When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps, the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XXXI: LINK
Chapter XXXIII: SOON
Chapter XXXII: Two Dragons and You
The conversation faded naturally after that.
Not because either man had run out of things to say.
Because it had reached one of those comfortable stopping points that existed only between people who had known one another most of their lives.
Outside the study windows, the afternoon continued its slow descent toward evening.
The sunlight had shifted again, abandoning one side of the room entirely and gathering instead across the far wall.
Shadows stretched longer between shelves and furniture, softening sharp corners and turning familiar objects into darker shapes.
The Tower always felt different at this hour, Quieter, not truly silent.
The Red Keep never managed silence, yet somehow the noise changed.
Servants hurried less, Doors opened less frequently... and the castle seemed to exhale after a day spent holding its breath.
Baelor returned his attention to the paper before him, or attempted to.
The inked words remained where they belonged.
The names had not changed.
The responsibilities had not vanished.
Yet somehow he found himself reading the same line twice, then a third time. His focus refused to settle.Ā
Across the table, Maekar watched.
Not obviously.
Never obviously.
The younger prince possessed many faults, but lack of observation was not one of them.
Years commanding men had sharpened certain instincts.
Years surviving the court had sharpened the rest.
And recently... Baelor had become easier to read than he realised.
The younger prince turned his goblet slowly between his fingers, watching the wine catch the fading light.
Then he spoke. "It is still here."
The words arrived so casually that they might have been mistaken for an afterthought.
Baelor looked up. His brow furrowed faintly. For a moment, he genuinely did not understand. "What is?"
Maekar's gaze lifted from the goblet. The look of a man who already knew the answer before asking. "The woman."
The words settled heavily between them.
Not because of their volume but because of their timing.
The study suddenly seemed quieter; the distant sounds beyond the windows felt farther away.
Baelor remained still.
For the briefest moment, something uncomfortable stirred beneath his ribs.
Not guilt, not quite... Awareness. Because he knew immediately who Maekar meant.
There were many women currently residing within the Red Keep.
Noblewomen.
Servants.
Ladies-in-waiting.
Guests are arriving daily for the upcoming ball.
Yet neither brother required clarification.
The woman.
Not a woman.
The woman.
And somehow that irritated him for the description felt dismissive, reducing you to a curiosity... A problem... An object of discussion rather than a person.
The correction left his mouth before he had time to consider it. "She."
The word landed sharper than intended.
Small, Simple, yet unmistakable.
Maekar's eyebrow rose slowly like a hunter spotting movement in distant brush.
Baelor realised his mistake immediately becauseĀ the correction had been instinctive, Unthinking. The sort of response that revealed more than intended.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Across the table, Maekar continued watching him.
Not smiling.
Not commenting.
Which somehow felt significantly worse.
Baelor looked back down at the parchment, pretending to read.
Pretending the conversation had not shifted.
Pretending his pulse had not quickened slightly.
The effort fooled neither of them.
This time, surprisingly, his brother said nothing.
No grunt.
No scoff.
No dry comment meant to irritate him.
No immediate accusation.
Nothing.
And somehow, that felt worse.
Maekar simply sat there, goblet still in hand, studying him over the rim with an expression Baelor had learned to distrust years ago.
It was not the look his brother wore before a fight nor before an argument.
No, those were straightforward things, Easy things. Maekar excelled at straightforward things.
This look was different.
The expression of a man who believed he had already made his point and saw no reason to press further.
Outside the window, a gull cried somewhere above Blackwater Bay. The sound drifted through the study before disappearing again beneath the distant murmur of the castle.
Baelor became painfully aware of the word around him.
Of the quill's weight between his fingers.
Of the fact that he had not actually read a single word since his brother had spoken.
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
He was the Hand of the King. He had sat through councils, negotiations and political disputes involving men twice his age and infinitely more stubborn than Maekar.
Yet somehow, one raised eyebrow from his younger brother had managed to unsettle him more effectively than half the Small Council combined.
To save himself from the conversation, or at least from the direction it threatened to take, Baelor returned his attention to the parchment before him one last time.
Fingers pressed gently against his temple, half for support and half to ease the faint ache growing there.
The last weeks had not been kind.
Preparations for the ball had consumed every waking hour:
Guests continued arriving.
Reports continued multiplying.
Problems appeared faster than solutions.
And still, despite all that work, despite the endless stack of responsibilities waiting upon his desk...
His thoughts betrayed him.
Because instead of thinking about arrival schedules, seating arrangements, or which lord would inevitably find fault with his assigned chambers, his mind drifted elsewhere.
To you.
The actualisation arrived with immediate irritation, as though his own thoughts had turned traitor.
He had spent two weeks avoiding exactly that, avoiding you.
Avoiding the nursery.
Avoiding invitations.
Avoiding every opportunity for another supper.
And yet somehow you remained present regardless.
A constant, invisible presence lingering around the edges of his days.
He learned of your well-being through servants. Not intentionally, of course. Yet information found its way to him regardless.
A passing comment from a maid.
A remark from Ellyn.
The occasional report from someone working within the nursery.
Small details.
Insignificant details.
The sort of man a man should not remember. And yet he did.
He knew which oils you preferred for your baths.
He knew which flowers had appeared in your chambers after one servant mentioned you liked their scent.
He knew you continued to take the boys into the gardens whenever the weather allowed.
He knew Matarys still refused to nap unless thoroughly exhausted first.
And he knew Valarr spoke about you constantly.
The boy mentioned your name so often that some days Baelor felt as though he had seen you despite actively avoiding your presence.
The thought should have amused him. Instead, it left an unpleasant ache somewhere beneath his ribs.
Across the table, Maekar remained silent, watching, waiting.
And Baelor sensed it without looking. Felt it.
The weight of observation lingered in the room, though his brother could somehow see every thought passing behind his eyes.
Eventually, unable to ignore it any longer, he glanced up.
"What?" he asked. The word came out sharper than intended.
Maekar did not even blink. "Nothing."
A lie. A terrible lie.
The answer came immediately, too immediately. The sort of answer people gave when the truth was, in fact, very much something.
The sort only brothers attempted.
Baelor stared at him.
Across the table, Maekar appeared entirely unbothered by the accusation hidden within the single word.
He simply took another drink from his goblet, as though they had been discussing the weather rather than something considerably more dangerous.
The faint scratching of branches against stone beyond the window.
The distant movement of servants somewhere below.
The crackle of a log shifting within the fireplace.
It was absurd, absolutely absurd.
Yet somehow his brother had managed to transform a perfectly ordinary conversation into an interrogation without asking a single question.
Baelor hated when people did that. More irritatingly, he hated that it worked.
His eyes returned briefly to the papers before him, a motion he had repeated far too many times. Yet he saw no other escape, other than to pretend to work... to attempt to work, refusing to accept that it would be impossible at the moment.
The same arrival schedule.
The same names.
The same list he had attempted to read three times already, perhaps even more.
His gaze landed upon one particular lord from the Reach, Read the name, Moved on and Stopped. He concluded that he had not absorbed a single word.Ā
A muscle tightened in his jaw.
Across from him, Maekar continued existing. That was perhaps the most frustrating part.
The man was not even doing anything.
No smirk.
No mocking comment.
No knowing grin.
Nothing.
Just sitting there, drinking wine... Existing.
And somehow, making Baelor increasingly aware of every thought he would have preferred remained private.
His younger brother had always possessed that particular talent, even as boys, especially as boys.
Maekar had never been the charming one.
Never the diplomatic one.
Never was the brother capable of winning people over with easy smiles and pleasant words.
Instead, he watched... Observed.... Remembered.
A quality that made him an excellent commander and an insufferable sibling.
Baelor finally placed the quill down.
Not because he intended to stop working but because pretending to work had become impossible.
The gesture earned no visible reaction from Maekar, which only made him more suspicious.
The prince leaned back slightly, fingers pressing once against the bridge of his nose.
The beginnings of a headache lingered there.
Not severe but just enough to remind him that sleep had become something of a stranger recently.
The recognition annoyed him further, because he knew precisely when it had started.
Not during preparations for the ball.
Not during the arrival of guests.
Not during some political dispute requiring his attention.
No... It had begun after that supper... After the silence... After the touch of your hand resting atop his... After the moment when common sense had nearly abandoned you both.
His hand lowered slowly.
Outside the windows, evening continued its gradual approach.
The sunlight had turned warmer now, Gold deepening toward amber.
The shadows stretched longer across the study floor. And despite every effort to direct his attention elsewhere, his thoughts drifted again.
Toward the nursery.
Toward the gardens.
Toward brief glimpses stolen from distant balconies when he should have been reviewing reports.
Toward a woman he had spent the better part of two weeks avoiding.
Not because he wished to avoid you, that was perhaps the problem.
And somewhere across the table, Baelor had the unpleasant suspicion that Maekar already knew it.
Maekar continued staring for several moments, as though he could somehow read the thoughts Baelor was trying so carefully to keep hidden. Perhaps he could.
Or perhaps years of brotherhood had simply taught him how to recognise certain patterns. Exhaustion looked different depending on its source.
The fatigue of work settled upon a man's shoulders, weighing down his movements.
The fatigue of grief hollowed the eyes.
The fatigue of sleepless nights left its own marks as well. Whatever Maekar saw now, it was enough to hold his attention.
Baelor sensed it keenly.
Not the scrutiny itself. He had spent his entire life being observed.
Princes learned early how to endure watchful eyes: Courtiers observed, Lords observed, Enemies observed. Even allies observed when they thought nobody noticed.
No, what unsettled him was the uncomfortable feeling that his brother was seeing too much.
For two weeks, he had buried himself beneath work with a dedication that bordered on obsession.
Every spare moment had been filled with reports, correspondence, and preparations for the approaching ball.
His hours were filled with meetings with the household officials, discussions with merchants, reviews of guest accommodations, and a hundred other responsibilities that normally would have occupied only part of his attention.
This time, however, he had welcomed the burden.
Work demanded focus.
Work demanded structure.
Work did not ask difficult questions.
Unfortunately, the strategy had failed far more often than he cared to admit.
The problem was that no matter how many parchments occupied his desk, no matter how many hours he spent locked inside his study, reminders of you continued appearing where he least expected them.
Sometimes it came from Valarr.
The boy spoke of you constantly, often without realising it.
A story from breakfast would somehow become a story about something you had said.
A lesson would become a comparison to one of your lessons.
A discussion regarding the gardens would inevitably include an observation about where you preferred to sit when Matarys grew tired.
At first, Baelor had not noticed. Then he had, and after that, it became impossible not to.
Other reminders arrived from elsewhere.
A servant mentioned that you had requested extra blankets for one of the boys after a chilly night.
Another remarking upon how Matarys had become increasingly determined to walk on his own.
Even Ellyn occasionally appeared carrying information entirely by accident, speaking so naturally that she likely never realised how much Baelor listened.
He never asked . The information simply found him. And despite himself, he remembered every detail.
Across the table, Maekar finally shifted in his seat, drawing Baelor from his thoughts.
The movement was minor, yet it seemed oddly loud within the study.
The younger prince leaned back slightly, stretching one leg beneath the table before fixing his brother with a look that had not softened in the slightest.
There was no mockery in it, no amusement,Ā no accusation.
Only the calm certainty of a man who had concluded and was waiting to see how long it would take everyone else to catch up.
Baelor disliked that look immensely, partly because he recognised it.
Mostly because Maekar only wore it when he believed he was right. And experience had taught him that arguing against such conviction rarely ended well.
The sunlight had nearly abandoned the room now. Shadows stretched across the shelves, creeping steadily upward while the first hints of evening gathered beyond the windows.
The study felt smaller than before, quieter somehow; the endless bustle of the castle pushed farther away.
And still the conversation lingered between them.
The woman.
Two simple words. Yet somehow they had managed to occupy the entire room.
Eventually, the silence became impossible to ignore.
Not because it had grown uncomfortable, but because it had become deliberate.
There was a difference.
The comfortable ones shared between brothers felt effortless. Ā They settled naturally, requiring nothing from either party.
This one felt different. It lingered with purpose, stretching itself between them like a rope pulled steadily tighter with each passing moment.
Baelor could feel it.
Every time he looked down at the parchment before him.
Every time he became aware of Maekar's continued presence across the table.
Every time he caught himself thinking about anything except the work he was supposed to be completing.
His younger brother had said remarkably little since mentioning you.
A lesser man would have pushed, would have asked questions, would have made accusations, or would have made observations or jokes.
Maekar had done none of those things.
Instead, he had simply planted the thought and left it there like a hunter setting a trap and then patiently waiting to see whether the prey would wander into it on its own.
Unfortunately, Baelor was beginning to suspect he already had.
His brother remained where he had been all along, appearing perfectly content despite accomplishing absolutely nothing productive for the better part of an hour.
The sight alone was enough to irritate any man burdened with responsibility. "
You look smug," the accusation left his mouth before he fully considered it.
Across the table, one pale eyebrow lifted. The expression would have appeared innocent to someone unfamiliar with Maekar.
Baelor was not unfamiliar with Maekar.
The younger prince knew exactly what he was doing. "I am not smug." The denial came without hesitation.
Years ago, when they were boys, Baelor might have accepted the answer. Experience had cured him of that weakness. Ā "You are." A faint pause followed.
The corner of Maekar's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly before disappearing again.
Then, with all the solemnity of a man delivering grave news to the realm, he replied, "I am disappointed."
For a moment, Baelor simply stared.
Outside, a gust of wind rattled softly against the windows. Somewhere within the tower, a door opened and closed again. The sounds drifted through the study and vanished just as quickly.
Inside, neither brother moved as the statement lingered.
Not because it carried genuine condemnation but because it was absurd; Completely and utterly absurd.
Baelor had known Maekar his entire life.
The man was disappointed by at least three things before breakfast each morning, usually more.
A particularly stubborn horse could disappoint him.
A rainy day could disappoint him.
An undercooked meal could disappoint him.
The realm itself disappointed him with alarming regularity.
The idea that this particular matter had somehow been added to the list should not have surprised him.
And yet it did.
Perhaps because there was no mockery behind it. Only a frustrating sincerity that immediately put him on guard.
Baelor reclined back slightly, studying his brother more carefully. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
Maekar's fingers turned the goblet slowly between his hands.
The movement appeared casual, yet Baelor knew better.
Whenever his brother took this long to answer a question, it meant he was choosing his words carefully.
Which, somehow, felt significantly more dangerous than if he had simply spoken his mind.
Maekar did not answer immediately.
The goblet continued its slow rotation between his hands, the wine catching the last of the afternoon light whenever it turned.
The study had grown noticeably darker now.
What sunlight remained lingered near the windows and along the upper shelves, while the centre of the room had begun surrendering itself to evening.
Neither man seemed particularly eager to summon more candles.
The fading light suited the conversation, or perhaps it simply suited Maekar's mood.
His gaze drifted briefly toward the open window before returning to his brother. "You want the truth?"
Baelor almost laughed. The question itself was suspicious.
Very few good things had ever followed those particular words. Yet after several moments, he nodded once.
The gesture was small, Reluctant.
Maekar accepted it.
For a moment, he simply studied him, and Baelor had the distinct feeling of being measured.
Not as Hand.
Not as heir.
Not as the prince the realm saw.
As a brother.
As the boy Maekar had grown up beside.
The distinction mattered.
"You sound different." Maekar continued.
The answer caught him off guard.
Not because it was harsh,becausee it wasn',t but because Baelor had prepared himself for criticism.
For some blunt observation.
For one of Maekar's notoriously poor diplomatic attempts.
Instead, the statement felt strangely simple... perhaps... Almost thoughtful.
His brow furrowed slightly. "Different." The word tasted strange.
Maekar nodded. "Different."
Baelor found himself unexpectedly aware of the weight of the chair beneath him, of the faint ache lingering at the base of his neck from too many hours spent bent over reports.
The room smelled faintly of parchment and ink, mixed now with the cooler evening air drifting through the windows.
Normally, such things grounded him. Toda,y they did not. "What does that even mean?" The question sounded more defensive than he intended.
Unfortunately, Maekar noticed; he noticed everything.
The younger prince leaned back slightly. "A month ago," he said slowly, "You spoke about her like she was a temporary arrangement."
The words settled quietly between them.
Baelor remembered. Of course,se he remembered.
The conversation had taken place in this very room.
At the time, it had seemed a reasonable assessment, A practical one.
You were a stranger.
A foreign woman recommended through circumstance and necessity.
Someone was hired to help his sons through a difficult period.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Across the table, Maekar continued watching, allowing the silence to do part of the work for him.
Baelor hated that strategy because it worked.
Eventually, he exhaled quietly. "A month ago," he admitted, "I had only known her for three days."
The answer sounded reasonable. Yet even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were incomplete.
And judging by the look settling across Maekar's face, his brother knew it too.
The younger prince gave a slow nod, a simple acknowledgement.
For a few moments, neither brother spoke.
The stillness somehow encouraged honesty more effectively than questions ever could.
Baelor hated that. Eventually, he set the paper aside.
The movement felt strangely final.
As though he had accepted the conversation would not be returning to guest lists and arrival schedules anytime soon.
"Valarr has improved." The words left him before he had fully decided to speak them.
Across the table, Maekar's attention sharpened slightly.
The younger prince remained silent, allowing his brother to continue.
Baelor found himself looking toward the window, toward the darkening sky beyond.
The sight helped somehow, as if it made the words easier to hear.
"The boy laughs again. Not politely, not because he believes he should." Ā His voice softened without permission, and a faint smile touched his lips despite himself. "Not because he believes he should."
The image arrived easily.
Valarr sprawled across the nursery floor.
Valarr was covered in sand after the beach.
Valarr is attempting to teach someone thrice his age how to survive a shipwreck.
The memories came one after another.
Small Insignificant Things. Yet somehow they carried more weight than many of the grand events he attended as Hand.
"He argues." That earned the faintest twitch from Maekar. The closest thing to amusement. Baelor noticed.
"He always argued.ā His brother pointed out.
The answer came immediately. "No. There is a difference."
The words settled between them.
Before, Valarr's resistance had often felt born of grief, of frustration, of sadness he lacked the words to explain.
Now... Now he argued. He was a boy. He wants things,becheldossessed opinions.
The distinction mattered more than most people would understand.
"He sleeps better." The confession came quieter. The sort of detail only a father noticed. Or perhaps only a father admitted.
"He stopped waking every night."
A pause followed.
Long enough for old memories to creep forward.
Valarr after his mother's death.
The sleepless nights... The nightmares.
The tears hidden behind stubborn pride.
The way he had begun carrying sadness around his shoulders like a cloak too heavy for a child.
Baelor swallowed once. Even now, those memories remained difficult.
Across from him, Maekar said nothing.
Not because he lacked sympathy but because he understood.
The younger prince had children of his own.
He knew exactly how helpless a father could feel. He truly felt helpless with the situation his firstborn was in. A situation very similar to Valarrās, only progressively worse; a downhill with a small chance of recovery.
Baelor exhaled slowly. "He smiles more."
The statement sounded almost foolish once spoken aloud. Yet perhaps it was the most important thing he had said.
Because smiles had become rare for a time. The kind of rarity that made every absence impossible to ignore.
And now they returned more frequently.
The change had happened gradually.
So, he gradually hadn't noticed it at first.
Until one day, he comprehended he could no longer remember when he had last seen that empty look haunting his son's eyes.
Maekar remained quiet, making his brother look at him. The Young Dragon was not a man who rushed to fill silence.
If anything, he preferred letting it settle until other people became uncomfortable enough to start speaking again.
It was a habit that had frustrated Baelor since childhood and, judging by the complete lack of remorse on his brother's face, would likely continue frustrating him until both of them were old men.
Baelor waited.
A month ago, he would never have spoken this long about the improvements in Valarr's mood.
He certainly would not have found himself discussing smiles, laughter and sleeping habits as though they were matters worthy of political consideration.
Yet they were worthy.
What struck Baelor most was the absence of immediate disagreement.
His brother had spent weeks questioning your presence.
Weeks viewed the arrangement with suspicion.
Weeks waiting for evidence that would justify his concerns.
Yet now, after hearing what had changed in Valarr, he did not argue. He did not dismiss it.
He did not even attempt to explain it away.
Instead, he seemed to be considering it, and That Alone felt like a victory, or perhaps something more dangerous than a victory.
Because consideration meant Maekar was taking the matter seriously.
The younger prince's gaze eventually lifted toward him again, thoughtful rather than confrontational.
There was something almost reluctant in his expression now, as though he had arrived at a conclusion he had not particularly wanted to reach.
Baelor knew that look.
It was the face of a man forced to admit reality had refused to match his expectations.
For all his stubbornness, Maekar was not unfair. Suspicious, certainly. Difficult, frequently. But once presented with enough evidence, he rarely clung to a position simply out of pride.
