To Strike True and Draw Slow-Chapter 7: Proposals and Provocations
Summary
The court sets its sights on Aelora’s hand, and suddenly every lord is a contender. Baelor pushes back harder than he should, Aelora refuses to be claimed, and Kiera arrives—ready to watch it all burn (and maybe help). Meanwhile, Baelor writes a letter he was never meant to send.
Warnings
Court politics, marriage pressure, unwanted advances, emotional repression, grief mentions (Jena), control issues, tension-heavy interactions, mild hostility (affection-coded), Baelor spiraling quietly
The first proposal arrived before anyone had the decency to call it one.
It came wrapped in politeness, in smiles that lingered too long, in conversations that bent—subtly, deliberately—toward one conclusion.
Aelora Targaryen was unwed.
And the court had decided that was a problem.
She noticed it immediately.
She always did.
“You have adjusted quickly, Princess,” Lady Rowan said over morning wine, her tone warm but calculated. “The court has taken… considerable interest.”
Aelora did not look up. “The court is easily entertained.”
A soft laugh. “Not by everyone.”
“No,” Aelora agreed. “Only by those who refuse to behave.”
Lady Rowan’s gaze sharpened. “And yet, such attention rarely goes unanswered.”
There it was.
Aelora set her cup down. “If something is to be said, my lady, I prefer it said plainly.”
“Very well,” Rowan said smoothly. “You are of age. Of rank. Unwed. You have returned to court—visible, unattached, and… intriguing. That invites opportunity.”
“For whom?”
“For everyone.”
Aelora leaned back slightly. “How unfortunate for them.”
The conversation ended.
The implication did not.
By midday, the whispers had already spread.
By afternoon—
They had teeth.
—
Baelor heard it before he saw it.
He always did.
A shift in tone. A narrowing of space. The particular cadence of a man who believed he was about to secure something valuable.
He stepped into the hall and saw it immediately.
Aelora.
And Lord Caron.
Caron stood too close—close enough to suggest familiarity he had not earned, speaking with the confidence of a man who mistook boldness for entitlement.
“The capital must feel very different from the Vale,” Caron was saying, smiling as if charm could be manufactured. “More… advantageous.”
“It is louder,” Aelora replied.
He laughed. “Noise brings opportunity.”
“I have noticed,” she said.
“And opportunity,” he continued, lowering his voice slightly, “is rarely wasted on a lady in your position.”
Aelora tilted her head. “Which position is that?”
“Unattached,” he said smoothly. “Admired. Available.”
Baelor crossed the room.
Not quickly.
But with inevitability.
Caron saw him too late.
“I would be honored to—”
“You would not,” Baelor said.
Silence fell.
Immediate. Absolute.
Caron blinked. “Your Grace, I meant no—”
“No,” Baelor said evenly. “You did not.”
Aelora watched.
Interested.
Caron attempted recovery. “We were merely speaking—”
“You were presuming.”
The word landed sharper than a blade.
Caron hesitated, then bowed—just enough to retreat without humiliation. “Of course, Your Grace.”
He left.
Quickly.
Baelor turned to Aelora.
“You encourage this.”
“I was standing.”
“You engaged him.”
“I answered him.”
“You did not dismiss him.”
“I was considering it.”
His jaw tightened. “You should consider faster.”
“And you,” she replied calmly, “should consider whether your interference was necessary.”
“It was.”
“By whom?”
“By me.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one that matters.”
Their gazes locked.
Sharp.
Unyielding.
“Am I to understand,” Aelora said slowly, “that you intend to monitor every conversation I have?”
“If necessary.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
A pause.
Then—
“You are not my responsibility,” Baelor added.
Aelora’s lips curved faintly. “No?”
“No.”
“And yet,” she said, gesturing toward where Caron had stood, “you involve yourself.”
“I involve myself when required.”
“And this required it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Silence.
Brief.
Dangerous.
“Because,” he said, more sharply now, “you do not understand what is being set in motion.”
Aelora’s expression did not change.
“I understand perfectly,” she said. “The court has decided I am useful.”
“And you think that is harmless?”
“I think it is inevitable.”
Baelor stared at her.
Frustration flickered—real, contained.
“You will not be careless.”
“I am not careless.”
“You are unguarded.”
“I am deliberate.”
“You are—”
He stopped.
