reach. It was your own kind. A kind he had never seen before. There was intelligence in your eyes, depth that made him look twice, and then again, and then forget utterly that he had meant to speak at all.
You were beautiful.
Not in the blinding, ornamental way of courtly ladies draped in jewels and silk, but in something steadier. Something that drew the eye back again and again. A beauty shaped by thought and patience and purpose.
For a moment, he could only stare, hand twitching with the need to reach out and touch you, to check you were real, not some cruel trick of the gods.
Then you curtsied again, but stayed low as an apology tumbled from your lips. A perfect, graceful motion. Controlled. Proper. Respectful. “Your Grace,” you said softly. “If I have caused any grievance or offense, I beg your forgiveness. I am at your mercy.”The words were gentle, careful, the voice of a lady trained in courtesy and restraint.
They struck him like a blade. Pain flared suddenly behind his eyes, sharp and unforgiving, and he tightened his grip on the cane beside him, forcing his breathing to steady. His heart pounded, not from the pain, but from the unbearable weight of the moment.
Slowly, deliberately, he shook his head. “Rise and rise swiftly. You never needed to bow before me.” The words came out low, firm, and earnest.“Not now. Not ever.”
You hesitated, uncertainty flickering across your expression.“I…”
“You saved my life,” he said simply. “I would not have you apologies, I am in your debt, me and my family...”
The fire popped softly in the hearth. Somewhere behind him, Maekar shifted. But Baelor did not look away from you. Not even for a breath.
Baelor studied you for a long moment, the careful way you stood, the measured calm that barely masked unease. The realization settled heavily in his chest.
“You must think yourself in some danger,” he said quietly.
You hesitated, then nodded once. “Prince Maekar did not explain why I was summoned. Only that I was to come.”
Behind him, Maekar shifted. Baelor closed his eyes briefly, then exhaled, the pain was persistent now but duller merely by the sight of you.
“Then I owe you an apology,” he said, turning slightly toward his brother before facing you again. “For the manner in which you were brought here. You must have been terrified, surrounded by armed men and given no explanation.”
Your fingers tightened together.
“Manners,” Baelor added dryly, “are not my brother’s strongest suit.”
A sharp look passed between the brothers.
You blinked, then shook your head. “Your Grace, Prince Maekar was… quite lovley, all things considered. He ensured I had food, water, and shelter. He allowed me to rest. He protected me on the road….I did not mean to imply anything else. It had just been a long journey. The prince was nothing but gracious.”
Maekar looked faintly startled.
Baelor stared at his brother, disbelief and irritation warring in his expression. “Gracious,” he repeated with a bite. “I do hope so,” he muttered before turning back to you, his expression softening. “Even so,” he said, “I regret that you were given cause to fear.”
You hesitated, then asked quietly, “You said you have been searching for me. Why, your grace?”
For a moment, he did not reply.
“There is time for that,” he said gently. “When we reach King’s Landing.”
Xxxxxxxx
The road into King’s Landing unfurled before the wheelhouse in a slow, winding ribbon of dust and stone.
From within the cushioned interior, the world passed in fragments: the sway of tree branches, the flash of sunlight against steel helms, the rising silhouettes of towers and walls. The wheelhouse itself was finely made, its lacquered panels inlaid with delicate gold tracery, the sigil of House Targaryen etched discreetly into the corners. Soft cushions lined the benches, layered in pale linen and pale blue silk, scented faintly with lavender and lemon balm. The ride was far gentler than horseback, yet the steady creak of the axles and the rhythmic roll of the wheels set your thoughts adrift.
You watched the countryside fade into the crowded sprawl of the capital, your reflection wavering in the small polished mirror fixed to the side panel.
xxxxx
Fields became taverns. Taverns became tenements. Then came the endless press of bodies.
King’s Landing rose before you in all its unruly, chaotic glor, leaning towers, crooked roofs, banners snapping in the wind, smoke drifting upward from a thousand hearths. The air thickened with salt and spice and sweat. Noise swelled around the wheelhouse in waves: vendors crying their wares, children shouting, smiths hammering, sailors laughing. People stopped to stare, drawn by the gleam of the royal escort, by the polished armor, by the black-and-red standards fluttering above the procession.
You sat straighter, fingers clasped in your lap, pulse quickening as the wheelhouse rolled beneath the shadow of the city gates. The Keep loomed above the city like a carved cliff of pale stone, its towers catching the sun, its walls glowing faintly gold. The climb through its gates and winding courtyards felt unreal, as though you were passing through the pages of one of your own books rather than living the moment yourself.
When the wheelhouse finally slowed and halted, the doors were opened at once.
Warm air and bright sunlight flooded inside.