The problem was that convincing him usually took far longer than convincing anyone else.
Eventually, Maekar's eyes drifted toward the scattered parchments covering the table before returning to his brother. There was no accusation in his gaze this time. No trace of the earlier scepticism.
Only a quiet observation formed behind his eyes.
There was no smug satisfaction upon his face. No triumphant expression from a man who believed he had won some argument.
Then he spoke. "Father studies her."
The words settled into the room.
Baelor said nothing because they were true.
The King had always possessed a remarkable ability to observe people. Few escaped his notice entirely, and even fewer earned prolonged interest.
Yet somehow, despite all the demands placed upon a ruler, Daeron had found time to summon you, question you and form his own opinions.
"Mother likes her."
Baelor's gaze drifted briefly toward the darkened window. Of all the statements, that one perhaps surprised him the least.
His mother liked very few people, respected more than she liked, and tolerated more than she respected.
Yet something about you had clearly earned her approval.
Across the table, Maekar continued. "Now you defend her. You all seem remarkably determined to keep her."
The statement settled heavily between them.
Baelor found himself looking down at the table and its contents. Anything except the uncomfortable truth lingering beneath his brother's words.
Because the more he considered it, the harder it became to dismiss.
The King.
The Queen.
Valarr.
Matarys.
Even himself.
All of them, in different ways, had begun arranging their lives around the assumption that you would remain.
Across the table, Maekar rose to his feet.
The movement broke the stillness as Wood scraped softly against stone.
The younger prince stretched once, releasing tension from his shoulders after sitting still too long.
Somewhere beyond the study, duties awaited him as well.
Yet before leaving, he paused. His hand settled briefly against the back of the chair.
When he spoke again, his voice carried no hostility. Only the blunt honesty for which he had become infamous. "Do not give me reason to regret it."
The warning was simple, straightforward, and oddly fair.
Then, without waiting for a response, Maekar turned and crossed the room.
For several moments, Baelor remained exactly where he was as the study suddenly felt larger.
The dying light from the windows cast long shadows across the room while the first candle flames flickered softly against the walls.
His thoughts drifted elsewhere, back to a single observation spoken almost casually.
"You all seem remarkably determined to keep her."
The words echoed unpleasantly within his mind.
Because for reasons he still struggled to define, the thought of you leaving felt wrong. And that troubled him far more than anything his brother had said all afternoon.
Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a man who liked to party, drink and fight in equal measures. Prone to boredom, nothing else held his interest.
Until one night, when he meets a peculiar girl named Victa Estermont. She is wild, smiley and quick to speak; caring little for titles, rules and etiquette.
He is intrigued, and he aims to follow her. To his surprise, this turtle seemed to be faster than the stag expected.
Pairing: Fem!OC x Lyonel Baratheon
Chapter Warnings: None
Chapter XLI: LINK
Chapter XLIII: Coming Soon
Chapter XLII: The Lady of the Stormlands, part 1
Time marched forward as it always did.
Neither kings nor fishermen, neither lovers nor warriors possessed the power to halt its endless advance.
Seasons came and went with quiet certainty.
The sea continued to rise and retreat against the ancient cliffs of Storm's End, each tide erasing yesterday's footprints before making room for tomorrow's.
Autumn surrendered to winter.
Winter slowly softened beneath the first warm breath of spring.
Flowers bloomed once more, birds returned to their familiar nests, and before long, another generous summer had come to grace the Seven Kingdoms.
A full year had passed since the impossible wedding that had given the Stormlands something few believed Lord Lyonel Baratheon would ever possess.
A wife.
Life settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Not perfect, never entirely predictable... But theirs.
They discovered little habits they had never spoken about before.
Victa learnt that Lyonel absentmindedly left his gloves wherever he removed them, only to spend the next hour loudly wondering who had stolen them before finding them exactly where he had abandoned them.
Lyonel learnt that if his wife quietly disappeared for longer than a few minutes, she could almost always be found somewhere amongst flowers, kitchens, and libraries or speaking with someone everyone else had forgotten to greet.
Some mornings began with laughter and others with teasing.
Others still had quiet conversations shared over breakfast while rain battered the windows overlooking Shipbreaker Bay.
Some evenings, they wandered the battlements together simply to watch storms gather upon the horizon.
Others ended with Victa reading old tales aloud while Lyonel rested with his head upon her lap, insisting he was listening even when sleep claimed him halfway through the story.
It was not a perfect life.
It was something far better... A shared one.
Storm's End, once a fortress of cold stone and unwavering discipline, slowly began changing in ways so quiet that almost no one noticed them at first.
The gardens bloomed. Flowers that had struggled for years suddenly flourished beneath careful hands.
New herbs appeared beside the kitchens while climbing roses embraced forgotten walls, their green vines slowly softening stone that had weathered centuries of storms.
Colourful wildflowers found homes beside pathways that had once known only grey rock, their bright petals dancing whenever sea breezes wandered through the castle grounds.
Servants smiled more often.
Soldiers discovered that the new Lady Baratheon somehow remembered nearly every name she had ever been introduced to, often greeting them before they had the chance to bow.
The castle kitchens quietly doubled their supply of fresh fish.
The old stable cat mysteriously grew rather fat after deciding Lady Victa always carried scraps hidden somewhere upon her person.
Even Lord Baratheon eventually stopped questioning why fresh flowers had begun appearing throughout halls that had once seemed determined to remain forever stern.
No one had ordered it.
They simply... Appeared.
Lyonel often joked that if left unattended long enough, his wife would eventually convince vines to climb the Round Hall itself.
Victa had merely smiled. Then he was asked whether he believed Ivy preferred the shade or the sunlight.
His answer remained that he probably preferred talking to her.
By now...
Few questioned the unusual marriage anymore.
The whispers that had once followed them through feasts and tournaments had grown noticeably quieter with each passing season.
Not because people had forgotten but because they had finally begun to understand.
No longer did they ask why Lord Lyonel Baratheon had married so far beneath his station.
That question had quietly disappeared somewhere between weddings, harvest feasts and countless shared journeys across the Seven Kingdoms.
Instead...
People found themselves wondering how Storm's End had ever existed without its smiling Lady.
They travelled often that year.
Stormlords rarely refused invitations involving tournaments, fairs or feasts, especially when good company, loud music and plentiful food were promised alongside the celebrations.
Some journeys lasted only a handful of days while others carried them across entire kingdoms.
Victa quickly discovered that no two roads through Westeros were ever quite alike.
Some wound through thick forests where sunlight barely reached the earth beneath ancient branches.
Others crossed endless golden fields, followed quiet rivers or climbed hills from which entire castles could be seen standing proudly against the horizon.
She loved every single one.
Not simply because she was travelling beside Lyonel... But because every new road meant new people.
New flowers.
New stories.
There were tournaments where Lyonel returned bruised, muddy and grinning from ear to ear, proudly presenting ribbons, carved trinkets or peculiar little gifts he insisted had reminded him of Victa the moment he saw them.
Sometimes it was a smooth seashell from a merchant beside the coast.
Sometimes an oddly shaped stone.
Once...
A tiny carved hedgehog because, according to Lyonel, "it looked just as determined as you do whenever someone insults a flower."
Victa had laughed until tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.
The little hedgehog still rested safely within their chambers.
There were grand feasts where she danced until her feet protested, somehow convincing even the oldest and most stubborn Stormlords to attempt traditional island dances they had absolutely no hope of mastering.
Most failed spectacularly. Not that anyone seemed particularly concerned. Stormlanders had long believed enthusiasm far outweighed talent.
The louder the laughter became...
The more successful the evening usually was.
Bustling harvest fairs were overflowing with musicians, merchants, and children darting between colourful tents, while travelling performers competed with storytellers for every wandering audience.
Victa rarely returned empty-handed.
Sometimes she carried flowers.
Sometimes recipes copied from kind bakers.
Other times, little handmade trinkets were wrapped carefully in cloth because she already knew exactly who, back at Storm's End, would smile upon receiving them.
Each journey left them with another story, another memory, another reason to laugh together long after they had returned home.
And Lyonel...
Lyonel remained unmistakably himself.
He still laughed too loudly.
Still fought as though bruises were trophies rather than injuries.
Still considered a good tavern brawl preferable to most diplomatic negotiations.
Still greeted old rivals with crushing embraces before threatening to throw them into the nearest river if they dared lose too quickly.
In many ways... He had not changed at all.
Yet those closest to him slowly began noticing something else... Something quieter.
Something that revealed itself not during feasts... But afterward.
Not when crowds cheered... But when they began to disperse.
He no longer rode only for victory.
He rode for her.
For his smiling turtle.
Every tournament ended the same way:
Before removing his helmet...
Before speaking to squires...
Before accepting congratulations...
His first glance always sought the stands, patiently, instinctively. Searching through hundreds of unfamiliar faces until bright blue eyes finally found brown.
Only then... Only after seeing her smiling back at him... Did the Laughing Storm truly smile.
Like so many before it, the messenger appeared beneath the towering gates of Storm's End carrying sealed letters carefully protected from road dust and sea spray alike.
This one, however, carried a different sort of excitement.
A midsummer fair held upon the rich lands of the Riverlands. A celebration older than many castles themselves.
Three full days of feasting, music, bustling markets, horse races, archery contests, dancing beneath lantern light, friendly melees and every manner of entertainment one could imagine.
And... Naturally... A tournament.
Word spread through Storm's End surprisingly quickly.
Servants spoke of it while preparing meals.
Stable boys immediately began guessing which horses would make the journey.
Young squires whispered excitedly about famous knights they hoped might attend. Even several guards quietly discussed who might return carrying bruises this time.
The answer, most agreed, would almost certainly be Lord Lyonel. He rarely disappointed.
The Stormlords accepted the invitation before the messenger had properly finished reading it aloud.
Not one voice objected.
Not one suggested remaining home.
For if there existed one thing Stormlanders loved almost as much as rain... It was an excuse to celebrate.
Preparations began almost immediately: Wagons were loaded, Horses brushed until their coats gleamed beneath the summer sun, Armour polished, Supplies counted and recounted.
Servants hurried through the castle, gathering everything required for several days on the road, while squires argued loudly over which practice lances deserved to make the journey.
The courtyard became wonderfully chaotic.
Victa watched much of it unfold from the steps outside the Round Hall, smiling as people hurried in every direction at once.
It reminded her, strangely enough, of turtles gathering before the first great storms of autumn.
Everyone appeared terribly busy.
Everyone insisted their own task was the most important.
Yet somehow... By the end of it all... Everything always found its proper place.
Lyonel emerged from the armoury carrying two swords across one shoulder as though they weighed no more than walking sticks.
He stopped the instant he spotted her watching. Ā "What?" he asked with a grin.
Victa smiled innocently. "You look busy."
"I am busy."
"You seem rather pleased about it."
"I am." He shifted one sword beneath his arm before stepping closer. "There will be fighting."
"I suspected as much."
"There will be food."
"I rather hoped so."
"There will be dancing."
"I know."
"And..." His grin somehow widened even further. "...there will be enough merchants to keep you wonderfully distracted while I go and win something impressive."
Victa laughed. "I do not become distracted."
Lyonel raised an eyebrow. "My smiling turtle..." He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice with theatrical seriousness. "...last moon you disappeared for nearly half an hour because you found a travelling beekeeper and wished to ask whether bees preferred yellow flowers over blue ones."
Victa opened her mouth to object, and then quietly closed it again. "...they do," she admitted.
Lyonel laughed so loudly that several passing squires looked over their shoulders. "I know they do."
He gently kissed her lips, quick yet sweet; a promise that more would come later, as they always did. Then, he winked at her before continuing toward the stables.
"And somehow," he called over one shoulder, "I imagine you'll return from this fair carrying at least three things nobody expected you to buy."
Victa watched him disappear amongst the bustling courtyard.
A thoughtful smile tugged at her lips. Three? She silently suspected he had greatly underestimated her.
The fairgrounds stretched across rolling green fields not far from the winding river itself, the gentle current glimmering beneath the warm summer sun like polished silver.
From the surrounding hills, the celebration looked almost like another little town that had appeared overnight.
Hundreds upon hundreds of brightly coloured tents dotted the landscape like scattered wildflowers: Crimson, Blue, Gold, Deep forest green.
Long banners fluttered lazily overhead whenever the afternoon breeze wandered through the open fields.
Each noble house proudly displayed its colours beside merchants who had travelled from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms and even farther still.
The air itself seemed alive.
Smoke drifted lazily upward from enormous roasting spits where pigs, chickens and whole sides of venison slowly turned above glowing coals.
The sweet scent of fresh bread escaped nearby ovens.
Honey, cinnamon and baked apples mingled with roasted chestnuts, smoked meats and mulled cider until the aromas blended into something so wonderfully tempting that even those who had eaten only moments before found themselves hungry again.
Victa caught herself smiling before they had even properly entered the fair.
Music floated constantly upon the breeze.
Minstrels played cheerful tunes beneath decorated pavilions while travelling singers competed with fiddlers and drummers only a few tents away.
Children darted between laughing adults waving little wooden swords, ribbons and brightly coloured pinwheels.
Dogs barked excitedly beneath crowded tables , hoping that generous hands might accidentally drop scraps.
Merchants shouted over one another with remarkable determination.
"Myrish lace!"
"Fresh honey!"
"The finest smoked trout in the Riverlands!"
"Step right up!"
"Win a ribbon for your sweetheart!"
Every voice insisted theirs deserved to be heard first.
Every stall fought to capture wandering eyes before the next one could.
Victa slowly turned where she stood, once and then a little farther. Brown eyes travelled everywhere at once as she hardly knew where to begin looking.
Every few heartbeats, something new stole her attention.
A glassblower shaping glowing molten glass.
A travelling puppeteer making children squeal with laughter.
A little girl proudly wearing a flower crown far too large for her tiny head.
Nearby, an elderly woman patiently taught three boys how to weave baskets while loudly scolding the eldest each time he tangled another strip of willow.
Victa's smile somehow softened even further. "This is wonderful..." she breathed almost to herself.
Beside her, Lyonel watched her rather than the fair. He had attended gatherings like this since childhood.
To him,m they were familiar.
Watching Victa discover them for the first time... That was something entirely new.
"You haven't even seen half of it yet," he chuckled.
She looked back at him, eyes shining with quiet excitement. "There is... more?"
"Oh, much more." He pointed toward another row of tents farther beyond. "That way you'll find musicians, storytellers and enough merchants to empty even a Lannister treasury."
Victa laughed, hands clasping tightly to contain her excitement. Eyes darting all around her, unable to decide what to visit first.
Lyonel noticed and smirked.Ā "And over there," he continued, pointing toward another field, "The tourney grounds."
She followed his gesture.
Rows of practice rings stretched across the grass while squires hurried between armoured knights, making final adjustments to straps and buckles.
Beyond them stood the great wooden lists where the jousts would soon begin.
Trumpets sounded somewhere in the distance.
A fresh cheer rolled across the fields.
The tournament had begun.
Lyonel smiled. "I suppose duty calls."
Victa looked toward him. "So it does."
For a brief moment,t the noise of the fair seemed to disappear around them.
He stepped closer as His rough thumb brushed a stray curl behind her ear before adjusting the little antler crown resting upon her head.
"There." He tilted his head with obvious satisfaction. "My Lady of the Stormlands."
Victa felt warmth creep into her cheeks. "I thought I was your smiling turtle."
"You are."
"And your lady wife."
"You are. And now..." His grin returned in full. "...you are also the finest-looking lady at this fair."
Victa laughed, unable to stop herself. "You are terribly biased."
"I am." He sounded remarkably proud of the fact. "And I intend to remain so."
He bent to kiss her lips once again, this time taking his time. His hand dug into her curls, cradling her head as he stole the air from her lungs. Slowly, intimate; sensual enough to make their retinue look the other way.
Only when he felt satisfied did he pull back. But he was not done; he took her hand in his and gently kissed the back of her hand, beard tickling her enough to make her giggle.
Then did he reluctantly step back. "I shall return after I've finished throwing perfectly respectable knights into the dirt."
"I shall cheer loudly."
"I know you will."
"And whistle."
Lyonel sighed dramatically. "You always mention the whistling."
"Because I know you like it."
"I do."
She reached for his hand before he could pull it away. Their fingers intertwined for only a heartbeat.
A small squeeze. One silent promise.
Then they let go.
Lyonel turned toward the lists and Victa toward the stands.
The afternoon stretched before them, bright and full of laughter.
For three days...Ā The burdens of lordship would be set aside, and Only joy was allowed to remain.
Upon the wooden tourney stands, Victa leaned forward in her seat, elbows resting lightly upon the carved railing before her.
The bright yellow Baratheon cloak rested across her shoulders despite the afternoon's warmth, its heavy folds cascading behind the chair like the tail of some great beast.
Resting upon her dark curls sat the familiar antlered crown Lyonel had placed upon her head on their wedding day.
The polished wood had become almost as familiar to her now as the turtle pendant resting against her chest, another little piece of him she wore with quiet pride.
A warm breeze swept across the stands, carrying with it the smell of trampled grass, churned earth and horses.
Ā Somewhere below, a trumpet sounded, announcing another bout as excited chatter rippled through the gathered spectators.
Victa scarcely heard any of it as her attention remained fixed upon the arena.
Below, the melee had reached its final bouts.
Steel rang loudly against steel, each impact echoing across the enclosed field while dust rose beneath dozens of heavy boots.
Men shouted, spectators cheered, and, somewhere nearby, a child enthusiastically repeated every insult the knights hurled at one another, much to his mother's horror.
Laughter suddenly erupted from one particular corner of the arena.
Victa smiled before her eyes had even found him.
She did not need to search because she already knew that laugh.
Lyonel Baratheon.
The Laughing Storm himself.
Her Lord Husband.
Her Stag.
Even amongst hundreds of voices, his laughter remained unmistakable.
Her eyes found him immediately.
The afternoon sun glimmered off his armour as he circled his opponent with the same confidence he seemed to bring to everything he did.
Dust clung to his boots, fresh scrapes marked the steel protecting his forearms, and yet he looked as though he were enjoying himself far more than any man engaged in combat reasonably should.
His opponent, a broad knight nearly as large as Lyonel himself, lost his sword after a particularly vicious clash.
The weapon spun wildly across the packed earth before finally coming to rest several paces away.
The watching crowd roared.
The knight hurried instinctively towards it.
Lyonel... Simply laughed. Then, to everyone's utter confusion, he tossed his own sword aside.
It landed point-first in the dirt.
"What is he doing now..." Ser David sighed somewhere behind Victa.
Victa's smile only widened; she already knew.
Because this was her husband: Unapologetic, Peculiar, forever searching for the smallest loophole in any contest simply because it amused him.
He possessed an almost remarkable talent for turning perfectly respectable tournaments into stories people would still be laughing about years later.
If there existed even the narrowest opening to make a fight more entertaining, Lyonel would find it.
Able to discover an opportunity, the way a mouse found the smallest hole within a wall when danger followed close behind. Quicker than a barn swallow choosing the perfect beam beneath a roof to build its nest.
Lyonel rolled one shoulder before cracking his neck with an audible pop.
"Come now!" he shouted toward his bewildered opponent. "Steel has had its fun." A grin spread across his face. "Let's see if your mother made anything stronger than your sword arm!"
The crowd exploded with laughter.
Victa giggled alongside them, one hand instinctively rising to cover her smile.
Even his opponent found himself grinning despite the insult.
Then the knight charged, and Lyonel met him halfway.
The impact echoed across the field like two stags colliding upon a mountainside.
Hands seized tunics as Forearms strained.
Boots dug deep into the churned earth as both men fought for balance, each refusing to surrender even a single step.
The tournament had suddenly become a wrestling match.
No one objected.
No one attempted to stop them.
Instead, the cries of the crowd only grew louder.
Fresh wagers were shouted openly from every direction as the advantage shifted back and forth between the two men.
Some spectators abandoned conversations entirely.
Others climbed onto benches for a better view.
Even several knights fighting in neighbouring rings paused their own bouts to watch the spectacle unfold before them.
A few exchanged amused glances before laughing and attempting similar contests of strength themselves, casting their practice swords aside to settle matters shoulder against shoulder.
And Lyonel... Laughed through every single second of it.
The melee continued long after Lyonel's latest victory.
His unfortunate opponent eventually admitted defeat somewhere beneath the younger stag's weight, earning another roar of laughter from the crowd as Lyonel immediately offered the man his forearm and pulled him back onto his feet.
Rather than boasting or celebrating his victory alone, he wrapped the defeated knight in a crushing embrace, laughing loudly enough that those nearest them found themselves laughing as well, whether they knew the joke or not.
Whatever had been shouted between them during the match remained upon the field.