Because the word he wanted—
Was not one he intended to say.
Aelora watched him.
Waiting.
He exhaled slowly. “You will be cautious.”
“I will be myself.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” she said softly. “It is not.”
—
By evening, it had reached the king.
—
“Aelora must be married.”
King Daeron spoke the words as if they had already been decided.
Baelor stood still.
Myriah did not look surprised. “It would secure her position.”
“It would secure the realm,” Daeron corrected. “An unwed Targaryen princess invites instability.”
“It invites interest,” Myriah said.
“It invites competition.”
Baelor’s voice cut in—low, controlled. “It invites control.”
Daeron looked at him. “And you object?”
“Yes.”
Immediate.
Uncompromising.
“On what grounds?”
“She has been here less than a fortnight.”
“And?”
“And you would bind her before she has even—” He stopped. Reset. “—before she has established herself.”
Myriah studied him. “Or before she becomes too difficult to place.”
Baelor’s jaw tightened. “She is not a problem to be managed.”
“No,” Daeron said calmly. “She is a princess.”
Which was worse.
“Have you someone in mind?” Myriah asked.
Daeron smiled faintly. “Several.”
Of course he did.
Baelor’s hands curled slightly.
Measured.
Contained.
“I will consider them,” he said.
Not agreement.
Not refusal.
Something far more dangerous.
—
Aelora did not return to her chambers alone that night.
Because someone was waiting for her.
Leaning against the stone wall like she belonged there—pink hair loose down her back, catching the torchlight in soft, dangerous shades, silk draped carelessly over one shoulder as if rules had never applied to her in the first place.
Kiera of Tyrosh.
“You are already causing problems,” Kiera said, straightening as Aelora approached, arms folding as she took her in from head to toe.
Aelora smiled—genuine this time, unguarded in a way she had not been all day. “You took too long.”
“I had to be announced,” Kiera replied, rolling her eyes. “Twice. Apparently I am ‘a lady now.’ There were opinions about my hair.”
Aelora’s gaze flicked to it. “It’s perfect.”
“I know,” Kiera said immediately. “That’s why they hate it.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” Kiera agreed. “But I was told you required a lady-in-waiting.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Which I assume is code for ‘someone capable of preventing you from committing political arson.’”
Aelora tilted her head. “And will you succeed?”
Kiera looked her over again—slow, deliberate, measuring.
Then smiled.
Sharp. Bright. Entirely too pleased.
“No.”
Aelora laughed—soft, real, the sound of it loosening something tight in her chest.
Kiera immediately looped her arm through Aelora’s like she had always belonged there. “Good. Now tell me everything. The court is circling.”
“I noticed.”
“They always do,” Kiera said. “But this is faster than usual. You’ve unsettled them.”
“That was not difficult.”
“No,” Kiera agreed. “But you’ve unsettled the right ones.”
They moved down the corridor together, steps unhurried, as if the castle itself had decided to give them space.
“They’re already discussing matches,” Kiera continued.
“Of course they are.”
“Mm.” Kiera glanced sideways at her. “And not quietly.”
Aelora’s expression didn’t shift. “Who?”
Kiera grinned. “Now we’re getting to the interesting part.”
She began counting lightly on her fingers.
“Lord Caron—obvious, predictable, already tried it today from the look of things.”
Aelora huffed. “He lasted less than a minute.”
“I would have given him two,” Kiera said. “Generous of you.”
“Who else.”
“Ser Edwyn,” Kiera continued. “Too eager. Too obvious. Would spend his entire life trying to impress you and failing.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Agreed.”
“Next.”
“Lord Rowan—polite, strategic, entirely motivated by power. You would wake up one day and realize he had been negotiating your life behind your back.”
Aelora grimaced. “Absolutely not.”
“Good,” Kiera said. “I was prepared to stage your escape.”
Aelora smirked. “You assume I would not simply refuse.”
“I assume they would not accept that answer.”
A pause.
Then—
“Fair,” Aelora admitted.
Kiera’s grin sharpened. “Now, more interesting options.”
“Oh?”
“Dorne has already noticed,” Kiera said. “You are bold enough that they might consider you an asset rather than a liability.”
Aelora raised a brow. “That is almost flattering.”
“Almost,” Kiera agreed. “Though you would either thrive there or burn it to the ground.”
“I would do both.”