Hands reached to steady you as you descended, boots crunching softly against gravel. The courtyard stretched wide and open before you, lined with guards in brilliant white cloaks and steel helms. Nobles gathered discreetly along the edges, silk sleeves fluttering, jewels flashing, their eyes fixed eagerly upon you..
xxxx
From his place near the station of his grandfather, Valarr leaned forward, small hands gripping the carved stone rail. He had been waiting all morning, since new of his father riding out. Something he had not done since the tourney.
The entire keep had buzzed with anticipation. Servants whispered in hallways. Guards polished armor that already gleamed. Even the court ladies seemed restless, drifting toward the outer courtyards under flimsy pretenses. Everyone knew someone was arriving. Someone important.
Valarr knew more than most.
He had overheard the maesters in low, reverent tones. He had caught fragments of conversation between his father and uncle So when the wheelhouse finally rolled into view, escorted by riders in crimson and black, Valarr’s chest tightened.
He craned his neck, searching.
When the door opened and you stepped out, his mind clouded. You were not adorned in jewels. You wore no extravagant silks. Yet the simplicity of your gown only drew the eye more surely. Soft fabric moved with you, pale against the sun-warmed stone, and your expression was… uncertain…shy. Trying to hide behind th bulk of the kingsguard
Valarr studied you with careful scrutiny, his young face solemn.
xxxxx
Your new chambers lay high within Maegor’s Holdfast, nestled between sunlit galleries and quiet corridors. The rooms opened into a small sitting chamber flooded with light from tall arched windows that overlooked Blackwater Bay. Beyond lay a spacious bedchamber, its canopied bed draped in pale linens and soft velvet, the air faintly perfumed with lemon and rosewater.
Every surface gleamed.
Fresh flowers rested in carved vases. Bookshelves already lined the walls, partially filled with neatly arranged volumes. A writing desk stood near the windows, quills set carefully beside inkpots of colored glass. Folded gowns lay arranged upon the bed, simple cuts in soft blues, creams, and warm greys.The attention left you faintly breathless.
As servants moved quietly around you, unpacking, arranging, bowing, withdrawing, the weight of the moment finally settled upon your shoulders.
You were in the Red Keep, in Maegor's Holdfast staying in the actual residence of royalty. Your mother and father were going to kill you when they found out why. You would be spirited away and locked in your rooms till you were a little old lady. You should care but…
The books called to you. If this was to be your only taste of life in the capital, it would only make sense to make the most of it. You would read every single one of them and… you pondered for a moment. Maybe you could find Maester Yormwell. An excited glee overtook you, as you flung yourself onto the bed, furiously devouring the pages
And somewhere beyond these walls, Baelor waited.
Xxxxxx
Pain came in slow, grinding waves.
Baelor lay half-reclined against a mound of cushions, fine linen and pale silk arranged carefully beneath his aching limbs. The high windows of the Hand’s chambers stood thrown open, admitting the salt-tinged breeze drifting up from Blackwater Bay. It stirred the sheer curtains and carried with it the distant cries of gulls and the low murmur of the city far below. Sunlight spilled across the marble floor in soft golden bands, glinting faintly off the delicate gold threads woven through the ancient tapestries that lined the walls. Yet none of it softened the dull, pulsing throb behind his eyes or the deeper ache that settled stubbornly into his bones, a lingering reminder of how close he had come to death.
The maesters had done their work well. He knew that. Yet healing was never swift, no matter how skilled the hands. His body resisted, slow to mend, slow to forget. Each breath felt measured. Each movement deliberate. He exhaled slowly, forcing calm into his limbs, steadying himself as his gaze fixed upon the pale stone ceiling above, tracing the faint veins in the marble as though they might anchor him.
Across the chamber, Maekar stood near the open window, arms crossed tightly over his chest, shoulders rigid, his sharp features carved from storm clouds and simmering frustration. Light struck the edge of his silver hair, but did nothing to soften the hardness in his expression. Maekar loathed being reprimanded, especially when he believed himself justified. And their father’s words still rang fresh in his ears.
“You frightened her,” Baelor said quietly, breaking the heavy silence that had settled between them like thick fog.
Maekar’s jaw tightened, muscles working as though grinding down a retort. “I was retrieving your women.”
Baelor might have scolded his brother, might have reminded him of courtly decorum and gentler ways, but he found he did not want to. Weariness clung to him too deeply for anger. “She thought she was to be punished,” Baelor replied, voice still gentle, yet firm beneath it. “She believed you were taking her to her death.”
A flicker of something crossed Maekar’s face, irritation, perhaps, or guilt gone as swiftly as it appeared, buried beneath practiced indifference. “She was perfectly fine on the journey,” he muttered. “Not so much as a tear.”
Baelor turned his head slightly against the pillows, fixing his brother with a calm, unwavering look. “A glare from you would scare the tears away.”
That silenced him.
Maekar looked away, toward the open window, toward the restless blue of the sea beyond. His shoulders loosened by a fraction, the fire dimming, though his hands remained clenched at his sides.