That had always been Lyonel's way: Fight fiercely, laugh louder, then buy your opponent a drink before sunset.
Victa laughed alongside everyone else, two fingers slipping into her mouth before a sharp whistle rang across the arena in celebration.
The familiar sound rose proudly above the cheering crowd.
Lyonel's head snapped towards the stands almost immediately.
He found her within moments, and His grin somehow widened even further.
It had become something of a tradition between them over the past year.
Victa whistle,d and Lyonel searched for it.
The sound never failed to make him smile.
It was one trick he loved beyond reason and yet, despite countless attempts and an astonishing amount of determination, one he had utterly failed to master himself.
She had tried teaching him patiently, again and again.
He had watched her lips, fighting temptations to suck them until they were bruised. When corrected, he focused as much as he could.
He copied her breathing, attempted every explanation she offered.
Nothing.
In the end, he had simply surrendered.
āHow about I will win the matches and you will whistle in celebration, for the both of us,ā he had told her after another spectacularly unsuccessful lesson, his head resting comfortably upon her lap. At the same time, she absentmindedly combed gentle fingers through his dark curls.
Victa had agreed with a laugh.
It had remained their arrangement ever since.
The victor disappeared soon after, accompanied by squires and fellow Stormlords already eager to congratulate him upon yet another victory.
His armour would need tending, Fresh bruises inspected and whatever blood stained his sleeves washed away before the evening feast.
Victa knew the routine by now.
She had watched enough tournaments over the past year to recognise the familiar order of things.
The armour first, then food. Though often Lyonel would just attend a feast in armour, caring little for the sweat gathering beneath it.
It took Victa quite some time to persuade him. Now, her Stag kept the routine and, in return, enjoyed his wife even more at night.
Before disappearing behind the colourful rows of pavilions, however... He looked toward the stands.
Even surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of faces... His blue eyes found hers.
As they always did.
Victa smiled, and He answered with an exaggerated wink before finally disappearing.
Ser David released a long-suffering sigh. "There he goes."
Victa turned towards the loyal knight beside her.
Around them, Lyonel's household knights remained scattered throughout the Baratheon section of the stands, some seated, others standing watch with relaxed familiarity.
Though their lord fought below amongst the competitors, none allowed their attention to drift far from the woman seated beneath the yellow stag banners.
No one had ordered them to do so; Lyonel never needed to either.
Somewhere over the past year, protecting Lady Victa had simply become second nature.
Whenever Lyonel entered a tournament list, they naturally settled close by, ensuring she lacked neither company nor safety while waiting for his return.
Their presence had become strangely comforting.
Often they pointed excitedly whenever Lyonel attempted one of his more ridiculous manoeuvres, eagerly explaining where he had first learnt it or recalling the last poor soul unfortunate enough to experience it.
Other times, they groaned dramatically whenever he ignored perfectly sensible tactics in favour of something significantly more entertaining.
Half their complaints were entirely genuine.
The other half existed solely because they knew Lady Victa laughed every single time.
And her laughter... Her laughter had become one of their favourite sounds.
Bright.
Unrestrained.
As warm as sunlight after weeks of rain.
"He does seem rather happy," Victa commented, unable to stop smiling herself.
"'Rather happy,'" the knight repeated with a laugh. "My lady, the man has won three bouts today. Give him enough wine, and he'll challenge the musicians to a wrestling match before sunset."
Victa giggled. "I think he means well."
"Oh, he absolutely does." The older knight folded his arms. "The problem is..." He watched Lyonel vanish entirely. "...he always means well."
That only made Victa laugh harder.
The image of Lyonel attempting to wrestle a bewildered travelling minstrel while an audience loudly placed wagers seemed entirely believable.
In truth... She was not completely certain it had never happened before.
With Lyonel occupied for a while, there was little reason to remain seated.
The melee would soon give way to jousting and archery before the evening celebrations began, leaving more than enough time to explore everything the fair had to offer.
Already she could see colourful banners dancing above distant merchant stalls while the warm breeze carried tempting scents of fresh bread and roasted honeyed nuts across the fairgrounds.
Her curiosity stirred almost immediately.
"My lady?" Ser Herold asked.
Victa's brown eyes had already wandered toward the countless stalls stretching far beyond the tournament grounds.
Bright fabrics fluttered in the breeze.
Music drifted lazily through the afternoon air.
She could just make out merchants waving excitedly at passing customers.
Her smile softened into something almost sheepish. "...may we?"
The old knight followed her gaze.
Colourful banners danced above dozens upon dozens of merchant stalls.
Spices.
Sweet cakes and candied apples.
Glasswork from Myr.
Carpets from Pentos.
Carved toys from the North.
Jewellery.
Silks.
Fresh flowers.
The fair seemed endless.
Ser Herold already knew the answer before she had even asked.
He gave one resigned nod. "As you wish."
Ser David smirked. "I shall pray for the merchants."
Together... They descended from the wooden stands.
Hey. Absolutely love both Stag's smiling Turtle and Needle & Thread. Phenomenal writing, truly.
I was however wondering, just out of curiosity, whether you already know approximately how long those two will be. (No stress or pressure, I'm just curious as all hell, really.)
Hello! š
Always makes me happy to wake up to asks š
Well, I don't exactly know their exact length to be honest. I thought I did but the more I write, the more they seem not to end.
By my calculations, the Smiling Turtle will be around 60-65 chapters long in total (if I don't get carried away some more).
Now for Needle & Thread... maybe something similar..60-70 chapters (maybe a little less. Depends on what we cover until the Ashford tourney).
They won't be ending soon, I can promise ya that (I have tried and failed to keep a story short and quick š ).
When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps, the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XXX: LINK
Chapter XXXII: LINK
Chapter XXXI: Blood is Thicker than Water
Your attention drifted across the nursery once more.
At first, it was nothing more than a passing observation, the sort that arrived naturally while listening to a parent speak about their children.
Dyanna spoke of Aerion's boundless energy and remarkable ability to find trouble wherever it was hiding.
She spoke of Daela's habit of refusing sleep whenever it suited her and Aemon's growing fascination with stories, books and anything that involved sitting quietly for long periods of time.
You listened while Matarys rested heavily against your chest, his body growing warmer and heavier with each passing minute as sleep slowly claimed him.
The nursery had settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Not quiet... Never quiet. But familiar.
The sort of noise that eventually became part of the background.
Aerion and Valarr continued their battle against imaginary invaders.
Spur remained firmly loyal to whichever side currently possessed food.
Aemon sat nearby, silent and observant as always.
Daela drifted somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.
The picture felt complete, or at least it should have.
Yet something continued tugging quietly at the edge of your thoughts.
A small inconsistency.
A detail refusing to settle.
You frowned faintly and then counted again.
Aerion.
Aemon.
Daela.
Your eyes swept across the room before returning to Dyanna.
The answer came almost immediately.
One child was missing.
Not forgotten... Missing.
You remembered her mentioning an eldest son earlier in the conversation. The name had surfaced briefly amongst stories and observations before being swept away beneath newer topics.
At the time, you had not thought much of it, but now the absence stood out.
The way an empty chair might stand out during supper, once someone pointed it out.
You found yourself searching the room again despite already knowing he wasn't there.
Old habits.
Battlefield habits.
The instinct to account for everyone present... And everyone who was absent.
Your gaze eventually settled upon Dyanna once more. "Where is the eldest?" The question escaped before you could reconsider it.
Immediately, you regretted it.
Not because the question itself seemed rude, but because of what happened afterwards.
The change was small.
So small that many people would have missed it entirely.
The children certainly did.
Aerion remained occupied with the important matter of recruiting Spur into military service.
Valarr loudly disagreed with whatever strategy his cousin currently proposed.
Matarys slept.
Aemon watched.
Life continued. Yet something had shifted within Dyanna.
Not dramatically.
Not enough to draw attention.
The smile remained, the warmth remained, but something heavier settled behind both. The way clouds sometimes passed before the sun without fully obscuring it.
A shadow.
A weight.
A worry that clearly lived close to the surface.
You knew that expression.
Not because you had seen it upon her before, but because you had seen it upon countless mothers.
Women carrying burdens they could not share, Fears they could not solve.
The sort of worry that became permanent after enough sleepless nights.
Instantly, guilt pricked at you.
You should not have asked. Realisation came too late. "I'm sorry," you began quietly. "I didn't meanā"
"No." Dyanna shook her head gently. The interruption carried no irritation, no anger. Only weariness. "It is alright."
One hand moved automatically across Daena's tiny back.
The gesture seemed unconscious, Instinctive even. As though touching one child somehow helped soothe worries about another.
The answer that followed confused you even more. "He should be here."
Your brow furrowed.
Not because of what she said, but because of how she said it.
Not: He is resting.
Not: He is studying.
Not: He preferred staying elsewhere.
Instead, He should be here.
The wording carried expectation, hope, and Disappointment; All woven together.
You felt curiosity rise, and alongside it... concern.
Before you could decide whether asking more questions would be wise, a faint sound drifted from the doorway.
The soft scrape of a shoe against stone.
Every head turned. Even Spur paused.
The nursery seemed to hold its breath. And there, framed within the doorway, stood a boy.
Older than the others; Not by much. Yet enough that the difference was immediately noticeable.
Your first thought was that he did not resemble his siblings as strongly as you expected.
His colouring carried traces of both families.
Where Aerion, Aemon and Daela looked Targaryen unmistakably, this boy bore signs of House Dayne as well.
His hair caught the afternoon sunlight in shades of gold and light brown, neither fully silver nor fully dark.
A softer blend.
A meeting point between bloodlines.
Yet it was not his appearance that held your attention. It was his eyes,Ā orĀ perhaps the exhaustion behind them.
You could not have explained it if asked.
The boy looked healthy, Well cared for.. And yet... Tired.
Not the sort of tiredness solved by a good night's sleep... Something deeper.
Something that lingered beneath the surface.
A heaviness that did not belong upon a child.
The sight tightened something inside your chest before you even understood why.
For a moment,t he remained where he was. Neither entering nor leaving simply... standing... Watching.
The nursery remained filled with noise: Children laughed, Spur barked. Cushions littered the floor.
Yet somehow he stood apart from all of it. As though observing the scene through glass. Close enough to see, yet too far away to join.
Dyanna's entire expression softened. The transformation was immediate.
The look of a mother spotting a wound nobody else could see. "Daeron."
The boy's gaze shifted toward her, then toward the room.
Toward the laughter.
Toward Aerion.
Toward Aemon.
Toward Matarys sleeping peacefully against your chest.
And finally... Toward you.
The stranger.
For the briefest moment, your eyes met, and then his gaze dropped immediately.
Not out of disrespect. Not out of fear. Something else.
Something painfully familiar.
And suddenly you understood why the sight unsettled you so deeply.
Because you knew that look.
Not from him... From yourself.
You had seen it reflected in rivers, in polished metal, and in dark windows during sleepless nights.
The look carried by people who spend too much time alone with their thoughts.
The look carried by those who learned caution before they learned comfort.
Many mistook it for shyness. It rarely was.
The habit of watching before approaching.
The habit of measuring a room before entering it.
The habit of preparing for rejection before connection.
The habit of keeping one foot near the exit even when surrounded by people who loved you.
And suddenly, without meaning to, you found yourself worrying about him.
For several long moments, nobody moved.
The nursery continued around him.
Aerion shouted something incomprehensible from the opposite side of the room.
Valarr immediately argued back despite clearly having no idea what had been said.
Spur barked once, then again, eager to remain involved in every conversation, whether invited or not.
The sounds should have filled the room, yet somehow your focus remained fixed upon the boy standing in the doorway.
Daeron.
He looked caught between decisions.
Caught between entering and retreating.
The sight stirred something uncomfortable inside you.
Not pity.
You had always disliked that reaction. Pity felt hollow; people had looked down upon it.
This was something else.
Recognition, you guessed. A familiar ache.
The understanding that sometimes joining others required more courage than facing an enemy on a battlefield.
You wondered how often he stood like that.
How many doorways had witnessed the same hesitation?
How many rooms had he observed from a distance before finally forcing himself forward or turning away altogether?
The thought lingered only briefly before movement finally broke the stillness.
Aemon stood.
The action was so quiet, so natural, that for a moment nobody reacted.
The little prince simply pushed himself upright from the carpet and steadied himself upon uncertain legs.
He had been silent for most of the afternoon.
Now, however, something had caught his attention... Or perhaps someone.
You watched him cross the nursery. There was no urgency in his movements and no hesitation either.
The small prince simply walked toward his older brother with the calm certainty of someone following a path he had travelled many times before.
Dyanna noticed immediately.
You saw it in her eyes. This had happened before.
Aemon stopped directly in front of Daeron.
The older boy blinked and looked down at his young brother.
Neither spoke.
For a heartbeat, the brothers simply stared at one another.
One tired.
One patient.
One carrying burdens too large for his age.
The other was too young to understand them fully, yet somehow unwilling to leave him alone with them.
Then Aemon lifted his hand, speaking no words; offering no insight. He simply... offered his hand.
The gesture was so small, so simple. Yet it struck you harder than it should have.
Because there was no uncertainty in it.
Aemon was not asking Daeron if he wished to join them. In his mind, the matter had already been decided.
The hand was merely logistics. The practical solution to a problem already solved.
You found yourself staring.
Perhaps because children possessed a remarkable ability to cut through complications that adults spent entire lifetimes creating.
Daeron stared, too, as his gaze settled upon the offered hand.
The room remained unchanged around them: Laughter continued, Voices rose and fell, and sunlight spilt through the windows.
Yet somehow the world felt quieter for a moment, as though everyone was waiting.
Then Daeron's fingers closed gently around Aemon's.
Something eased within Dyanna immediately.
The change was subtle: a slight lowering of her shoulders, a breath she seemed to have been holding without realising it.
A mother's relief.
Aemon immediately turned around and began walking back toward the nursery as though the matter had already been settled.
Because to him, it had.
His older brother belonged with them. Therefore, his older brother was coming with him.
The problem no longer existed.
Daeron followed, not resisting, not arguing. He could easily, yet he never tried. In his mind, he had already given up on that battle, choosing to go for the easiest way.
And that one was to follow the tiny prince, guiding him back toward warmth, noise and company.
You found yourself smiling before realising it.
Beside you, Dyanna watched the same scene unfold. Her eyes never left her sons.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then curiosity finally won.
You glanced toward her. "Aemon does that often?" The question came softly.
Almost afraid of disturbing the moment.
A sound escaped Dyanna. Not quite laughter and not quite a sigh,h but rather, Something in between.
Her gaze remained fixed upon the two boys. "Aemon?" The smile that followed held equal parts affection and heartbreak. "He collects sad things."
The answer startled an actual laugh from you.
A real one.
The sort that escaped before manners could intervene.
Yet the moment the laughter left your mouth, you understood why it felt dangerous.
Because it was funny and devastating at the same time.
Your eyes drifted back toward Aemon.
The little prince had already reclaimed his place within the room.
Not beside his mother.
Not beside Aerion.
Beside Daeron.
As though ensuring the older boy remained anchored there.
As though afraid he might drift away otherwise.
You watched the pair for several moments, letting the image settle quietly into your memory.
Aemon offering his hand.
Daeron is taking it.
The simplicity of it.
The love hidden inside such a small gesture.
When you looked back toward Dyanna, the smile remained upon her face.
Yet now you noticed something else beneath it.
Sadness.
Not overwhelming.
Not dramatic.
Simply present.
The quiet sorrow carried by mothers who knew they could not solve every problem their children faced.
You knew that look, too, for you had seen it before.
Women watching sons march toward war.
Watching daughters grieve.
Watching loved ones suffer in ways no amount of protection could prevent.
You understood suddenly that whatever haunted Daeron, Dyanna had spent months trying to ease it... And failing.
Not through lack of effort, but through lack of answers.
"He has been trying to collect Daeron for months," she admitted quietly.
Your eyes returned to the eldest prince.
Toward the tiredness hidden behind his careful silence.
Toward the exhaustion lingering beneath eyes far too young to carry it.
Toward the strange loneliness that seemed to cling to him even while standing amongst family.
And for reasons you could not fully explain... You found yourself hoping he would stay.
Not for Dyanna. Not for appearances.
For himself.
Because no child should spend so much time standing alone in doorways.
The arrival of the autumn ball always brought chaos to King's Landing.
Ships crowded Blackwater Bay until their masts resembled a forest rising from the water itself. New banners appeared almost daily upon the city streets, colours and sigils from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms fluttering in the autumn breeze.
Merchants grew richer by the hour. Inns filled beyond capacity. Servants ran themselves ragged preparing for guests who had not even arrived yet.
The Red Keep felt the effects more than anywhere else.
Each passing day brought new arrivals through its gates.
Lords eager to renew alliances. Ladies eager to display daughters of marriageable age. Younger sons seeking opportunity. Older men seeking influence.
The castle seemed fuller with every sunrise, Louder, Busier... More demanding.
And nowhere was that burden felt more heavily than within the Tower of the Hand.
By late afternoon, the study had become a battlefield of its own.
Ledgers occupied one corner of the table.
Guest lists occupied another.
Letters sat stacked in neat piles awaiting review, while maps, seating arrangements and supply reports competed for what little space remained.
The scent of parchment, sealing wax and ink lingered heavily within the room.
Baelor stood at the centre of it all.
One hand rested against the polished table as his gaze moved steadily across the latest arrival schedules.
Names filled the page before him in careful rows, each one representing another responsibility, another conversation, another obligation demanding attention.
His eyes lingered upon one section before moving to the next.
The Reach.
The Vale.
The Stormlands.
The Crownlands.
The same dance repeated itself every year.
Only the names changed.
Across from him sat Maekar. Or rather, endured.
The younger prince occupied his chair with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man awaiting execution.
One leg stretched forward, and with one arm draped over the side. A goblet rested loosely within his hand while his expression suggested he would rather ride into battle than discuss another seating arrangement.
Baelor understood the feeling.
Unfortunately, understanding it did not make the work disappear.
"The Martells arrive three days before the event," Baelor said, glancing toward another parchment. "Rhaegal should be here by then."
Maekar grunted. The response contained neither surprise nor enthusiasm.
Simply an acknowledgement.
Baelor continued reading. "The Arryn delegation arrives two days after." Another grunt.
Years of brotherhood had taught Baelor to interpret such sounds with surprising accuracy.
That one translated roughly as: "I heard you." I dislike it. Continue.
The heir ignored it.
Outside the open window, gulls circled above Blackwater Bay. Their cries drifted faintly through the room alongside the distant sounds of the castle below.
Servants moving through courtyards, Guards changing posts...
The endless pulse of life within the Red Keep.
For a time, neither brother spoke further.
Only the scratching of Baelor's quill broke the silence.
Eventually, Maekar groaned.
The sound carried all the suffering of a man deeply wronged by existence itself. "I would rather fight the Dornish again."
A faint smile tugged at Baelor's mouth despite himself. "You say that every year."
"Because every year I am correct." The answer came immediately, without hesitation, without shame.
As though it were the most obvious truth in the Seven Kingdoms.
Baelor shook his head.
Across the table, Maekar looked entirely serious, which somehow made it worse.
The brief amusement faded as quickly as it had appeared.
Baelor returned his attention to the parchment before him, dipping the quill once more into the inkpot resting near his elbow.
Another arrival schedule awaited his review.
Another list of names.
Another collection of details that would inevitably become his responsibility before the evening was over.
Across the table, Maekar finished the remainder of his wine and contemplated whether throwing the goblet through the nearest window would improve his mood.
It would not, but the thought remained tempting.
The younger prince had never possessed much patience for administrative work. Give him a horse, a sword and a clear objective, and he was perfectly content.
Give him guest lists, seating charts and political negotiations,s and suddenly the prospect of a battlefield became remarkably appealing.
The silence between them remained comfortable. The sort earned through years of sharing rooms, campaigns, lessons and responsibilities.
The sort where neither man felt obligated to fill every moment with conversation.
Outside, the afternoon sun had begun its slow descent. Golden light spilt through the open windows, stretching across the study floor and warming the stone beneath their feet.
The silence between Baelor and Maekar had never required filling. It simply existed, settling comfortably across the room the same way the late afternoon sunlight settled across the stone floor.
Outside the open window, the sounds of the Red Keep continued uninterrupted.
Somewhere below, a servant called for another... A door closed.
The distant cries of gulls drifted from Blackwater Bay, carried upward by the wind before fading again.
Life moved endlessly around them.
Inside the study, however, time seemed slower.
The room smelled faintly of parchment and drying ink. Melted candle wax lingered beneath it, mixed with the familiar scent of old books that had occupied the shelves longer than either brother had occupied the tower itself.
Baelor found the smell oddly comforting, Predictable, and reliable, unlike people.