“I believe you,” Kiera said sincerely.
They turned into Aelora’s chambers, the door closing behind them with a quiet, final click. The noise of the castle dulled instantly, replaced by something softer, more private.
Kiera dropped onto the edge of the bed without invitation.
“Now,” she said, leaning back on her hands, “we discuss the real problem.”
Aelora did not pretend not to understand.
“And him?” Kiera asked.
Aelora did not ask who.
She did not need to.
“He is resisting,” she said.
Kiera’s brows lifted. “Resisting what?”
Aelora met her gaze.
“Everything.”
That—interested her.
Kiera tilted her head slowly. “Everything,” she repeated. “How dramatic.”
“It is not drama,” Aelora said. “It is control.”
“Ah,” Kiera said, satisfied. “Worse.”
Aelora moved further into the room, unpinning a piece of jewelry from her sleeve with slow, deliberate movements. “The king intends to marry me.”
“Of course he does.”
“Baelor disagrees.”
Kiera sat up straighter. “Openly?”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
“He pushes without saying it.”
“Even more interesting.”
Aelora glanced at her. “You enjoy this.”
“I adore this,” Kiera corrected. “You have placed a man who thrives on control into a situation where he has none.”
“He has control,” Aelora said.
“Over everything,” Kiera agreed. “Except you.”
A pause.
Aelora did not deny it.
Kiera watched her carefully now. “And what do you want?”
Aelora was quiet for a moment.
Then—
“I want him to stop pretending.”
Kiera’s smile softened into something more knowing.
“Ah,” she said. “So we are not simply causing problems.”
“No.”
“We are choosing them.”
“Yes.”
Kiera leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes bright with interest. “And if he does not stop?”
Aelora’s lips curved faintly.
“Then I will push harder.”
Kiera laughed—delighted, a little unhinged. “Gods, I like you.”
“I am aware.”
“No, truly,” Kiera continued. “Most women in your position would already be calculating alliances, weighing options, deciding which man is safest.”
“I am not most women.”
“I noticed,” Kiera said dryly. “You are choosing the most difficult one in the room.”
Aelora met her gaze.
“He is not the most difficult.”
Kiera paused.
Then—slowly—
“Oh,” she said.
A beat.
Then a grin.
“Oh, this is worse than I thought.”
Aelora did not elaborate.
She did not need to.
Kiera fell back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling like she was watching a story unfold above her. “So,” she said, “we have a princess whose hand is open, a court already circling like vultures, a king preparing to act—”
“And Baelor pushing back,” Aelora added.
“—while pretending he is not,” Kiera finished.
Silence settled for a moment.
Then—
Kiera turned her head, eyes gleaming.
“We should make a list.”
Aelora blinked. “A list.”
“Yes,” Kiera said firmly. “Of unacceptable matches.”
“That seems excessive.”
“That seems necessary,” Kiera corrected. “If they are going to treat this like a game, we should at least keep score.”
Aelora considered.
Then—
Slowly—
Smiled.
“Very well,” she said. “Let us begin.”
Kiera sat up immediately, entirely too excited. “Good. First rule—”
“No men who think they are charming.”
“Excellent,” Kiera agreed. “Second—”
“No men who want power more than they want me.”
“Third,” Kiera added, “no men who mistake obedience for loyalty.”
Aelora’s smile sharpened. “Fourth—”
“No men who think they can control me.”
Kiera paused.
Then—
“What about men who try anyway?”
Aelora’s gaze flickered—brief, telling.
“Those,” she said quietly, “are more complicated.”
Kiera stared at her.
Then—
Grinned.
“Oh,” she said again, delighted. “This is going to be chaos.”
Aelora turned toward the window, looking out over the darkened city, the flicker of torchlight below.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“It is.”
And somewhere, in another part of the castle—
Baelor Targaryen was writing a letter he could not finish.
And the game—
Had already begun.
—
Baelor did not sleep.
He had not intended to.
Sleep required a stillness he did not possess—not tonight, not with the court already shifting beneath his feet, not with something far less predictable taking shape in the spaces he had once controlled without effort.
The letter sat before him, blank for far too long.
He stared at it like it was a battlefield he had not chosen.
Which, in a way, it was.
War, at least, was honest. It moved in lines he understood. You knew where the threat stood. You knew what it wanted. You knew how to meet it.