A servant entered quietly, the soft brush of slippers against marble barely audible. He bowed low before approaching Baelor’s bedside, carrying a small silver tray upon which rested a crystal goblet of water, folded linens, and a single note sealed in dark wax.
Baelor barely spared the man a glance, his attention snagging instantly on the familiar scrawl. He accepted the parchment, fingers tightening slightly as he frowned at the hurried handwriting. “She’s settled?” he asked.
The servant nodded. “Yes, my prince. In her chambers. She seemed… pleased.”
Baelor’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly, a spark of warmth igniting behind his ribs, his eyes brightening despite the lingering pain.
“And?” Maekar demanded, spinning back around.
“And she has already begun reading.”
Baelor closed his eyes. Relief flooded through him so suddenly it nearly stole his breath, washing away tension he had not realized he still carried. His chest rose slowly as he drew in air, grounding himself.
Maekar let out a sharp huff of disbelief, then, unexpectedly a crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Reading,” he repeated. “In the Red Keep. Gods, she is exactly as you said she would be. Another scholar...tsk that all this family needs.”
Baelor could picture it without effort.
You curled among soft cushions, sunlight streaming across open pages, lashes lowered in quiet concentration, utterly oblivious to courtly expectations or whispered rumors. Lost entirely within ink and parchment. A quiet, almost reverent smile touched his lips.
“She found one of your volumes,” the servant added, his voice quiet but deliberate. “From your private collection.”
The servant bowed once more, the fabric of his tunic whispering against the marble floor as he lowered the tray. He retreated, leaving the door to close with a soft, almost reverent click behind him.
Baelor’s eyes lingered on the empty doorway, then drifted to the tray, now still. For a heartbeat, he felt the dull ache in his skull and the stiffness in his limbs recede, replaced by a warmth that pooled low in his chest, strange and insistent. His lips parted slightly, and a faint, almost uncontainable spark of giddiness flickered behind his carefully controlled mask. Of all the tomes in the Red Keep, countless volumes in the libraries of Maegor’s Holdfast, stacks rescued from the Citadel, and his own private collection, it was his that she had chosen. Aegon’s Conquest, he would wager, the weight of the imagined scene pressing pleasantly against his ribs.
Maekar’s sharp, rolling laugh shattered the quiet reverie. “Well. That settles it. She’s yours now. Might as well take her to bed… if you can rip her attention from the books.”
Baelor’s cheeks flushed a pale fire, and he shot his brother a look heavy with irritation. “Do not be crass,” he said, voice firm but failing to hide the faint tremor of amusement beneath.
Yet the thought lingered, unwelcome and irresistible, coiling in the pit of his stomach. The image of you, safe and content, absorbed in ink and parchment on his bed, steadied him in a way no poultice or potion ever could.
Maekar lingered by the door, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Will you see her soon?,” he said, tone gentler now, almost conspiratorial.
Baelor did not deny it. “When she is rested,” he replied quietly. “Not before.”
“Good. I do not want to hear you have been prowling the halls, slipping into a maiden’s room,” Maekar added, narrowing his eyes. Then, with a crooked grin, he leaned slightly toward the doorway, voice dropping. “We would not like a rushed marriage, though it might be tempting to see our father scowl at you. Haven’t seen that for many years… the old fucker does it for me.”
Baelor let a small, dry chuckle escape, but his eyes short a dark glare, his tone clipped but amused. “Your manners need some work,” he replied mildly, settling deeper into the cushions.
Maekar snorted, expression solemn. “Those are permanent, brother a result of having to deal will all this fucking nonsense.” He gave a last shake of his head and retreated from the room, boots clicking softly on the marble.
Alone again, Baelor let himself breathe, a soft exhale that carried both relief and something like longing. His lips curved in a tired smile, faint color still lingering on his cheeks. He sank further into the pillows, letting his eyes drift shut. Within the stone walls of Maegor’s Holdfast, you were reading his books, wandering his halls, breathing the same air. Somewhere beyond these chambers, beyond the guarded corridors and torchlit staircases, you lay curled among cushions and velvet, eyes skimming carefully over ink set down centuries before either of you had been born. Your fingers traced thoughts and histories he himself had loved, studied, questioned. The idea that you now touched the same worn pages, breathed the same faint scent of dust and leather, stirred something quiet and reverent inside his chest.
The thought carried him gently into sleep.
@blogthreehundredandninetyfour @beebeechaos @gradeaworm @profoundlynerdywolf @bellaisasleep @barnes70stark @qardasngan @allthingsimagines @yujyujj
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Are you ready for Baeloer in full woo mode? Because it is ruining me to write.
I really hope it wasn't too long and you stay with me this far. If you have please like or leave a comment. And let me know how would you want Baelor to court. I am a full believer he is a spoiler, like full on just presents everywhere!
Also please apperiate this gif... that look 🤯🫠🤤