His gaze moved over another arrival list.
Three more houses from the Reach.
Two from the Stormlands.
One particularly troublesome lord from the Westerlands who would almost certainly complain about his assigned chambers regardless of where he was placed.
Baelor made a note beside the man's name, then another. Then, finally, set the parchment aside.
Across the table, Maekar had drifted somewhere between boredom and suffering.
The prince sat slouched deeper into his chair than was proper for royalty, one hand wrapped loosely around his goblet.
His eyes had glazed over several minutes ago, somewhere around the third discussion regarding seating arrangements.
Baelor suspected his brother had stopped listening entirely. A reasonable decision, anonene, he occasionally envied.
The Heir leaned back slightly, allowing his shoulders a moment of rest.
The past weeks had been exhausting.
The ball.
The arriving guests.
The endless responsibilities.
Each task alone seemed manageable, but put together, they became something far larger.
Perhaps that was why his thoughts drifted briefly toward Summerhall.
"How is Summerhall?" The question left him without much thought.
Yet it immediately drew Maekar's attention away from the goblet he had been studying with increasing resentment.
The younger prince glanced up.
For a moment, Baelor almost expected a real answer.
Something about the harvest, the castle, the people, the lands...
Instead, Maekar replied with all the enthusiasm of a man discussing the weather. "Standing."
Baelor stared at him.
The answer lingered between them. Technically correct yet entirely useless. Not a single piece of actual information had been provided.
The older prince sighed softly through his nose.
There were moments when speaking to Maekar felt remarkably similar to interrogating a particularly stubborn stone wall.
Years of experience had taught him that persistence was usually required.
"And Dyanna?" That finally earned a reaction.
The slightest shift of expression. Yet it was there.
Easy to miss for most people, but at the same time, Impossible for Baelor.
Maekar considered the question for a moment. "Tolerating me."
The answer came so dryly that Baelor nearly laughed. Nearly.
Not because it was particularly funny, but because it was probably true.
And judging by the look that immediately crossed Maekar's face, his brother knew exactly what he was thinking.
The younger prince narrowed his eyes. "Do not look at me like that."
The corners of Baelor's mouth twitched despite himself. "Like what?"
"As though you are judging me."
The accusation lingered between them for a few moments longer. Not seriously, for neither brother possessed the energy required for an actual argument.
The day had already drained enough from both of them.
Baelor reached for another parchment, more from habit than necessity. His eyes moved across the inked lines without truly reading them.
Names blurred together. Houses, banners and obligations mixed into one endless stream of responsibilities demanding attention before the ball arrived.
The work never truly ended.
One task completed merely revealed three more waiting underneath.
Across the table, Maekar had resumed studying his goblet with an intensity usually reserved for military strategy.
The sight almost made Baelor smile.
The younger prince looked remarkably uncomfortable whenever conversations drifted toward anything personal.
Politics,s he could discuss. Wa,r he could discuss.
Military campaigns, tactics, fortifications, border disputes, rebellious lords and troublesome bannermen could occupy his attention for hours.
Ask him about his family, and suddenly every word became a struggle.
Baelor had never understood why.
Perhaps because Maekar cared too much,Ā the thought arrived quietly, unexpectedly. And for once, he did not dismiss it.
"The children?" The question came naturally enough. A simple inquiry.
The sort one brother asked another, yet immediately he noticed the change.
Maekar's attention lifted from the goblet, and his posture straightened slightly.
The difference was subtle enough that most would never notice it.
Baelor did, as He always had.
Because,se regardless of what Maekar claimed, there were few subjects more important to him than his children.
The younger prince was silent for a moment. Not because he lacked an answer, but because he was deciding how much of one to give.
Finally, he settled on: "Healthy."
Baelor stared as the answer hung in the air. It was: Technically informative but also practically useless.
A response so painfully Maekar that it bordered on parody.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then slowly, very slowly, Baelor lowered the parchment in his hand. His expression remained perfectly neutral.
The sort of look developed over years of dealing with stubborn younger brothers.
Across from him, Maekar immediately recognised it.
A sigh escaped the prince. The sound of a mrealisinging he would, unfortunately, have to elaborate.
For a few moments, Maekar simply sat there.
The silence stretched comfortably between them, broken only by the distant cries of gulls drifting through the open window and the occasional crackle from the fireplace.
The autumn air had begun to cool as the afternoon slowly surrendered to evening, carrying the faint scent of the sea into the study.
Baelor waited patiently. Experience had taught him that rushing Maekar rarely improved matters.
If anything, pressure only encouraged further stubbornness.
The younger prince drummed his fingers once against the side of the goblet. A small habit.
One he had possessed since boyhood, whenever he was deciding whether a conversation was worth continuing.
Apparently deciding resistance had become pointless, he finally spoke.
"Aerion nearly broke his arm."
Baelor blinked. Not because the statement shocked him, but because of the casual manner in which it had been delivered.
The words had arrived with the same tone another man might use to discuss the weather.
The Heir slowly set aside the parchment he had been pretending to read. "Nearly?"
Maekar nodded. "Nearly."
The repetition did nothing to clarify matters.
If anything, it created more questions.
Baelor had met Aerion only a handful of times since the boy's birth, yet that had been enough to form certain conclusions.
The child possessed energy in quantities that seemed almost unnatural. The sort of energy that inevitably found trouble.
Often at great speed.
"What happened?"
A faint shadow crossed Maekar's face. The weary expression of a father forced to relive a particularly memorable headache.
The prince leaned back slightly within his chair.
For a moment, his gaze drifted away from the study entirely.
Away from parchments.
Away from responsibilities.
Away from King's Landing.
The look alone told Baelor the memory remained fresh.
"A stable roof." The answer came at last.
Baelor stared. "A stable roof."
"Yes." Another pause. Long enough.
The Heir already knew he was not going to enjoy whatever explanation followed.
Somewhere beyond the windows, a bell rang faintly from within the castle grounds.
Servants changing duties... Another hour passes.
Inside the study, neither brother paid it much attention. "Why was he on a stable roof?"
The question felt entirely reasonable.
Maekar, however, closed his eyes briefly. The reaction alone spoke volumes.
For a moment, Baelor almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Then the younger prince exhaled through his nose. "Dyanna told him not to climb it."
The answer arrived with complete certainty; Absolute confidence as though this single fact explained everything.
And judging by the look on his face... It probably did.
Baelor stared for several seconds, then another few. Slowly, despite himself, amusement began creeping into the corners of his expression.
Of course. Of course, that had been the reason.
The explanation possessed a horrifying amount of logic. At least by the standards of young boys. Particularly young Targaryen boys.
The first hint of a smile threatened,d and Maekar immediately noticed. The look of offence deepened by him.
Not dramatically, Maekar was not a dramatic man. Yet something in his expression suggested he felt personally betrayed by the amusement beginning to appear on his brother's face.
Baelor, unfortunately, found this made the situation significantly harder to endure with dignity.
The smile won as the image had already formed within his mind.
A silver-haired boy standing beneath a stable roof, looking upward with complete confidence and absolutely no sensible reason to be there.
The sort of confidence only children possessed, or fools; occasionally, both.
"You are laughing." The accusation carried genuine disapproval.
Baelor made a valiant effort to compose himself and quickly failed.
He lasted perhaps two heartbeats. "You just told me your son attempted to throw himself from a roof because his mother advised against it."
Maekar's jaw tightened.
The expression of a man who recognised the absurdity and hated it. "That is not what happened."
"It sounds remarkably close."
"It is not." The younger prince reached for his goblet again, as though wine might somehow improve the memory.
Judging by the way he drank, the answer appeared to be a no.
For a few moments, silence returned, yet now it carried a different quality.
Lighter somehow... Less burdened by parchments and responsibilities.
The sort of silence that often followed family stories, stories that exhausted those living them and entertained everyone else.
Baelor leaned back slightly within his chair. The movement helped some of the tension leave his back.
The past weeks had left little room for such moments: Too much work, too many obligations, too many people wanting something from him.
Yet listening to Maekar complain about his children felt oddly refreshing.
"Was he injured?" The question came quieter than before.
Beneath the amusement remained genuine concern; Aerion was family after all.
Maekar noticed, and Their Irritation faded somewhat. "No... A bruised shoulder. Some scrapes. Nothing more."
Relief settled quietly within Baelor. He could not imagine Valarr in a similar position, injured and facing potential risks to his life.
The younger prince rolled the goblet between his palms before continuing, clearly against his better judgment. "He spent three days bragging about it afterwards."
That finally earned a laugh... A proper one. Impossible to suppress.
The sound echoed softly through the study before fading again.
Across the table, Maekar looked as though he regretted sharing any information whatsoever. "You encourage him."
"I have never met him without him already being encouraged."
"That is not the point." The answer came too quickly; Too defensively.
Which, naturally, made Baelor smile again.
For a brief moment,t neither brother spoke.
And in that silence, Baelor found himself thinking that Aerion sounded remarkably like his father.
The same stubbornness.
The same certainty.
The same willingness to test limits simply because somebody had suggested they existed.
The thought amused him far more than he intended.
He wisely chose not to share it because he knew that Maekar would not appreciate the comparison.
And judging by the expression currently occupying his face, he already suspected exactly what his brother was thinking.
"The fact remains. The children are healthy," he repeated. "Summerhall still stands. Dyanna remains convinced every abandoned animal in the Seven Kingdoms requires rescuing."
That finally sounded more like information.
Baelor leaned back slightly. "There is a story behind that."
"There are several." The answer came with the weary certainty of a husband who had already lost those arguments years ago.
For the first time since entering the study, genuine amusement crossed Maekar's features; Gone almost immediately, yet real.
The expression made him appear younger somehow. "Last moon she brought home a hawk with a broken wing."
Baelor raised an eyebrow. "A hawk."
"A hawk."
"And?"
"It lives in my stables. Refuses to leave or stop harassing the stable boys and my horses."
The silence that followed lasted exactly long enough.
Baelor laughed.
The sound drew a look of mild annoyance from his younger brother.
The storytelling might have continued had Maekar not reached for the wine again, already preparing to change the topic to something he had been thinking over for days.
Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a man who liked to party, drink and fight in equal measures. Prone to boredom, nothing else held his interest.
Until one night, when he meets a peculiar girl named Victa Estermont. She is wild, smiley and quick to speak; caring little for titles, rules and etiquette.
He is intrigued, and he aims to follow her. To his surprise, this turtle seemed to be faster than the stag expected.
Pairing: Fem!OC x Lyonel Baratheon
Chapter Warnings: None
Chapter XL: LINK
Chapter XLII: LINK
Chapter XLI: Of Stags & Flowers
Morning settled peacefully over Storm's End once again.
The previous day's distant thunder had never reached the castle.
Instead, dawn arrived quietly, the sky veiled beneath a blanket of pale grey clouds that softened the morning light without entirely stealing it.
The air carried the familiar scent of salt drifting from Shipbreaker Bay, mingling with the rich fragrance of damp earth that only appeared after a cool autumn night.
Dew still clung stubbornly to blades of grass and the leaves of hardy shrubs, each tiny droplet catching what little sunlight slipped through the clouds.
Storm's End slowly awakened.
Stable boys crossed the courtyards carrying buckets and brushes, their sleepy chatter mingling with the occasional impatient whinny of horses waiting to be groomed.
Servants hurried through the corridors balancing trays of fresh bread, still warm from the ovens, while guards exchanged the night watch for the morning one with quiet nods and familiar greetings.
Somewhere within the castle, hammers rang steadily against steel as the armoury resumed its endless work.
From the kitchens drifted the comforting aroma of fresh loaves, herbs and roasting meats prepared for the day's meals, while above it all, gulls circled the towering walls; their distant cries carried inland upon the restless sea breeze.
Life continued as it always had.
Far below one of the castle walls, tucked within the inner gardens where the sea winds reached more gently, another kind of work had already begun.
Victa knelt upon the dark soil.
The skirts of her simple dress had long since been gathered and tucked beneath her knees without a second thought.
Fine leather gloves rested, forgotten, upon the low stone wall nearby, abandoned after only a few minutes, when she decided they made it harder to feel the delicate roots and be gentle with the fragile flower petals.
Her fingers, now stained with cool, damp earth, carefully cradled the small rose bush she had been tending for the better part of the morning...
...as she had done almost every morning for the last few days.
Lyonel had kept her busy almost every morning since their wedding.
Some mornings began with lazy kisses stolen before either of them had truly awakened. Others with gentle teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her neck, faint marks blooming beneath his beard, before his face disappeared against the warmth of her body.
Each morning carried echoes of the night before, their limbs tangled beneath soft furs and heavy bed sheets as they rediscovered one another with the same eager affection that had coloured their first days as husband and wife.
Victa had quickly learnt that her husband was particularly unwilling to part with her once dawn arrived.
The moment she attempted to slip quietly from beneath the covers, Lyonel's arm would inevitably tighten around her waist, pulling her back against his warm chest before she had taken more than a single step in her escape.
"Far too early," he would mumble in that deep, sleepy voice of his, burying his face against the back of her neck. "The sun can wait."
"It already has," Victa would often reply with a quiet laugh, gently trying to untangle herself from his embrace.
"It can wait longer."
Every morning, he sounded utterly convinced of that fact.
Sometimes she surrendered, laughing softly as he stole another kiss, another lingering embrace, another excuse to keep her exactly where he believed she belonged.
Other mornings, after much theatrical groaning and dramatic complaints about neglected husbands and cruel wives abandoning perfectly comfortable beds...
Lyonel finally allowed her to escape with one last kiss pressed against her forehead and the promise that she would return before the day stole her away completely.
Those mornings always left Victa smiling.
There was something wonderfully simple about them. Wonderfully peaceful.
Yet even Lyonel Baratheon had begun to accept that his smiling turtle could never remain idle for long.
Much to his dismay and to his wonderfully dramatic complaints, Victa rarely spent an entire morning indoors once the soreness from their wedding night had begun to fade.
She loved their quiet hours together more than words could express, but eventually the fresh air beyond their chambers called to her with a voice she found impossible to ignore.
And her favourite place within all of Storm's End...
Was the gardens.
Lyonel had shown them to her not long after the wedding, proudly leading her through winding stone paths until they reached the sheltered corner furthest from the raging cliffs and relentless sea winds.
It was a modest patch of earth compared to the grand gardens of richer castles, bordered by weathered stone walls and protected, as best it could be, from the harsh breath of Shipbreaker Bay.
A stubborn little sanctuary.
Much like the people who lived within its walls.
Some plants had adapted beautifully over the years. Thick stems bent without breaking beneath fierce winds, while dark green leaves bore the scars of countless storms yet continued to flourish.
Others had not been so fortunate.
Branches had twisted beneath years of salt-laden gales, Leaves browned long before their season. Flower buds withered before they had the chance to bloom.
Slowly...
Quietly...
They were losing their battle.
Storm's End was beautiful, but it was unforgiving.
The salt carried by the sea winds burned delicate leaves while violent storms snapped young branches before spring had the chance to awaken them fully.
Even the richest soil struggled against a castle forever challenged by the sea.
Now that... Victa simply could not ignore. Not without trying.
And so, for the past week, she had returned every morning.
Walking carefully on legs that still carried the pleasant ache of newlywed nights, quietly ignoring the faint beard burn lingering upon her inner thighs, she knelt before the flowerbeds she had slowly begun to know by heart.
Some, she had even started to name.
Not because anyone had asked her to.
Not because anyone expected it of her.
Very gently, Victa loosened the soil surrounding the roots before adding fresh compost that the gardener, Edric, had brought earlier that morning.
She smiled faintly as she worked, humming beneath her breath; an old melody from Turtle Isle that drifted softly upon the morning breeze.
Around her, bees lazily wandered from blossom to blossom while somewhere higher in the branches, a robin sang uninterrupted, seemingly unbothered by the distant sounds of castle life awakening beyond the garden walls.
"There now..." she whispered, pressing the soil down with both hands. "You'll breathe much easier."
A weathered gardener standing a respectful distance away watched in growing disbelief.
Every morning she came.
Every morning, she knelt upon the damp earth.
The routine had become as predictable as the sunrise itself.
Where other ladies recoiled when mud splashed from beneath a passing horse's hoof, Victa settled comfortably upon the moist ground without the slightest concern.
Where noblewomen bathed in scented oils and expensive milk to preserve soft skin, the new Lady Baratheon willingly buried her hands beneath fresh soil, dirt settling beneath neatly trimmed fingernails as though it belonged there.
Had a traveller wandered through the gardens that morning, knowing nothing of Storm's End or its ruling family, they would never have guessed this quietly smiling young woman was the wife of the Laughing Storm.
Her gowns were simple. Well cared for, yet worn by weather and daily use. Practical rather than extravagant.
The sort of clothing one wore to work... Not merely to be admired.
"My lady..." Edric ventured carefully, finally breaking the comfortable silence. "You truly needn't trouble yourself with this. The gardens are my responsibility."
Every mornin',g he tried.
Every morning, she answered much the same.
Not because he wished her gone, quite the opposite. The sight of her kneeling beside him had long stopped feeling unwelcome.
What unsettled him was everything it represented.
What kind of servant allowed his lady to labour in the gardens while he stood watching?
What kind of gardener let the Lady of Storm's End stain her skirts with wet earth and fresh compost while he carried the baskets behind her?
Surely, if word reached the castle... Someone would believe he had failed in his duties.
Victa looked over her shoulder and smiled.
Not politely.
Not formally.
Warmly.
"I know." The old gardener blinked. Usually, she answered differently. "But..." she continued, gently brushing loose strands of hair behind one ear with the back of her muddy wrist, "...they are still living things."
Her fingers returned to the little rose bush as she carefully straightened one crooked branch before continuing.
Another dying leaf was gently pinched away between thumb and forefinger before she laid it quietly beside her.
"They cannot move somewhere warmer. They cannot ask for fresh water." A little more loose soil was gathered around the roots. She brushed away a pebble that had settled too close against the stem. "And they cannot tell us when something hurts."
The gardener found himself strangely unable to answer.
He had served House Baratheon since he was little more than a child, sold into service after his widowed mother could no longer repay the debts left behind by his father.
His first years had been spent carrying water through endless corridors, hauling firewood until his shoulders ached and unloading heavy crates from merchants arriving through Storm's End's gates.
It had been hard work, Honest work.
Work that slowly shaped him into the man he had become.
Only years later had he discovered a gentler talent.
A handful of herbs planted behind the kitchens.
A climbing vine coaxed along an old stone wall.
A splash of colour where once there had only been grey.
The late Lady Baratheon had noticed. She had encouraged him. Trusted him.
Before long, the gardens had become his responsibility and, quietly, his greatest pride.
He still remembered walking beside her through blooming flowerbeds, explaining which roses had survived the winter and which herbs would thrive after spring rains.
Those memories had remained untouched for years.
Until Victa arrived.
Now...
Instead of leading, he found himself standing quietly to one side, watching, listening, and learning.
She never ordered him aside. Never claimed the gardens as her own.
Instead, she invited him into every decision, asking questions, listening to his advice, thanking him by name for the smallest kindness.
It should not have felt so unusual.
Yet somehow... It did.
Everything he had learned about rank, duty and noble ladies told him this was backwards.
And still...
With each passing morning...
He found himself resisting those old lessons a little less.
Silence settled once more between them as Victa gently patted the soil one final time before giving the little rose bush a satisfied nod, almost as though the two of them had reached a quiet understanding.
"Besides..." she added with a soft laugh, breaking the comfortable silence once again, "I quite enjoy getting dirty."
The old gardener chuckled before he could stop himself. "A rare thing to hear from a lady."
"I never understood why." Victa looked down at her hands, now entirely covered with cool, damp earth. A little mud had even found its way across the side of her wrist. "It washes off."
This time, Edric laughed properly.
Not out of courtesy.
Not because he believed he should.
Several paces away, beneath the broad canopy of an ancient oak that had stood long before either Baratheon or Durrandon banners had flown above these walls, Ser Herold remained at his post.
Both weathered hands rested comfortably atop the pommel of his sword while his sharp eyes continued their quiet watch over the gardens.
His lined face betrayed little emotion, as it almost always did.
Only the faintest lift at one corner of his mouth hinted at the quiet amusement stirring beneath years of discipline.
He had witnessed scenes like this for nearly twenty years.
Victa speaking to flowers.
To turtles.
To frightened children who had skinned their knees climbing rocks along Turtle Isle.
To lonely widows standing outside the sept after burying husbands lost to storms.
To old fishermen mending torn nets beneath the afternoon sun.
Sometimes she spoke simply because someone needed company.
Sometimes, because she believed every living thing deserved kindness, whether it answered back or not.
Sometimes she just started a conversation with anyone willing or unwilling to listen.