This—
This was quieter.
Worse.
Then—finally—he picked up the quill.
Maekar,
He stopped.
The word looked wrong.
Too informal. Too familiar. Too much like something he had not allowed himself in years.
He dragged a line through it.
Started again.
Prince Maekar—
No.
That was worse.
Colder. Distant. Useless.
He exhaled sharply, the sound edged with frustration, and began again without thinking.
Maekar,
This time he did not strike it out.
The ink had already sunk too deep.
You have recently married.
The words felt insufficient the moment they settled on the page.
He stared at them, jaw tightening.
Marriage.
As if that was the problem.
As if Maekar—who had just bound himself in front of gods and men without hesitation—would understand anything about restraint.
Baelor pressed the quill harder.
The next line came more forcefully.
I require your advice.
The ink bled.
He ignored it.
The admission sat there, unwelcome.
He did not require advice.
He did not require anything.
And yet—
The page waited.
So he continued.
The court has turned its attention toward Aelora. Proposals are already being discussed. Father intends to act.
That was clean.
Controlled.
Accurate.
He paused.
The next line did not come as easily.
She is not ready.
The words sat there.
Incomplete.
Insufficient.
He stared at them.
Because they were not wrong—
But they were not the truth.
Not entirely.
His hand hovered above the parchment.
Then—
I will not have her used before she has even found her footing.
He leaned back slightly, reading it over.
A justification.
A reasonable one.
A defensible one.
A lie.
Or not enough truth.
His grip tightened around the quill.
Because the problem was not only that the court had noticed her.
It was that he had.
And that—
Was far more dangerous.
His hand stilled.
Then, before he could stop himself—
I am not—
The ink blotted.
Dark.
Immediate.
Unforgiving.
Baelor swore under his breath and struck the words through, sharper than necessary.
Too late.
Still visible.
He stared at it.
Longer than he should have.
The half-sentence remained there, stubborn and accusing.
I am not—
Not what.
Not concerned?
Not involved?
Not—
His jaw clenched.
He did not finish the thought.
He refused to.
Instead, he forced the next line into place, the pressure of the quill nearly tearing the parchment.
You understand the court better than most. Advise me.
The lie was almost laughable.
Maekar did not understand court.
Maekar despised it.
Maekar solved problems with steel, with certainty, with force that did not require interpretation.
Which was precisely why Baelor had written to him.
Not because he would give the correct answer.
Because he would give an honest one.
And because—
Gods help him—
Baelor needed someone who was not playing the game.
He set the quill down immediately.
As if it might betray him further.
As if leaving it in his hand would force him to write something else—
Something worse.
Something true.
Silence settled around him, thick and heavy, broken only by the quiet crackle of the dying fire.
Baelor leaned back, closing his eyes briefly.
This was nothing.
A political inconvenience.
A situation to be managed.
Controlled.
Resolved.
He had handled worse.
He had buried worse.
His thoughts shifted—
Unbidden.
Jena.
The memory came sharp and quiet, like it always did.
Not loud. Not overwhelming.
Just there.
The absence of her was not a wound that bled—it was one that had already scarred, tight and unyielding, something that pulled at everything around it when he moved too quickly.
A year and a half.
Nearly two.
And still—
He knew exactly what she would have said.
You are overthinking this.
Or worse—
You are pretending it is not what it is.
His jaw tightened.
“I am not,” he muttered aloud.
The room did not answer.
It never did.
Baelor exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his shoulders, reassembling himself piece by piece.
This was not grief.
This was not loss.
This was not—
He stopped.
Because that was the problem.
This did not feel like loss.
It felt like—
Disruption.
Unwelcome.
Uncontrolled.
Alive.
Her voice lingered, uninvited.
You do not like things you cannot control.
His eyes opened.
Sharp.
Cold.
Controlled.
“This is not that,” he said quietly.
It could not be that.
Because if it was—
If this was not strategy, not duty, not obligation—
If this was something else—
Then Baelor Targaryen was already losing ground.
And that—
More than the court, more than the king, more than any proposal—
Was the only thing he had ever truly feared.
—
Morning would bring more proposals.
More pressure.
More expectations.
Aelora would not yield.
Baelor would not concede.
And somewhere between them—
Something was forming.
Not war.
Not peace.
Something far worse.
Something neither of them intended to stop.