Marriage had changed her title. Nothing else.
If anything, Ser Herold had almost expected the gardens of Storm's End to claim her before the castle itself ever could.
The soft crunch of boots upon gravel reached his ears.
Instinctively, the old knight turned his head. For a brief moment, the expected Lyonel.
The young stag had developed an almost remarkable habit of appearing wherever his wife happened to be.
Whether she wandered the battlements watching storms gather upon the horizon, disappeared into the library in search of old herbals, or spent hours kneeling amongst flowers and herbs, Lyonel rarely remained away for long.
He would grumble.
He would claim she worked too hard.
He would complain that wives were meant to spend mornings beside their husbands rather than speaking to roses.
Then he would inevitably remain beside her anyway. Sometimes helping.
More often pretending not to while secretly enjoying every quiet moment they shared.
This time, however, it was not Lyonel who stepped onto the winding garden path.
Nor Ser David.
Nor any of the younger knights who had slowly grown accustomed to finding their lady somewhere amongst the flowerbeds each morning.
Instead...
Ser Herold recognised the broad, familiar figure of Lord Baratheon.
The older stag followed the same morning route he had walked for years beyond counting.
His large hands were clasped behind his back, shoulders straight despite the passing years, dark hair combed neatly away from his face.
Every measured step carried the quiet confidence of a man who had spent decades ruling both castle and Stormlands alike.
He had not come searching for anyone, certainly not conversation.
Morning walks had long since become a habit.
A rare moment of solitude before petitions, meetings, reports and responsibilities claimed the remainder of his day.
Yet today... His route changed.
Whether by simple curiosity, quiet instinct, or some thought known only to himself, even Lord Baratheon could not have said.
His pace slowed only slightly, almost imperceptibly.
Blue eyes settled upon the young woman kneeling amongst his gardens.
He stopped walking completely.
Not hidden.
Not announcing himself.
Simply... Watching.
Victa remained entirely unaware of his presence. Neither she nor Edric had noticed the older lord standing quietly upon the path.
Only Ser Herold inclined his head in silent greeting before calmly returning his attention to the gardens, trusting Lord Baratheon to announce himself should he wish to.
The older stag acknowledged the gesture with the slightest inclination of his own head before allowing his attention to drift back toward his daughter-in-law.
She did not seem conscious that anyone of importance might be observing her.
There was no performance.
No careful posture worthy of courtly paintings.
No graceful attempt to preserve appearances.
Only damp earth beneath her fingernails and Mud staining the knees of her dress.
Loose curls escaped the braid she had attempted that morning, dancing freely whenever the sea breeze wandered through the gardens.
And upon her face... Peace.
As though kneeling in cool earth beneath an autumn sky was precisely where she wished to be.
The thought lingered with him longer than he expected. Curious.
Lord Baratheon remained where he stood, saying nothing.
His gaze remained steady as she accepted the basket herself despite its weight, and he smiled when Edric instinctively reached forward to help, then withdrew his hands once she assured him she had it.
No command had been given.
No expectation was placed upon him.
Moments later, she accidentally snapped the smallest stem from a young lavender bush.
Victa paused. "Oh..." She looked genuinely distressed by the tiny accident. "I'm sorry."
The apology came so naturally that it almost sounded as though she expected the little plant to forgive her.
Very careful,y she knelt once more, pressing the broken stem into fresh soil beside the original plant before patting the earth around it with gentle fingertips.
"There now," she murmured softly. "Perhaps you'll still grow."
Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous, the Old proud stag thought. And yet... Lord Baratheon remained exactly where he stood.
He had watched commanders address armies, Dornish Princes negotiate lands, boundaries, and proud, bloodthirsty Lords argue over borders.
Never before had he watched someone apologise to lavender with complete sincerity.
Still... He did not move. For reasons he could not yet explain.
āāā
Only after several long moments did Lord Baratheon finally resume walking.
His boots crunched softly against the gravel path, each measured step unhurried as he approached the flowerbeds.
Victa heard him this time.
Her head turned at once, immediately recognising the imposing figure of the Lord of Storm's End.
By her side, Edric stiffened. Years of habit proved stronger than conscious thought.
His back straightened before bending into a respectful bow, weathered hands instinctively clasping before him as his eyes dropped toward the gravel path.
"My Lord Baratheon," he greeted, his voice carrying the quiet reverence of a servant who had spent the greater part of his life beneath the same lord's roof.
Victa watched the exchange without alarm.
Without hurry, she brushed as much damp earth from her hands as she could before rising from where she knelt.
Small grains of soil clung stubbornly to her palms and beneath her fingernails despite her efforts, while faint muddy stains remained upon the knees of her dress.
She did not attempt to hide them, nor did she seem embarrassed by them.
Instead, she offered him the same warm smile she had given Edric only moments before.
Then she lowered into a respectful curtsy. "Lord Baratheon."
There was no trembling in her voice, no rushed explanation, no fearful glance seeking approval.
Only quiet respect.
The older stag acknowledged the greeting with the slightest inclination of his head.
His blue eyes travelled over her appearance once more.
The bare hands.
The mud-stained skirts.
The overturned basket resting beside the flowerbeds.
Then his gaze settled upon the little rose bushes she had spent the morning replanting.
"You've been here since dawn every day for the past fortnight." It was not a question.
Victa nodded gently. "I wake early, and I like to keep myself busy."
"So I gathered."
Silence settled between them.
Lord Baratheon had never been a man who filled silence simply because it existed. Words, to him, were tools.
Used when necessary.
Discarded when they were not.
To his quiet surprise, Victa appeared equally comfortable allowing the stillness to remain between them.
She neither searched desperately for conversation nor seemed intimidated by its absence.
Instead, her attention drifted naturally back toward the little flowerbed.
One finger reached forward almost absentmindedly, straightening a young stem the breeze had bent sideways while they stood there.
"I hope you do not mind," she said after a moment, her voice carrying the same softness with which she had spoken to the flowers. "Some of the bushes were struggling."
"They were." His answer came immediately. Matter-of-fact.
Gardens had never truly interested him.
They had belonged to his wife.
She had wandered them for hours, often returning indoors with dirt upon her slippers and flowers woven into her hair while happily explaining which plants had survived another season.
He had listened occasionally.
More often, he had merely watched her enthusiasm from afar, content that something within Storm's End still made her smile.
After she passed... The gardens had become quieter.
Edric maintained them faithfully.
Lord Baratheon ensured the man had every resource he required. Yet he himself rarely walked among the flowerbeds.
Some griefs were easier left untouched.
"I thought..." Victa hesitated, searching carefully for the proper words. "...perhaps if they were moved farther from the sea wind and given richer soil..." She smiled faintly, almost apologetically. "...they might have a better chance."
Lord Baratheon's attention lowered toward the freshly turned earth.
Only now did he truly study what she had done.
She had not merely planted flowers; she had rearranged the beds.
Taller shrubs now stood to the west, positioned carefully to shield the more delicate roses from the worst of the salt winds sweeping in from Shipbreaker Bay.
Smaller herbs filled the spaces beneath them, helping to retain moisture in the soil while leaving enough room for roots to spread.
Nothing had been placed simply because it looked pleasing.
Every decision served a purpose.
Every plant quietly protected another.
"You've done this before." Again... Not a question.
Victa smiled, warmth spreading across her cheeks. "On Turtle Isle." Her muddy hands rested lightly against her skirts. "The sea was kinder there..." she admitted, her eyes drifting briefly toward the distant horizon beyond the castle walls, "...but the wind could still be stubborn."
Lord Baratheon followed her gaze.
Dark clouds had begun gathering far out across Shipbreaker Bay. He watched them in silence before finally speaking. "The sea is never kind."
Victa looked toward the same horizon.
For several heartbeats, she simply watched the waves. Then she smiled. "No..." she agreed quietly. "...but sometimes it lets us believe it is."
For reasons he could not explain...
The corner of Lord Baratheon's mouth threatened to move. Only slightly. Gone almost before it appeared.
Interesting. His attention returned to the young woman before him.
"You don't mind hard work." It was perhaps the closest thing to genuine curiosity he had voiced all morning.
Victa blinked once, the question seeming to surprise her. "Not particularly."
"Why?"
This time, she took a moment.
Not because the answer was difficult, but because she wished to answer it honestly.
"When I was little," she began, a fond smile appearing as some distant childhood memory surfaced, "Grenda once told me that if I wished for flowers, I had to help them grow."
She crouched once more beside the little rose bush, gently loosening another handful of earth around its roots before brushing away a single withered leaf.
"I discovered she was right. Beautiful things usually ask for a little work."
Her fingertips lingered against the leaves for another quiet moment before she looked back up at him.
Her smile softened. "I don't think they should have to do all the work alone."
Lord Baratheon said nothing.
He simply watched her.
Watched the ease with which she returned to the flowerbeds.
Watched the gardener standing nearby, no longer anxious but quietly smiling as he observed his lady work beside him rather than above him.
Watched Ser Herold beneath the oak, content enough to let the silence speak for itself.
And slowly... Something settled inside him.
For weeks...
For months...
He had questioned what Lyonel saw in this woman.
He had assumed beauty, youth, infatuation, and simple stubbornness. Perhaps even curiosity.
Now, standing quietly amongst the gardens of Storm's End while watching her worry over dying roses as though they were frightened children...
He finally understood. Not completely. Perhaps he never would.
But enough.
Enough to understand why his son had crossed kingdoms for her.
Enough to understand why hardened soldiers smiled more easily whenever she passed through the castle corridors.
Enough to understand why servants spoke her name with warmth instead of obligation.
Enough to realise that Storm's End itself felt... different.
Not transformed overnight.
Not through grand declarations.
But through a hundred small kindnesses no one had asked for.
She thanked servants by name.
She remembered birthdays.
She stopped to listen.
She spoke gently.
She knelt in the mud without a second thought, if it meant helping something else grow.
She was changing the castle.
Lord Baratheon inclined his head once. "You've chosen a difficult place for roses."
Victa lowered her eyes to the little bush before smiling. "I know..." Her fingers gently brushed one last grain of soil from a leaf. "...but difficult does not always mean impossible."
For the first time that morning... Their eyes truly met.
Neither looked away.
Neither needed to.
Lord Baratheon gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Then, without another word... He turned and resumed his morning walk.
Hands once more clasped behind his back, Lord Baratheon continued along the winding gravel path exactly as he had every morning for years.
Behind him, the gardens slowly returned to their quiet rhythm.
Edric gathered another basket before disappearing toward the tool shed in search of fresh stakes for the young saplings.
A gentle breeze wandered through the flowerbeds, carrying with it the scent of damp earth, crushed herbs and distant salt.
Somewhere above, gulls called as they circled the ancient walls.
Victa watched the Lord of Storm's End disappear for only a brief moment before quietly returning to the little rose bush waiting patiently for her attention.
She never questioned the conversation. Never wondered whether she had spoken too much. Or too little.
To her, it had simply been another quiet morning.
Another conversation.
Another plant needs care.
She knelt once more, her skirts settling naturally upon the cool earth as though they had always belonged there.
With careful fingers, she adjusted the little stem one final time before pressing fresh soil gently around its roots.
"There..." she whispered with quiet satisfaction. "That feels much better."
Ser Herold observed the scene from beneath the ancient oak.
His experienced eyes drifted from Victa...
...to the retreating figure of Lord Baratheon...
...before settling somewhere between the two.
The old knight had spent enough years around men of authority to recognise when something had shifted.
No grand declaration had been made.
No praise had been spoken aloud.
Yet something had changed all the same.
He found himself smiling beneath his beard before returning to his silent watch.
Can we get a little sneak peek of Victaās relationship with the Targaryens, especially after the gift, despite the history between House Baratheon and the royal family? Dyanna and Victa are definitely going to become BFF, I already know it, considering sheās the one who gave her the dresses.
[A/N] - First Time someone asks for a sneak peek, so how can I say no? š
Mind ya, this is the first rough draft (changes, corrections, and additions happen), and the meeting with the dragons will take place over a few chapters for sure.
But until then, here is a glimpse of Victa and some members of the Dragon Family.
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The walls of the Red Keep were alive once again.
Servants rushed down corridors, their steps echoing against old stone.
Guards changed shifts, armour clinking with every move they made.
The torch lights flickered faintly against the light breeze, flames dancing tall; casting long shadows against cold walls.
The Red Keep was both intimidating and fascinating for those who did not spend their days within its walls.
But for the dragons that grew up in it, the castle was a simple home that carried the same expectations they did; sharing the burden of an old family fighting to remain afloat.
Maekar and Baelor walked side by side, with the youngest of King Daeron's sons having arrived just a day prior; bringing his whole family with him.
And while the trip had exhausted him, his children offered little chance for rest and peace; he had joined his brother immediately for a walk and a discussion.
Valarrās wedding was an event meant to be attended by every big and small lord of westeros, as for the first time a bride from the east had been chosen as a future queen.
If King Daeron had caused an uproar by marryng a Dornish woman, young prince Valarr had almost cuaerd a rebellion with the bride he chose.
Yet with the King's Blessing and the time of promised peace expected by Baelorās eventual ascension to the throne... the arguments of the world quit down.
Now, guests were expected to appear with each passing day and Maekar Targaryen; was the least excited.
Especially when he went through the list of guests and spotted a troublesome name among the lords.
His brother, on the other hand, disagreed with his biased views.
"Lord Lyonel is the future Lord of Stormās End brother," Baelor reminded him. "His presence is not only expected but encouraged. Both by our and his father."
Maekar rolled his eyes at the excuse.
True, he had been following Lyonelās chaos for almost a year now; ever since the stag had shown interest in the Estermont girl. And while the drama had been amusing, a way to entertain himself; that did not mean he wanted it under his roof.
He did not want that natural disaster of a man around his family, his children.
If it were up to him, he would have never allowed the loud stag from coming to King's Landing.
"He is a mess, not a Lord. Takes nothing fucking seriously and all he does is drink and party," Maekar commented. "He is a lustful creature that only causes trouble.
Baelor, seemed amused. It was known that his brother had a certain.. opinion about the stormlanders, specifically the famous stags.
Even during his marriage to Jena, Maekar had been rather cold and extra grumpy around her parents; finding the Dondarion Lord too loud and quickly drunk on the after wedding reception.
"I have heard he has calmed down since his marriage," Baelor added, taking a right turn. "Lady Victa has been a positive, calming influence to him."
Maekar scoffed, unable to believe someone could calm down the menace called Lyonel Baratheon. Restrain? Maybe. Tame? Impossible. Calm down?
His trail of thought was interrupted by a door opening not that far away.
Hurried steps echoed as Lady Victa Baratheon sprinted outside the room, hands holding her skirt up to prevent herself from tripping.
She was smiling, cheeks flushed from exercise. Barely seem to notice the two brothers that had halted on their steps. She was about to run down the corridor when a second figure emerged from the same room.
Lyonel Baratheon, in all his unlaced tunic and glory; moved fast for a man of his weight. He sneaked behind Victa, strong arms wrapping around her waist; pressing her harm against his solid body.
"Lyonel!" She giggled, attempting to break free from his embrace.
But the Stag only tightened his grip and buried his face to the crook of her neck, lustful kisses and teasing bites quickly joining. Hands were working to lower the front of her gown, eager to release her breasts for him to grab and tease.
Victa turned halfway, attempting to face and kiss him; only to halt upon noticing the two dragon brothers standing nearby; watching them.
She froze, cheeks flushing with embrassament.
As if sensing the drop in her mood, Lyoneo stopped. Lifting his head, he turned and noticed the crowd of two watching them.
A normal Lord would have felt embarrassed.
A fearful one would have begged their forgiveness already.
Lyonel, on the other hand, smirked in pride. A part of him was so tempted to continue to simply start devouring his attractive, beautiful wife against the wall; making them watch how good of a lover he is.
But then he senses the tension in Victaās body, unfamiliar with acts of romance and lust in more public spaces. Let alone before their hosts.
Rolling his eyes, he bent faintly and moved. Strong hands lifted Victa, tossing her above his shoulder.
"Lyonel," she giggled, unable to stop herself. Fists gently tapped his broad back, yet he did not let her down.
"Gentlemen," Lyonel winked at them, flashing them.his famous grin before walking back into the room; their current guest chambers for the events of the wedding.
Maekar and Baelor watched him, different expressions upon their faces.
Yet it was the youngest who groaned in annoyance, jaw tense from squeezing it for so long.
"Calmed down, huh?" He asked Baelor, casting him a side eye before he continued walking.
He had no intention of being present when the Laighing Storm would prove his nickname in a few minutes based on the rushed look he gave his wife before they got caught.
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Victa mover between the lavish gardens of the Red Keep, hands gently brushing over bright coloured flowers and bright green leaves.
Salt and sea reached her nose as the wind blew just right and momentarily, Victa thought of Greenpoint. It had been too long since she last visited, though Markis had reassured her in his letters that her plants kept thriving.
The young turtle halted beneath a tall tree, finding solace on the coop shade it casted; a stone bench carved and placed nearby, inviting temporary rest.
The sun was hot above her, blazing rays warming the earth and her as well. Months in Stormās End made one to almost forget just how hot the sun could be.
How easily, one sweated if dressed against the weather.
Thankfully for her, she had come prepared thanks to the twin sisters looking after her since the day of her wedding.
The bright orange of her dress stood out against the green, white and pink surrounding her. The thin Dornish material offering much needed reprieve from the heat around her.
Her wedding had been a year ago, and this particular gift had been worn scarcely. Twice in Stormās End, where it did not stay on her for long thanks to Lyonel and once now; in the Red Keep.
The sound of slippers against stone caught her attention, the sound different compared to the one of crushing waves and chirping birds.
She turned towards the source of it, quickly inspecting the visitor.
A Lady of noble status, with gentle thick brown locks cascading around her like a tamed rich mane. Violet eyes reminded Victa of the lavender she had manages to grow in Storms End after a lot of try.
Jewels decorated the woman's neck and hands, her slightly tanned skin making her stand out against the ladies Victa was used to interacting with.
The woman smiled upon seeing her, walking closer to share the shade. "I knew orange would be your colour," she said, halting by her side. "I am glad to see you wore it as well."
Victa studied the woman, yet at the mention of the dress; her mind flashed to a memory merely one year ago.
The day after her marriage.
The gifts bring opened one by one by her and Grenda.
The gift that made her good sister pause, then the revelation.
"This is from Prince Maekar Targaryen and his wife."
Victaās lips parted in faint surprise. "You are Dyanna Dayne." A smile followed, hands holding the light fabric gently. "It is a lovely dress. So soft and light... it is one of my favourites."
The reaction warmed Dyanna, who looked at the younger woman with a more motherly gaze. She observed how Victa kept gently caressing the fabric, admiring its glow beneath the sun.
"I am, and you are quite famous yourself, Victa Baratheon," Dyanna said, sitting on the stone bench. "Few admire Dornish dresses the way you do. But enough about dresses," she tapped the empty space next to her. "Do sit. I have been dying to meet you at last."
When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps, the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XXIX: LINK
Chapter XXXI: LINK
Chapter XXX: A New Friend, A Fellow Mother
The nursery had become unusually quiet.
Not because the boys were sleeping. Quite the opposite.
Valarr sat cross-legged upon the carpet, tongue caught briefly between his teeth as he concentrated on the important business of constructing a fortress from wooden blocks.
Across from him, Matarys had dedicated himself entirely to destroying it whenever given the opportunity.
The younger prince had developed an alarming talent for identifying structural weaknesses despite being barely a year old.
The latest tower survived all of three heartbeats before one enthusiastic slap sent it collapsing into ruin.
Valarr groaned dramatically. "You did that on purpose."
Matarys laughed.
The sound was immediate and bright, carrying the sort of shameless delight only a child could possess when causing trouble and facing absolutely no consequences for it.
Spur, stretched comfortably across a patch of afternoon sunlight nearby, lifted his head long enough to observe the destruction.
Ā After a moment of consideration, the dog apparently decided the matter did not concern him and dropped his chin back onto his paws.
You smiled faintly from your place beside them.
The nursery smelled faintly of warm stone, old wood and the lingering traces of whatever sweets Valarr had attempted to smuggle inside earlier that morning.
Sunlight spilt through the tall windows, painting golden rectangles across the floor and turning the dust drifting through the air into tiny floating stars.
A week had passed since Queen Myriah's visit.
A week since the discussion about the ball.
A week during which the Queen seemed to have vanished entirely into preparations of her own.
And thankfully, nobody had mentioned dancing since.
The thought alone still made your stomach twist unpleasantly.
You had survived battlefields, starvation, winter storms and more than one near-fatal encounter.
Yet somehow, the prospect of attending a royal ball remained among the most terrifying things currently facing you.
You were reaching forward to help Valarr rebuild his latest fallen masterpiece when hurried footsteps echoed from somewhere beyond the corridor.
Too fast to belong to servants.
Too light to belong to guards.
Immediately, recognition arrived.
Children.
You looked up at the same moment as Valarr, both of you turning toward the closed door.
The footsteps grew louder, accompanied now by hurried voices and the occasional scrape of shoes against stone.
Whoever was approaching had clearly abandoned any attempt at dignity.
A heartbeat later, the nursery door flew open.
A blur of silver-white hair shot through the doorway.
The boy could not have been older than Valarr.
His hair streamed behind him as he sprinted into the room with the confidence of someone who had never once considered the possibility that he should not be somewhere.
Immediately behind him came a woman carrying an infant. "Aerion!"
The boy ignored her completely.
You had seen that particular behaviour before.
Valarr often employed similar tactics when dealing with maesters, septas and whichever unfortunate soul had been assigned to supervise him for the afternoon.
He rarely attempted it with you, though experience told you such victories were temporary.
One day, your turn would come.
The woman sighed heavily, already surrendering to defeat before the battle had truly begun.
Not the defeat of someone overwhelmed.
The defeat of someone deeply familiar with this exact child.
Then she noticed you.
Halfway into the room, she stopped.
For a brief moment, neither of you spoke.
Instead, you found yourselves quietly assessing one another.
Your gaze travelled first to her clothing.
The gown was expensive, crafted from fabrics far finer than anything commonly seen in King's Landing.
Rich purple silks flowed elegantly around her figure, the colours reminiscent of warm Dornish evenings and blooming desert flowers.
Then came the jewellery: Silver. Gold. Rings, bracelets and necklaces that spoke of wealth, status and generations of inheritance.
Gifts from a powerful husband, perhaps. Family heirlooms from an ancient house.
To you, it could have been either.
Perhaps both.
Your attention shifted toward the infant sleeping peacefully against her shoulder.
Tiny, Content... White-haired.
The familiar colouring immediately caught your eye.
A Targaryen child. The realisation came easily.
Then your gaze moved lower.
Another child stood partially hidden behind her skirts. The same pale silver hair framed his face.
And finally, your attention returned to the woman herself.
Lavender eyes met yours.
The sort belonging to someone who had lived enough life to understand what truly mattered.
You noticed the exhaustion hidden beneath them almost immediately.
Sleepless nights.
Endless responsibilities.
The weariness that only came from raising too many children while attempting to care for everyone around you.
Yet somehow none of it diminished her beauty.
If anything, it enhanced it.
She was Beautiful in the way mothers often became after years of putting everyone else's needs before their own.
A warmth shaped by motherhood.
A strength built through years of putting others before herself.
The silence lasted only a moment.
Then the white-haired boy, who had frozen in the middle of the room, spotted Spur.
Everything changed.
"DOG."
The declaration rang through the room like a royal announcement as the kid, Aerion, pointed a single finger towards the resting creature.
Spur's head immediately snapped upward and stared, assessing the newcomer.
Aerion grinned, and Spur's tail began wagging, thumping against the stone floor.Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā
You had witnessed enough interactions between dogs and children to know exactly where this was heading.
Disaster. Wonderful, harmless disaster.
Aerion charged forward, and Spur leapt to his feet at the same time.
What came next... was a comical sight, one familiar to you by now.
The boy attempted to grab Spur, but the dog evaded him. Yet the prince continued, determined, stubborn even. And the dog? The dog lived for the thrill of the chase, barking in mockery each time Aerion failed to grab him.
Round and round they went.
The prince grew increasingly determined.
The dog grew increasingly entertained.
Every failed attempt only encouraged Aerion further.
Valarr shouted excitedly, quickly joining his cousin to grab the dog. But even those two were no match for the creature raised in village streets, chasing chickens and running away from kids trying to bathe it.
The result was inevitable.
Within moments, both were racing around the nursery, weaving between furniture, toys and scattered blankets while barking, laughing, and shouting declarations filled the room.
By instinct, you scooped Matarys into your arms before either participant could accidentally crash into him.
Valarr shouted excitedly, quickly joining his cousin to grab the dog.
But even those two were no match for the creature raised in village streets, chasing chickens and running away from kids trying to bathe it.
Two boys against one dog.
The odds should have favoured the children. They did not.
Spur had experience,Ā practise, and the flexibility of a creature with four agile legs and absolutely no intention of being captured.
Matarys clapped with joy, attempting to break free from your embrace and join them, even though his walking was still in its first stage of learning.
You held him securely.
He protested for approximately three seconds before becoming distracted by the entertainment unfolding before him.
The nursery exploded into noise.
The woman carrying the infant closed her eyes briefly. "Seven save me."
The words escaped before she could stop them.
A laugh burst from your chest before you could prevent it.
The woman looked toward you in surprise, then she laughed too.
And just like that, something shifted.
The awkwardness dissolved.
The formality vanished.
Leaving only two tired women watching children create havoc.
"I take it this happens often?" you asked.
"Every day." She adjusted the sleeping infant against her shoulder with practised ease. "Aerion wakes up every morning and immediately chooses violence."
Aerion halted just long enough to shout from across the room. "I heard that!"
Matarys clapped with joy, attempting to break free from your embrace and join them, even though his walking was still in its first stage of learning.
The woman rolled her lavender eyes. "You were supposed to."
The boy looked delighted rather than offended, and in that moment, you knew you liked that kid.
Chaotic, noisy; a menace and a nightmare for those with little patience. He reminded you of your younger brothers, especially the youngest one.
The same relentless energy.
The same inability to remain still.
The same talent for driving every adult within reach to the brink of madness.
The woman finally stepped farther into the room. The smaller child remained close to her side.
Unlike Aerion, he watched everything quietly, observing, studying.
His pale purple eyes followed Valarr, then Matarys... and then you.
A thoughtful little thing.Ā Not shy exactly, but Careful.
You knew that sort of child.
"Forgive the intrusion," the woman said. "I was told the princes often spend their afternoons here."
You nodded. "They do, when not occupied by a rising tide of lessons."
A brief pause followed, then she smiled.
Not politely.
Not formally.
Warmly.
"I am Dyanna. Dyanna Dayne." She extended one free hand in greeting, casual, simple.
You blinked. The name meant absolutely nothing to you.
The realisation must have shown plainly upon your face.
Not because you intended it to, but because surprise had never been something you hid particularly well.
For a moment, Dyanna simply stared at you. Then amusement flickered across her features so quickly you almost missed it.
Not mockery.
Not the cruel amusement of nobles catching a commoner making a mistake.
Something softer.
Something closer to relief.
"You do not know who I am," she concluded.
It was not a question.
The words settled between you, and only then did you realise that perhaps there had been a particular reaction expected of you. A widening of the eyes. A hurried curtsy. An apology. Something.
Instead, all she had received was confusion.
Heat crept faintly into your cheeks. "No," you admitted honestly. "I am sorry."
To her credit, Dyanna did not appear offended.
If anything, her smile widened slightly. "There is something refreshing about that."
You laughed awkwardly, shifting Matarys higher upon your hip as the boy attempted to lean dangerously far backwards to continue watching Spur flee from his newest pursuer. "I am still learning who everyone is."
The admission felt somewhat embarrassing.
You had spent over a month within the Red Keep already. Surely by now you should have learned the names of half the realm.
Yet every day seemed to introduce three new lords, four ladies and an endless collection of cousins, uncles, sworn swords and distant relations whose importance changed depending on who was speaking.
The noble families of Westeros resembled an enormous spiderweb. One, you had no desire to become trapped inside.
Dyanna's expression softened with immediate understanding. "So was I when I first came here."
That answer surprised you.
Your gaze drifted back toward her before you could stop yourself.
For some reason, perhaps because of her confidence, her bearing, the obvious quality of her clothing and the ease with which she occupied any room she entered, you had unconsciously assumed she belonged here.
That she always had.
For some reason, you had imagined noble ladies emerged from the womb already knowing every lord, lady and sigil in Westeros.
The idea now seemed somewhat ridiculous.
Dyanna noticed your confusion almost immediately.
A mother's eyes, you realised, missed very little.
"I grew up in Starfall," she explained, shifting the sleeping infant slightly higher against her shoulder. "Far away from King's Landing and most of its politics."
Something about the statement eased you.
Because suddenly she felt less like royalty and more like a person.
A mother.Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā
A tired woman carrying a sleeping child.
Someone who had once arrived in an unfamiliar and overwhelming place.
The same as you.
The sleeping baby made a small noise of protest before settling again. The movement drew your attention briefly.
Even asleep, the little girl somehow remained beautiful.
Tiny fingers curled around the fabric of her mother's dress. White eyelashes rested against round cheeks.
Completely unaware that one day people would expect things from her simply because of the family into which she had been born.
Your gaze returned to Dyanna.
Something about her statement eased a tension you had not realised existed.
The noise of Aerion and Spur continued in the background.
A constant whirlwind of barking, laughter, and occasional crashes that suggested furniture was narrowly avoiding destruction.
Yet neither of you paid much attention anymore.
The chaos had somehow already become normal.
Your attention drifted toward the smaller boy still lingering beside his mother.
Unlike Aerion, who seemed determined to experience everything at full speed, this child appeared content simply observing.
His pale violet eyes remained fixed upon the scattered blocks littering the carpet.
You smiled gently. "And who is this?"
The boy glanced upward, only briefly. As though eye contact required more effort than he wished to spend. "Aemon."
The introduction came so softly you almost missed it. The sound of barking nearly swallowed the entire world.
Dyanna's face softened instantly.
The transformation was subtle, but unmistakable.
The sort of expression only mothers possessed when looking upon their children. "Aemon prefers listening first."
The little prince offered no argument, no correction, no denial.
Which somehow confirmed the statement more thoroughly than words ever could.
You found yourself smiling.
Because yes. You understood exactly what she meant.
You had known children like Aerion before.
The loud ones.
The ones who announced their thoughts before thinking them.
The ones who entered every room as though the world belonged to them.
But children like Aemon were different.
They observed first, measured, and listened. Only then did they decide whether a person deserved their trust.
Those children often saw more than adults realised.
Across the nursery, Aerion had apparently convinced Valarr that Spur needed to learn how to jump over cushions.
The results were exactly as successful as one might expect.
The two boys had assembled what could generously be described as an obstacle course and, more realistically, resembled the aftermath of a pillow fight.
Cushions balanced precariously atop one another.
Blankets draped across chairs.
Wooden blocks served as markers for routes that existed only in children's minds.
"You have to jump, like this." Valarr demonstrated first.
The heir launched himself forward with all the confidence of a seasoned knight attempting a heroic feat.
He barely avoided taking the entire structure down with him.
Aerion immediately attempted the same manoeuvre. Predictably, he failed.
Spectacularly.
The top half of the cushion fortress collapsed around him.
This resulted in him falling on top of Valarr, trapping him under cushions and his own weight.
Both boys disappeared beneath an avalanche of pillows.
A bark followed as Spur tried to copy. Unlike the boys, the dog did not attempt to clear the obstacle at all.
He failed the jump altogether comically. He crushed straight into the pillow fort, destroying it faster than a rock thrown from a catapult.
The remaining fortress exploded apart.
Pillows flew everywhere, and the dog landed on the two boys.
Their laughter echoed across the nursery as Spur proceeded to attack with licks both of them, avoiding small hands failing to push him off them.Ā Ā
Their laughter echoed throughout the room. Matarys nearly folded in half from excitement.
Safe within your arms, he clapped furiously and kicked his feet against your side while delighted squeals escaped him.
Even Aemon watched now.
The quiet prince remained partially hidden behind his mother's skirts, yet his eyes followed every movement with open fascination.
You looked toward the disaster unfolding across the nursery.
Then toward Dyanna.
She was watching too, and for a moment, neither woman spoke.
You simply sat there amidst barking dogs, collapsing fortresses, laughing children and drifting afternoon sunlight.
The sort of peaceful chaos that somehow only existed where children gathered.
And perhaps that was the exact moment the first wall between you began to fall.
It was Dyanna who finally broke the silence.
For a time, neither of you had spoken.
Conversation had given way to observation as the nursery continued descending into the sort of cheerful chaos that seemed to follow children wherever they gathered.
Aerion and Valarr remained locked in a fierce battle against imaginary invaders, both apparently convinced that shouting louder improved their chances of victory.
Spur had fully embraced his role within whatever game currently existed and was now charging across the room with a stolen cushion in his mouth while two outraged princes chased after him.
The dog looked delighted with himself.
Matarys, still secure within your arms, had become increasingly drowsy despite his determination to remain awake.
Every few moments, his head would droop against your shoulder before jerking upright again as though he feared missing something important.
The battle against sleep was clearly being lost.
Across from you, Dyanna adjusted the infant resting against her shoulder, one hand absentmindedly rubbing small circles along the baby's back.
The movement looked practised, performed so often it no longer required conscious thought.
A motherās habit, one of many.
āMy husband, Maekar, spoke quite a lot about you. When he first arrived, and for the majority of our journey."
The statement arrived so unexpectedly that for a moment you wondered if you had heard correctly.
You turned toward her.
Dyanna's attention remained on the children as she spoke, watching Aerion attempt to negotiate with Spur for the return of the stolen cushion.
"When he first arrived," she continued, amusement already creeping into her voice, "and for most of our journey to King's Landing."
You made the connection in your mind, confirming the existence of white-haired children with lavender eyes. Pure Targaryen Dragons, closer related to their ancestors than Baelor and his sons.
And unfortunately, so did several memories.
The battlefield.
The blood.
The suspicion.
The judging looks.
The way Prince Maekar seemed convinced you were one poorly timed breath away from betraying the realm.
A groan escaped before you could stop it. His sour expression, his judging, mistrustful look flashed into your mind."Nothing good, I am sure."
Dyanna laughed.
Not politely.
Not the restrained laughter expected of noblewomen.
A real laugh.
"Oh, certainly not."
You immediately buried your face in one hand. "Gods." The word escaped as a muffled complaint. "This is embarrassing."
That only seemed to amuse her more.
The sight of a woman capable of facing armed soldiers, wild animals and royal authority with remarkable confidence yet somehow mortified by second-hand criticism clearly entertained her.
When she finally recovered enough to speak, the smile remained on her face.
"That is also how I knew you must be interesting. Except for the fact that you saved his life during that battle."
You lowered your hand slowly. The statement caught you off guard.
For a moment you simply stared at her.
Interesting was not the direction you had expected this conversation to take.
Dyanna noticed, and her smile softened.
Across the room, Aerion finally succeeded in reclaiming the stolen cushion.
His victory lasted approximately two seconds before Spur stole it again.
The outraged shout that followed drew a laugh from both women.
Then Dyanna's gaze returned to you, Steadier now. More thoughtful. "Very little leaves an impression on my husband."
The statement carried no mockery.
You found yourself thinking of Maekar again.
The prince was not an easy man. That much had become obvious from the first moment you met him.
He judged quickly. Questioned everything and trusted slowly. A man who measured the world constantly and found most of it lacking.
The sort of person who would rather assume the worst and be proven wrong than risk disappointment.
The sort of person war often creates.
And suddenly, the compliment hidden within Dyanna's words became apparent.
Not because Maekar liked you. You were fairly certain he did not.
But because he remembered you.
Because he continued speaking about you long after the battle had ended.
Long after he should have stopped caring.
You looked down briefly, unable to suppress the faint smile threatening to appear. "I am unsure whether that is a compliment."
Dyanna smiled knowingly. "It is."
And somehow you believed her.
The conversation drifted after that.
Not abruptly.
Not with the awkwardness of strangers attempting to force familiarity.
Instead, it unfolded naturally, as though some invisible barrier had quietly disappeared without either of you noticing.
You spoke of travel. Of children. Of Summerhall and the Red Keep. How different both places must be from one another.
Dyanna shared small stories between interruptions from Aerion, who periodically appeared to announce matters of great importance before immediately vanishing again.
At one point, he arrived solely to inform his mother that Spur had cheated.
Neither of you managed to determine how.
The friendship had not fully formed yet, not truly.
Relationships rarely worked that way.
Trust took time. Understanding took longer.
Yet as you sat together amidst scattered toys, barking dogs, sleeping babies and the endless noise of children who had not yet learned how to be quiet, something shifted.
It was small, almost impossible to name. The feeling of discovering common ground where you had expected distance.
Of finding familiarity where you had expected formality.
The first stone of something new.
And though neither woman spoke the thought aloud, both felt it settle quietly into place.
The nursery had somehow become even louder.
You were not entirely certain how such a thing had been accomplished.
The room had already contained two princes, one determined dog and enough toys to supply a small army. Yet somehow, within the span of an hour, the noise had doubled.
Perhaps even tripled.
The afternoon sunlight had shifted across the floorboards, creeping gradually farther through the room as the day wore on.
The warm patch where Spur had originally been sleeping now stretched almost to the centre of the nursery, bathing scattered cushions, abandoned blocks and small wooden soldiers in soft gold.
Dust drifted lazily through the air, catching the light every time someone disturbed it.
And someone was constantly disturbing it.
At some point, Aerion and Valarr had apparently decided that every loose cushion within the nursery now belonged to an elaborate fortress.
Not a fortress built to withstand attack. A fortress built specifically to be attacked.
The distinction seemed important to them.
You had long since given up attempting to understand the logic.
The two boys darted back and forth across the room with endless energy, dragging cushions from chairs, beds, and corners while loudly arguing over military strategy that kept changing every few moments.
Spur had somehow been promoted to commander. Whether the dog understood this responsibility remained questionable.
The boys certainly believed he did.
The animal himself appeared far more interested in locating hidden treats than leading troops into battle.
Matarys had abandoned all dignity and any attempt at behaving like a future prince. The younger boy had instead chosen to crawl directly through the centre of the battlefield.
Again. And again. And again.
Every time one of the older boys carefully removed him from danger, he immediately returned to the exact same location with unwavering determination.
His delighted laughter echoed through the room whenever someone scooped him up.
You suspected he viewed the entire situation as a game designed specifically for his entertainment.
Judging by the grin plastered across his face, he was enjoying himself immensely.
You had eventually surrendered and settled into one of the armchairs overlooking the chaos.
Dyanna occupied another nearby.
Close enough for conversation yet far enough that neither woman felt crowded.
The infant in her arms, Daella, as you had learned, had finally awakened sometime earlier.
Not fully.
Not enough to fuss.
Merely enough to remind everyone that babies possessed remarkably accurate instincts at mealtimes.
Now the little girl rested quietly against her mother, eyes half closed as she fed.
Dyanna displayed none of the embarrassment some noblewomen might have shown.
No awkwardness.
No attempt to hide herself.
No concern regarding appearances.
The sight struck you not because it was unusual, but because it felt so normal.
So natural.
You had grown up around mothers.
Women feed children while preparing meals, while sewing, while working, while living.
And perhaps that was another thing that quietly endeared Dyanna to you.
There was very little performance in her.
For all the jewels she wore and all the titles attached to her name, she seemed remarkably uninterested in pretending to be something she was not.
Meanwhile, another development had occurred.
One significantly quieter than Aerion's continued war against furniture.
Meanwhile, Aemon had quietly migrated closer to where you sat.
He had not asked permission. He had simply appeared.
First, beside your chair; then, as time passed, he moved to sit beside your leg. He never spoke, never looked up at you; he just moved as if your aura alone invited him in.
Eventually, he got seated cross-legged on the carpet near enough that his shoulder occasionally brushed your skirt.
The little prince still spoke very little.
Yet unlike shyness, his silence felt deliberate. Comfortable. The sort belonging to a child who preferred listening to speaking.
You found yourself liking him greatly, perhapsĀ becauseĀ he reminded you of yourself more than the others.
Dyanna watched, smiling. The moment she saw the happy Valarr, the sweet Matarys, half asleep as he leaned on you and the way Aemon kept coming closer, he knew you were to be trusted.
Children like Aemon often fled the moment attention was drawn to them.
Eventually, Matarys grew tired of observing battles and attempted to climb onto your lap. The effort required tremendous determination and very little grace.
You helped before he could accidentally launch himself face-first into the armchair.
Immediately satisfied, the boy settled against your chest.
His small body was warm from play.
His hair smelled faintly of sunshine and whatever flower beds he had attempted to crawl through earlier that morning.
Within minutes, his eyelids had begun drooping. His head rested beneath your chin.
The steady rhythm of your heartbeat seemed to calm him in ways you still did not fully understand.
You absentmindedly rubbed small circles along his back.
The motion required no thought. No effort. Simply instinct.
And perhaps that was why neither you nor Dyanna noticed the significance of it.
Not immediately.
Because while one prince slept against your chest and another quietly sat at your feet, the scene had become so natural that neither woman questioned it anymore.
Dyanna certainly didn't.
In fact, as she watched the room, something within her finally seemed to loosen.
The tension of travel.
The exhaustion.
The invisible strain was carried by every mother responsible for too many people and too many worries.
For the first time since arriving at the Red Keep, she looked comfortable.
Not because of the castle.
Not because of her status.
Not because she had family here.
Because her children were content.
Aerion was laughing.
Aemon was quietly attached himself to someone new.
Daella was fed and peaceful.
And for once, she wasn't being pulled in twelve different directions at once.
Your attention drifted lazily across the room.
Toward Aerion. Toward Valarr.
Toward Spur, who was currently refusing arrest despite multiple attempts.
Toward the sleeping baby. Toward Aemon.
And as Dyanna continued speaking about her children, sharing small stories and observations in the easy way parents always did when discussing those they loved most, you slowly began assembling a picture of her family.
Until eventually a thought occurred to you. A simple one. Yet once noticed, it's impossible to ignore.
Your brow furrowed slightly, and you counted the children in the room.
Aerion, Aemon, Daella.
The numbers refused to add up.
And for the first time since the conversation began, your gaze swept the room not to admire the chaos but to search for someone missing.
Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a man who liked to party, drink and fight in equal measures. Prone to boredom, nothing else held his interest.
Until one night, when he meets a peculiar girl named Victa Estermont. She is wild, smiley and quick to speak; caring little for titles, rules and etiquette.
He is intrigued, and he aims to follow her. To his surprise, this turtle seemed to be faster than the stag expected.
Pairing: Fem!OC x Lyonel Baratheon
Chapter Warnings: None
Chapter XXXIX: LINK
Chapter XLI: LINK
[A/N] - Apologies for the delayed update. This was meant to be published hours ago, but got sidetracked.
The latest HOD episode has me both emotionally devastated and motivated to continue my Daemon story. So my mind was occupied with feelings, plans, thoughts, and the reminder that my birthday is today šš .
I swear I have no idea how I remember plots, names, and book events, and forget as I age.
Anyway, enjoy this chapter, for soon we will change arc, and we bringā¦ drum roll pleaseā¦ the dragons! (not real ones, don't get too excited)
Chapter XXL: NewlyWeds, Part 2
Grenda halted her movements and turned her body, hand reaching for the packaged gift.
She froze, Lips parted in silent surprise.
The room, so lively moments before with fabrics and laughter, seemed to quieten around her.
Her fingers traced the dark seal pressed upon the package, soft pads pressing against the ridges and curves of the design.
A dragon.
No, not one, but four.
Each one rested at an opposing corner, forming a square within the crest.
Her breath caught faintly. "The anvil," she mumbled.
Victa tilted her head, immediately noticing the change in her sisterās expression.
Grenda was not a woman easily startled. Years spent managing a household, raising children and navigating noble customs had made her steady in ways few people truly appreciated.
For her to freeze like thisā¦ The gift mattered.
Grenda had been fortunate enough to be thoroughly educated in houses and sigils since before her first bleeding.
Even after marrying and living upon Turtle Isle, far from the intrigues of the mainland, she had kept herself informed.
One did not survive noble politics by remaining ignorant. And she knew, well enough, all the sigils of the great and minor houses.
Especially those of the royal family.
"Who is that from?" Victa asked, noticing the sudden stillness coming from her sister.
Grenda blinked, forcing herself back into the present. Her fingers tightened faintly around the package.
She recalled the wedding feast.
No royals had attended.
No Westermen either.
The Dornish would not have been welcomed, and they had never bothered.
The Lannisters still held a grudge over the challenge and Tyboltās loss by Lyonelās hand, refusing to attend.
But the Targaryensā¦ Stormlanders had never been particularly fond of dragons.
The feeling was often mutual.
Yet a personalised wedding gift? Her thoughts raced.
This was no common courtesy sent to a lord of great standing.
This was deliberate. Intentional.
And Grenda had learned long ago that when dragons noticed someone, it was rarely without reason.
"Grenda?"
This time, the elder woman halted all her thoughts. "This... is from Lord Maekar Targaryen and his wife."
Victa blinked.
"Maekar... Targaryen..." she let the name roll across her tongue as her mind filled the missing gaps.
Her sister nodded. "Yes. The fourth son of Daeron the Good. The Lord husband of Dyanna Dayne."
There was a faint gravity to her voice now.
Not fear, but caution. Even distant dragons remained dragons.
She handed the gift to Victa.
The young turtle carefully put the Hightower dress aside before placing the package upon her lap.
The paper itself was finer than most she had ever touched.
The seal unbroken, the corners perfectly folded.
Even its wrapping carried the quiet elegance of wealth and power.
"What do you think it is?"
Grenda sat on the chair next to her. "Only one way to find out. Open it."
And Victa did, carefully removing the papyrus foil around it.
Immediately, they were met with a bright colour of dark purple.
Beneath it, another in the shade of sand gold.
Victa grabbed the first one, slowly watching it unfold before her.
Her eyes widened as Recognition came immediately.
"I know those," she smiled. "Lyonel got me one while we were at Sunspear for that tourney."
Grendaās lips parted in surprise, eyes widening at both the scandalous dress and the latest piece of information.
The dress itself was unmistakably Dornish.
A style that spoke of heat, sun and freedoms rarely found elsewhere in Westeros.
It was a two-piece dress, the top barely covering her chest. A see-through lace sewn on top of it, giving the faint illusion of modesty.
The skirt was equally thin, flowy, and light enough to be picked up by a gentle wind. Transparent enough for a woman's legs to be visible to the wandering eye.
Victaās fingers moved across the fabric in fascination.
She could almost imagine the warm air of Sunspear upon her skin again.
The bustling markets.
The smell of spices.
The laughter.
And Lyonel walking beside her.
She smiled faintly at the memory.
Grenda, meanwhile, silently prayed to the Mother for patience. Of course, Lyonel had already bought her one. Of course, he had.
The realisation explained far more than she wished to know.
She grabbed the yellow piece, unfolding it to reveal a similar-design dress with slightly more modesty and thicker fabric.
Golden chains were sewn on both, adding reflecting luxury lines across the neckline, waistline and sleeves.
The golden coils glimmer in the sunlight streaming through the open window.
The light caught upon them beautifully, making them shimmer like sunlight upon calm waters.
A gift fit for a lady. Or perhaps a future one.
And that thought lingered uneasily in Grenda's mind.
Why had Maekar Targaryen sent this?
Not coin.
Not books.
Not jewels.
Clothing. Personal clothing.
It suggested awareness.
Someone had known Victa. Or at least known enough about her to choose carefully.
That unsettled her far more than if the gift had been gold.
"This..." Grenda said, clearing her throat. It's definitely a unique gift. One best suit for..." she noticed Victaās excited face and could almost read her thoughts. "For warmer days under the Dornish sun and the privacy of one's chambers, even."
At that, Victa looked at her sister, confused, brows frowning. "What if it gets too warm here?"
For one long heartbeat, Grenda simply stared. Then another.
The Seven above truly worked in mysterious ways.
Here sat a married woman, gifted two scandalously beautiful Dornish dresses by a prince of royal blood, and her greatest concern remained the weather.
Grenda suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to laugh.
Not mockingly, never at Victa. But because no amount of marriage, titles or politics seemed capable of changing her.
She remained exactly who she had always been.
A warm soul in a world of stone.
Once again, Grenda found herself trapped between a wall and a hard place.
"It won't," she cleared her throat, maintaining her composure. "Stormās End doesn't get as hot as Sunspear. Now, how about we go find Gunthor and Estel? It is almost time for her to eat."
Relief. Sweet, blessed relief.
A change of topic at last.
Before Victa could ask any further questions, Grenda truly did not wish to answer.
A day more into Stormās End, and the time for departure had arrived.
While almost all the wedding guests had returned to their homes by the day following the wedding, the Estermonts had remained behind.
Just one more day.
One more sunrise.One more supper shared together.One more chance to make sure Victa was comfortable and ready.
The decision had weighed heavily upon their hearts.
For the first time in their lives, they would leave Victa behind.
They would return to Greenpoint to continue their lives without her bright laughter and sweet smiles filling its halls.
A realisation that had struck Markis the worst.
The weather remained fair, but only barely.
Far above, thin grey clouds had begun gathering at the horizon where sea met sky. Not enough to cast shadows upon the land yet, but enough for old sailors to notice.
Autumn was coming.
The season of change.
The season of storms.
And for the Estermonts, perhaps a different kind of storm had already arrived.
Standing before the grand gates of Stormās End, stable boys rushed to finish preparing horses. Ā Leather saddles were tightened, supplies secured, and reins checked one final time.
The few guards they had brought with them already stood armoured and ready to escort their lords safely home.
The great castle loomed behind them, ancient and immovable against the cliffs.
Stormās End had endured kings, wars and tempests.
Now it stood witness to something far quieter... A family learning to let go.
Victa stood next to Lyonel, her back facing the dark, looming castle that was officially her new home.
The thought still felt strange. Home.
She had spent nearly her entire life on Turtle Isle.
She knew its tides, its fishermen, its hidden paths. The gardens she had planted with her own hands, the flowers she had spoken to since childhood.
And yet, when she had awoken that morning beside Lyonel, Stormās End had not felt foreign.
Perhaps homes could grow.
Perhaps hearts were larger than people believed.
"Do you really have to leave today?" She asked them as Grenda hugged her tightly.
Her older sister squeezed her with one free hand, the other holding baby Estel, who, mimicking her mother, was attempting to hug her aunt with all the seriousness a child could possess.
"You know we have to, Victa. Winter is coming, and we must help prepare the Isle," Grenda said, pulling back.
She offered an encouraging smile, though Victa noticed the faint shine in her eyes.
Grenda had always been strong, Strong enough for all of them.
But even strength had its limits.
The older woman reached up and gently fixed an unruly curl behind Victaās ear, much like she had done countless times before.
A small gesture.
An ordinary gesture.
And somehow that made it hurt more.
She was not fixing the hair of a little girl anymore.
She was fixing the hair of a married lady.
Her little sister.
Her little sister still.
Even if the world now calls her Lady Baratheon.
Grenda stepped aside, allowing Gunthor to approach.
The teenager had been silent since the morning they all broke fast together, clearly weighed by the decision.
For more than a decade, Victa had been part of his life.
She had helped him with his studies and reading work, taught him about different plants in their garden and encouraged him to chase his interests, even when the master-at-arms considered them too ladylike.
They had spent hours staring at stars together or listening to her tales from the tourneys she attended with Lyonel during the past year.
Gunthor could not imagine Greenpoint without her.
No one would be there to ask if he had eaten.
No one would be there to leave flowers in strange places because they "looked lonely."
No one would be there to quietly correct his reading while pretending not to notice his mistakes.
He stood before her now, muscles tense.
Taller than before, Older than before.
Yet in that moment... he looked very young.
Before Victa could say something, he hugged her tightly; already half a head taller than her and still growing.
"Write to me," he whispered as he pulled her against his body.
Victa giggled softly at his sudden need for affection, face buried in the crook of her nephew's neck. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, trapping him in her embrace.
The scent of sea salt and grass clung faintly to him. Greenpoint. Home.
For the first time, she realised she would miss it.
Not tomorrow.
Not next moon.
Today.
"I promise to bring you here and to the tourneys next time," she whispered into his ear, running her hand gently across his back.
She felt his muscles tense momentarily before relaxing beneath her touch, her promise easing some of the turmoil within him.
The future suddenly seemed a little less frightening.
"Okay," he mumbled as he let her go with reluctance before stepping back to stand by his mother's side.
But even then, his eyes remained on her.
As if afraid she might disappear if he looked away.
As if some childish part of him still believed people left when you stopped watching them.
And perhaps, in some ways, children and old men understood departures better than anyone else.
His hand cupped Victaās cheek, thumb brushing softly against her skin as though trying to memorise the shape of her face one final time before distance settled between them.
How many times had he done this?
After nightmares.
After scraped knees.
After tears, she tried so hard to hide.
The gesture had changed over the years, growing gentler as she grew older, but its meaning never had.
You are safe.
You are loved.
You are family.
He leaned forward, placing a kiss upon the crown of her head.
"Write to us for whatever you need or just to share news." His voice remained steady.
Years of lordship had taught him that much. But beneath the calm exterior, emotions churned like the sea during a storm.
He saw her standing there in Baratheon colours.
Saw the antler crown she had worn the day before.
Saw the woman she had become.
And yetā¦
In his eyes, he still saw the little girl he had once held in trembling arms.
The little sister who had clung to his hand while learning to walk.
The child who followed him through Greenpointās halls, asking endless questions about plants, stars and turtles.
The girl who had always looked up at him as the years passed.
And no matter the rituals and titles, that would never change for him.
Deep down, he had always known this day would come.
One day, she would grow. One day, she would leave. One day, another home would claim her.
He had prepared for it. Or at least, he had believed he had.
Yet as he felt the lump in his throat, he wished that day could be delayedā¦
Just a little bit more.
For the first time since arriving at Stormās End, Markis truly saw it.
Victa belonged here.
Not because she had been forced to.
Not because duty demanded it.
But because she stood beside Lyonel with the same quiet ease she once had among the gardens of Greenpoint.
The realisation hurt, and soothed all at once.
He had spent so many years protecting her from the world. Now the world had given her something beautiful in return.
"I promise I will," she smiled. "Look after my plants, they are very needy."
Markis chuckled despite himself.
Of course. The world could shift beneath their feet. Kingdoms could rise and fall.
His sister would still worry about flowers.
"I promise they will get all the attention they need per your written instructions."
Victa brightened immediately at the mention of instructions.
She had left many. Very many.
Enough that Markis secretly suspected some plants were receiving better treatment than minor lords.
He pulled back, hand hanging limp by his side.
For a moment, neither sibling moved.
Neither seemed willing to become the first to step away.
Then Markis looked from Victa to Lyonel, a silent conversation passing between them.
Look after her, his gaze told him.
Not as a lord.
Not as an ally.
Not even as a brother.
But as a man entrusting another with the most precious part of his life.
Lyonel stepped forward, placing his hand upon Victaās shoulder.
I will with my life, was his silent response.
And for perhaps the first time since meeting him, Markis believed it without reservation.
The turtle lord nodded and turned his head to the side, where a silent Ser Herold was standing, hand resting upon the pommel of his sword.
The veteran knight approached, steps steady and confident.
Victaās smile softened, and her heart clenched at the reminder that she would also have to say goodbye to him.
She was close to Ser Herold, as close as a daughter could be to a father figure.
Years under his guidance and protection had shaped her into the woman she was today.
He had taught her to ride, to read maps, to recognise danger.
He had bandaged scraped knees, carried her when fevers came and listened to stories about flowers with the patience of a saint.
Some of her earliest memories carried his face.
As if sensing the tears gathering at the corners of her brown eyes, Ser Heroldās gaze softened. "Worry not, Lady Victa. I am staying with you."
For one glorious heartbeat, Victa forgot to breathe. Joy bloomed across her face so quickly that it was almost childlike.
Lyonelās smirk disappeared as the Colour faded from his face faster than wine emptied from a pierced barrel.
"What? You're joking," he told the knight, staring daggers at him with Victa standing directly between the two men.
While Lyonel understood her need to bid farewell to her family to say goodbye to those she loved gentlyloved, he did not relate.
He simply could not.
All the softness, sweet words and promises did not affect him in quite the same way.
He let them happen gladly because his turtle needed them.
But his own mind had been elsewhere. Planning. Dreaming. Scheming.
The secret spots he would take her as a surprise.
The furniture he would claim her on.
The tricks he would teach her with her mouth...
No interruptions. No supervision. No chaperones.
No overprotective, humourless old knights.
And now...
And now Ser Herold had ridden into his dreams like a knight of old and personally slain every last one of them.
Lyonel could practically hear them dying. One by one... A tragic massacre.
His future had suddenly gained armour.
Victa laughed with joy, arms spreading to hug her loyal knight, caring not for the cold armour between them.
"I am so relieved," she exclaimed.
The sound alone was enough to stab Lyonel directly through the heart.
Ser Herold held her steady as she leaned upon him during the embrace, then gently helped her down. He looked above her at a standing, silent and increasingly annoyed Lyonel.
Amusement glinted in the old manās eyes. He knew.
The old bastard knew exactly what he was doing.
"The day you were born, Lady Victa," he looked back at her. "I vowed to protect you from the dangers of this world. And I intend to do so until you dismiss me from service or the Stranger takes me. But now he will have to fight me hard to take me away."
The words settled over the gathering like a warm blanket.
Even the sea wind seemed quieter for a moment.
Victaās eyes glistened, and Markis lowered his gaze. Even Grendaās expression softened.
Because those were not the words of a knight fulfilling duty.
Those were the words of a father.
Victa chuckled, overjoyed with the news.
While Lyonel kept brooding. "Shouldn't you look after Lord Estermont as well?" A last attempt to correct the situation, to keep living his dream.
Ser Herold glanced at Markis above his shoulder, then focused on Lyonel.
It was evident that the old man was onto his plans and was now even more determined to stay with her.
"I have trained every knight in Greenpoint, my lord. I know they are more than capable of keeping the family and the island safe in my absence." One hand grabbed Victaās, gently resting her smaller palm upon his. "While my lady is protected, she is surrounded by soldiers I don't know. I would not be able to rest at night, knowing this."
Victa smiled. "You are always welcome to stay, Ser Herold. I am sure Stormās End will need your experience. Isn't this right, Lyonel?" She turned her head, looking at her husband.
The young stag pressed his lips until they formed a thin line.
Shoulders tense.
Jaw pressed shut.
Civility itself was hanging by a thread.
Yet before him stood his smiling turtle, radiant with happiness.
And Lyonel Baratheon had long ago discovered there was very little he would deny her.
Not even this.
Not even Ser Herold.
Not even his own dreams of uninterrupted marital bliss.
The gates of Stormās End remained open long after the Estermont party had departed.
Hooves echoed against the stone road, slowly growing fainter as horses descended the winding path that led away from the castle and towards the distant roads of the Stormlands.
Victa stood where they had left her.
She did not move.
The sea wind played with loose curls around her face, carrying with it the familiar scent of salt and distant rain.
Beside her, Lyonel stood quietly.
For once, he did not speak.
Did not tease.
Did not smile.
He simply remained there. Present.
As if understanding that some moments were too fragile for words.
Far below, waves crashed against the cliffs of Shipbreaker Bay in their endless rhythm. Above them, gulls circled lazily in the sky.
The world continued.
As it always did.
Markis rode at the front of the small procession, his sea-green cloak moving behind him with each step of his horse.
Grenda rode close by, little Estel held securely in her arms, while Gunthor looked back one final time.
Even from afar, Victa could see him lift his hand. She raised hers in return.
Then they turned.
The road curved around stone and hill, swallowing them little by little.
First the colours faded, then the shapes...Then there was nothing left.
Only road.
Only sea.
Only distance.
Victa blinked.
For a moment, she expected to hear Gunthor arguing with Ser Herold over maps.
Expected Grenda to call her for supper.
Expected Markis to ask whether she had once again been speaking to flowers.
But the voices never came.
Greenpoint had not disappeared. It still existed.
The tides would continue to rise and fall. The fishermen would still return at dusk.
Her gardens would bloom. Her plants would be watered according to the very detailed instructions she had left behind.
The thought made her smile faintly.
And yet...
For the first time in her life, Greenpoint would continue without her.
The realisation settled quietly within her chest.
Dark clouds had begun to gather far beyond the sea, faint and distant upon the horizon.
Autumn was coming; storms always did.
A low rumble rolled across the water.
Thunder.
Far away for now, but coming.
Always coming.
Victa watched the horizon in silence. Then, without thinking, her hand sought another. Warm, Calloused and Familiar.
Lyonelās fingers immediately intertwined with hers as though they had always belonged there.
She looked up at him. Her husband.
The word no longer felt strange. It felt right now.
Because when she looked at Stormās End, she no longer saw merely a castle of stone and storms.
She saw home.
Lyonel squeezed her hand gently. "Come," he said softly. "There is still much of your home left for me to show you."
Your home.
Not mine.
Not ours.
Yours.
Something in her chest loosened...Victa smiled.
And together, hand in hand, they turned away from the gates as the first thunder of autumn rolled across the distant sea.
When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps, the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XXVIII: LINK
Chapter XXX: LINK
Chapter XXIX: Space, Avoidance, Confrontation
The almost events of that night haunted you and Baelor far longer than either of you wished to admit.
It manifested in restless nights and careful avoidance, though it remained unclear who had initiated it first.
Perhaps it had been Baelor, burying himself beneath mountains of work and duty as he always did when emotions grew too large to hold comfortably.
Or perhaps it had been you.
After all, you had become remarkably skilled at avoiding difficult things whenever your heart proved unwilling to understand them.
You only knew this: A week had passed since that night.
Seven full days.
And in those seven days, no invitations had arrived for supper. Or lunch.
Or even the quiet companionship that had slowly become so familiar, you had not realised how much space it occupied in your life until it was suddenly gone.
By the Seven, Baelor did not even come to check on the boys while you were present.
He visited them during their individual lessons when you were elsewhere, appearing and disappearing from their schedules like some elusive creature that existed only just beyond your reach.
The realisation unsettled you more than you cared to admit.
Not because you missed him. Certainly not. But because absence had a peculiar way of revealing habits one never knew had formed.
And somewhere during your weeks within the Red Keep, you had unknowingly grown accustomed to him.
To shared meals.
To discussions over books and lessons.
To quiet evenings spent in the warm glow of candlelight, while work and conversation blended together.
The absence of those things left behind an odd sort of silence.
One you had not expected to notice, and yet you did.
Far more than you wished.
There had been moments, more than you cared to count, when the urge to march directly into his study and demand an explanation rose within you.
To ask whether you had offended him.
To ask whether that night had changed something between you.
To ask what exactly had frightened him enough to retreat for an entire week.
Yet each time the impulse arose, you forced it back down because a part of you wondered whether you even had the right.
After all, you had not been entirely innocent either.
You had stayed that night. Felt the temptation, almost gave in.
You had not stopped him, had not pulled away... had not even left the room.
The memory still returned at the most inconvenient times.
A brush of warm breath.
A hand beneath yours.
Mismatched eyes darkened by something neither of you had dared name aloud.
So on what grounds could you now demand answers?
When even you did not know what you wished to hear.
Was it merely a moment of vulnerability and emotion? A temporary temptation long forgotten?
Or...
Something more?
Your mind struggled even to grasp the possibility that it could be something more.
Because if it was...Well.
That road led somewhere dangerous. And you had already walked enough dangerous roads for one lifetime.
And so, for the sake of your sanity, you did what every wise person would do in your place; you avoided it altogether.
Spending your hours focusing on the boys, doing anything but thinking about that night...
And Baelor.
Matarysā nursery had become a second room for you by now, with enough hours spent there to almost call it your own.
Some might say you spent more hours there than in your own chambers, and they would not be wrong.
The room had slowly taken on a strange familiarity over the past moon.
Toys rested in baskets by the walls. Small blankets had found permanent homes atop chairs.
Books sat stacked in uneven piles after countless readings, and the faint scent of milk, herbs and childhood lingered in the air so constantly that you no longer noticed it unless you stepped away for some time.
It was a warm, lived-in room, filled with life. And perhaps that was why you found yourself returning to it so often.
This time, however, you were not alone with the young prince.
Valarrās riding instructor had suffered an unfortunate accident, leaving him unable to teach for at least a fortnight.
Thus, the young heir suddenly found himself free for the afternoon and, unsurprisingly, wished for nothing more than to spend it in your presence.
So you allowed him.
Truthfully, refusing Valarr had become increasingly difficult over the weeks.
Not because he was a prince, but because he was Valarr.
Gentle-hearted and thoughtful in ways no child his age should have needed to become.
He asked for affection as though uncertain whether he was still permitted to receive it, and every time you noticed it, something inside your chest ached quietly.
Ellyn had also joined after much persuasion and coaxing from both you and the boys.
Even Valarr had participated in the campaign, offering his finest puppy-dog eyes an expression entirely unbecoming of a prince of his rank.
In the end, Ellyn gave in.
Though tense at first, she had slowly begun to relax over the past week as Valarr engaged with her more and more whenever their paths crossed.
The boyās gentle nature was difficult to ignore and even harder to dislike.
He was still young enough not to question a servantās station, young enough to speak freely with stable boys and maids alike without considering what the world expected of him.
You prayed it would remain that way for as long as possible. The Red Keep had a habit of taking good things from children.
Titles before names.
Duty before joy.
Distance before affection.
You had already seen it happen to Valarr.
And if the gods showed mercy, perhaps they would allow him a few more years before the world came to claim the rest.
The afternoon sun poured softly through the nursery windows, painting warm patches of gold across carpets and furniture alike.
Outside, somewhere beyond the stone walls, gulls cried over Backwater Bay while the distant sounds of the castle drifted lazily upward: the faint clang of steel from the training yards, muffled voices carried by the wind, the endless living heartbeat of the Red Keep.
Inside, however, there was peace.
A rare kind.
The sort that settled quietly over a room without anyone noticing until much later.
Valarr was busy with Spur, using small meat treats to train the dog to learn tricks. Currently, it seemed to be working.
āSpur, hand,ā Valarr said, extending an open palm while the other hand held the treat.
Spur merely stared at him.
Then, after several moments of what looked suspiciously like careful consideration, the dog sat down with great dignity before barking once in protest when no treat immediately followed.
The young prince frowned faintly.
Clearly, this had not been the intended outcome.
Valarr tried again, extending his hand once more with all the seriousness of a seasoned dog trainer. āSpur, hand.ā
Again, not the desired response.
You chuckled softly beneath your breath, deciding not to interfere and merely observe.
Children learned through trying, through failing, through trying again.
And if the lesson happened to involve an overconfident dog with questionable listening skills, then so be it.
Across the carpet, Matarys had occupied himself with a different adventure entirely.
The young prince crawled eagerly over the soft rugs, his little hands pushing a round wooden ball before chasing after it with determined enthusiasm.
Every time he caught it, a delighted giggle escaped him, as though he had accomplished some grand feat worthy of songs.
Watching him never failed to soften something inside you.
How strange it was, you sometimes thought, that joy could survive so easily in children after loss. Or perhaps children simply carried hope in ways adults eventually forgot.
Nearby, Ellyn sat with her hands folded neatly upon her lap, no longer quite as stiff in your company as she had once been. Sometimes you catch her smiling now.
Small, careful smiles. The kind that belonged to people still learning how to lower old walls.
And perhaps that, more than anything, reassured you.
For trust did not arrive all at once. It came quietly, Piece by piece, Day after day.
Then suddenly... a figure appeared in the doorway.
Immediately, you and Ellyn tensed upon recognising the Queen.
The shift happened almost instinctively.
Ellyn straightened so quickly her chair nearly scraped against the floor, while you felt your own muscles tighten before your mind had even caught up with what your eyes had seen. āMy Queen.ā
Ellyn stood faster than you had ever seen her move.
Hands placed firmly against her lap, she bowed low, eyes cast downward in submission and respect.
You greeted her similarly, though your own bow remained far shallower and quicker.
Old habits. Or perhaps simply different ones.
āGrandmother!ā Valarr shouted, his entire face brightening with delight.
Without hesitation, he dropped the treat and hurried across the room. Spur wasted no time rushing after it, quickly devouring the free food.
Valarrās small feet moved quickly over the carpet before wrapping his arms around the Queenās knees.
The sight warmed your heart.
Your smile softened at once as the gentle Dornish Queen rested a hand atop the boyās head with practised ease, fingers slipping through his dark hair in an affection that spoke of years spent loving children and grandchildren alike.
āValarr, my sweet boy,ā she greeted him warmly, her hand lingering for a moment upon his head, brushing gently over the single white strand that stood apart from the rest.
Then the Queen looked up into the room.
Matarys had grabbed the wooden ball by then and was busy attempting to place it into his mouth, hoping perhaps to soothe the discomfort of the baby teeth slowly pushing through his gums.
Every now and then, he gnawed at the smooth wood with great determination, only to pause and inspect it as though personally offended that it refused to taste more interesting.
You and Ellyn remained standing.
Though only the maid continued to hold her bow, head lowered in respect and fear.
Myriahās gaze drifted over the room with quiet attentiveness, taking in details most people would overlook.
Her eyes lingered briefly on Matarys, on Valarr pressed against her side, on the scattered toys and blankets that gave the nursery the lived-in warmth of a family rather than the polished perfection of a royal chamber.
Then her gaze settled upon Ellyn.
One elegant eyebrow arched almost imperceptibly.
She had not expected to find a maid seated comfortably in your company while the princes played.
Not because the act itself was improper, but because the Red Keep rarely encouraged such easy familiarity between ranks.
As if sensing the silent question before it could ever be voiced, you stepped forward, drawing her attention away from Ellyn and toward yourself.
āWhat do we owe the visit, your highness?ā you asked, unaware of the improper title you had chosen.
Myriahās gaze rested upon you for a heartbeat longer than comfort allowed.
Long enough for you to wonder if you had misspoken.
Long enough for her to decide she would let it pass.
āI came to observe the boys with you, for a change,ā she explained as she stepped deeper into the room. āSpend some time with my grandsons as well.ā
At that, Valarr released her with a grin so bright it seemed capable of lighting the room itself. āGrandma! Let me show you what I taught Spur!ā
The Dornish Queen looked from the excited boy to the dog currently occupied with a task of great importance, licking the precise spot upon the carpet where the treat had fallen moments earlier.
She had heard of the dog, of course.
Servants and maids often spoke more freely than they realised when they believed no royal ears lingered nearby.
Over the past month, she had heard many things.
Stories of muddy paw prints discovered in places no dog should ever reach.
Complaints about fur clinging stubbornly to blankets and bed sheets.
Accounts of late-night barking from the nursery and of a dog who guarded princes with the seriousness of a sworn knight.
She had never encountered the animal herself. Not until now.
And seeing Valarrās open affection toward the creature only deepened her curiosity.
Children rarely lied with their hearts.
You glanced toward Ellyn and needed no words to understand one another.
The Queen had come to observe, not to be observed.
āMy Queen,ā Ellyn said softly, bowing a second time before quietly taking her leave.
You watched her go before turning your attention back toward the Queen.
Myriah had already moved farther into the room and settled into an empty armchair facing the boys.
She sat with the effortless grace of someone long accustomed to courts and crowns, yet there was no stiffness in her posture.
Only watchfulness. Patient. Quiet.
The kind possessed by those who had survived long enough to know that truth often revealed itself when left undisturbed.
Slowly, you lowered yourself back into your own seat.
Though your muscles remained faintly tense in her presence.
Not because she frightened you.
Very little frightened you anymore after the life you had lived. War had a way of changing a personās relationship with fear.
No... It was not fear that made you tense.
It was respect.
You remembered the way she had looked at you in the Kingās solar.
The stories Ellyn had shared in hushed tones while brushing your hair in the evenings.
And even Baelor, careful and measured Baelor, had once spoken of his mother with a kind of admiration rarely found in grown men.
You had heard of her ability to judge a personās character with only a few exchanged words.
Of lords twice her age, leaving meetings unsettled without ever understanding why.
Of a Dornish princess who entered a court that distrusted her people and, through patience, intelligence and sheer will, had slowly changed the opinions of an entire kingdom.
She had survived. Not merely endured... Survived. There was a difference.
She had raised dragon heirs.
Stood beside kings.
Endured whispers and prejudice with her head held high.
She was a remarkable woman. And perhaps that was why you felt yourself tense around her.
Because you knew she was capable, truly capable.
Not given greatness through titles and power alone, but possessing it quietly within herself long before either had ever been bestowed upon her.
You glanced at her occasionally, noticing how her attention remained wholly fixed upon Valarr.
There was something gentle in the way she observed him.
Not the softness of weakness.
No...
It was the quiet tenderness of a woman who had raised children of her own and survived long enough to see them become parents in turn.
There was wisdom in her gaze, and an old sort of patience that only years could grant.
The young heir, eager for approval, especially from his grandmother; turned to ensure the two women were watching him closely.
With all the seriousness of a knight preparing for battle, he reached into his pocket and retrieved another treat before facing Spur.
Immediately, the dog straightened.
Gone was the creature who had been lazily licking the carpet moments earlier.
Now he stood alert, ears perked high, golden eyes locked with unwavering devotion upon the piece of meat in Valarrās hand.
Valarr puffed out his chest proudly and faced the animal.
āSpur sit,ā he commanded.Ā The dog obeyed at once.
āLie down.ā Again, obedience.
The Queenās brows rose faintly in approval.
You could not help but feel a quiet swell of pride in yourself.
The boy had grown gentler these past weeks, but also more confident. More willing to laugh. More willing to fail and try again.
There had been a time, not long ago, when he barely smiled. Now he trains dogs.
It seemed a small thing. Yet healing often announced itself in small things.
āStay.ā Spur remained still.
āGet up.ā The dog rose immediately.
āTurn.ā With surprising grace for such an enthusiastic animal, Spur spun in a circle, tail wagging so violently his entire body appeared to sway with it.
Valarr beamed. And then came the command he had yet to master.
The one command that had defeated him repeatedly over the past week.
āSpur, hand.ā
Once again, the dog looked at him, then sat down... Patiently.. Expectantly.
As if to say: I have completed the assignment. Where is my payment?
āNo, Spur. Hand!ā the boy insisted, extending his palm farther and even attempting to lift the dogās paw himself.
To his surprise, but not particularly yours, Spur seized the opportunity with all the cunning of a creature who understood far more than people gave him credit for.
The instant Valarr bent down, the dog lunged. Not aggressively. Enthusiastically.
Valarr tried to pull back, realising too late what Spur intended.
The result was immediate.
With all the unstoppable force of a very determined dog, Spur crashed directly into the young prince and sent him tumbling backwards onto the carpet.
The treat disappeared into the animalās mouth with astonishing speed.
Victory had been achieved.
Now only the remaining treats mattered.
Spur climbed atop the fallen prince with great purpose, his pink-and-black nose already busy searching Valarrās pockets for further treasures.
The cold touch of his nose tickled exposed skin, and Valarrās protests dissolved into uncontrollable laughter.
āSpur! Off! Off!ā Valarr gasped between giggles, attempting to push the dog away.
His efforts proved entirely futile.
The dog, naturally, interpreted resistance as encouragement.
You chuckled softly behind your hand, unable to hide your amusement at the sight.
And you were not the only one.
A second laugh joined yours.
Your eyes widened faintly as you turned toward Queen Myriah.
She was laughing, truly laughing.
Not the restrained smile of court.
Not polite amusement offered out of obligation.
Real laughter.
The graceful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms laughed openly as her grandson wrestled with a dog upon the nursery floor.
For a moment, you simply stared.
You had expected concern, perhaps a sharp word. A reminder of propriety or royal dignity.
Instead, she watched the scene unfold with bright eyes and quiet joy, unconcerned by dirty clothes or unruly dogs.
As though she had long ago learned that childhood was too brief to spend preserving appearances.
And perhaps that was the first thing that truly allowed you to relax around her.
Not her title.
Not her power.
But the trust she placed in your dog. In the boy.
And in you.
āāā
Myriah turned to you as she felt the tension between you thinning little by little, worn down not by words or duty but by something far simpler and far rarer within the Red Keep: genuine joy.
Valarrās laughter still echoed softly through the nursery as Spur finally abandoned his search for treats and settled beside the boy with all the innocence of a creature entirely unaware of his crimes.
Sunlight continued to spill through the tall windows, painting golden patches upon the carpets and warming the nursery with the kind of gentle heat only early afternoon carried.
The room smelled faintly of milk, clean linens, herbs and dog fur; a strange mixture that somehow had become the scent of home these past weeks.
The Queen watched her eldest grandson with a gaze softened by memory.
āIt is rare to hear Valarr laugh,ā she confessed quietly, her eyes never leaving the boy as he attempted to smooth his now-rumpled clothes with great dignity.
There was no accusation in her voice, no hidden blame toward anyone who had cared for him before. Only the quiet sadness of a grandmother who had witnessed grief settle far too early upon young shoulders.
She smiled softly then, though sorrow lingered beneath it like an old scar that never fully healed. āThe loss of a mother is never easy, especially to one so young.ā
Your attention shifted to Valarr.
The sight before you was so different from the boy you had first met that at times it almost felt like remembering two entirely separate children.
You still remembered him as he had been during those first days... Quiet. Too quiet.
A child who spoke carefully, moved carefully, and smiled only when politeness demanded it.
There had been a heaviness in him then, one no child should ever carry. He had looked like a boy standing in the shadow of grief too large for his small body to bear.
It had broken something inside you to witness it.
Perhaps that was why you had attached yourself to him so quickly.
Not because he was a prince.
Not because he was the heir to the Iron Throne.
But because you understood. You knew what it meant to lose a mother. You knew what it meant to wake each morning expecting to hear a voice that would never answer again.
Grief looked different on every face, yet somehow always felt the same.
āIt is not...ā you began softly, your gaze lingering on Valarr as he proudly explained to Spur why stealing treats was dishonourable conduct. āAnd sometimes, they donāt require words. Just presence, companionship.ā
The words came easier than you expected.
Perhaps because they were true.
There had been times in your own life when words had failed entirely.
No speech had eased hunger. Ā No promise had buried the dead. No comforting phrase had undone the horrors of war.
Yet presence... Presence remained.
A hand on a shoulder. Someone sitting beside you in silence.
The simple knowledge that you did not endure pain alone.
That had often been enough.
When you finally looked toward Queen Myriah, you found her already watching you.
Your eyes met, yet neither of you looked away.
Her dark gaze studied you with the same patience she had shown since entering the room. There was no hostility within it, nor suspicion as sharp as the one carried by kings and councils.
Only assessment.
The kind practised by those who had survived courts far deadlier than swords.
Others often faltered beneath her gaze.
You had seen it yourself during your audience with the King.
Men twice your age stumbled over words or apologised for slights not yet committed. Lords lowered their heads before she ever demanded it.
Some feared her. Others resented her.
There were those who still whispered of Dorne with bitterness and distrust, as if years of peace had failed to erase old wars from memory.
You had heard such whispers before.
You had ignored them then, just as you ignored them now.
Because when you looked at Queen Myriah, you did not see an outsider.
You saw a survivor.
A woman who had entered a court that had not wanted her and carved a place within it regardless.
And perhaps she saw something familiar when she looked upon you as well.
For neither of you had been born for the world you now inhabited. Yet both of you had learned how to endure it.
You simply looked at her, woman to woman.
Stubborn.
Prideful.
Confident.
Defending an invisible territory and protecting yourself.
Myriah understood that. Perhaps she even recognised it.
For the faintest shift crossed her features then, subtle enough that another might have missed it entirely. A softening around the eyes. A thought acknowledged and quietly filed away.
āYou speak with wisdom far beyond your years,ā Queen Myriah said at last, gently breaking the silence that had settled between you. āYou see the world differently than most, and that influences you.
There was no mockery in her voice, no condescension; only observation.
The sort one made after reaching a conclusion.
āYou speak as if itās a bad thing.ā
A hint of amusement touched her lips. āOnly to those intimidated by it.ā
The answer came lightly, yet truth rested beneath it like stone beneath water.
For a moment, something within your chest eased; not entirely.
The Queen remained the Queen, but some invisible distance had shifted between you. Not vanished... Merely narrowed.
And for the first time since she had entered the nursery, you found yourself smiling faintly in return; finally reaching a common ground with the Dornish Princess sitting by your side.
Divider by @uzmacchiato
[A/N] - This and perhaps the next 2-3 chapters will be slightly filler-type, mostly to drive the plot.
But! I promise it will all be worth it in like 4? 5 chapters? Your much-awaited ship will reuniteā¦ and maybeā¦ this timeā¦ actually do something. š
Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a man who liked to party, drink and fight in equal measures. Prone to boredom, nothing else held his interest.
Until one night, when he meets a peculiar girl named Victa Estermont. She is wild, smiley and quick to speak; caring little for titles, rules and etiquette.
He is intrigued, and he aims to follow her. To his surprise, this turtle seemed to be faster than the stag expected.
Pairing: Fem!OC x Lyonel Baratheon
Chapter Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Kissing, Praise Kink, Fingering, At least two orgasms, Penis in Vagina, Unprotected Sex, Oral (F!Recieving)
Chapter XXXVIII: LINK
Chapter XL: LINK
[A/N] - This was meant to be updated earlier, but my sleepless brain was as slow as Internet Explorer running on Windows XP.
My dog got a knee surgery, and I spent my night waking every two hours to make sure she drank water, and she was okay as she recovered from anaesthesia.
Thus, this chapter has not been beta-approved or thoroughly checked. Did my best to finish it despite sleepiness. (Did not wish to delay an update even more, having already made you wait for two weeks).
And to say 'thank you' for your patience and support, I'm giving you some smut and domestic fluff.
Chapter XXXIX: NewlyWeds, part 1
The sun was still present by the following morning, gracing Stormās End with one last day of warmth before the autumn rains would arrive.
Older inhabitants could already tell they were coming, old aches waking deep within their bones and joints; quiet reminders from age and weather alike.
The sea beyond the cliffs was calm for now, the sky open and blue for those daring to look up. But every Stormlander knew the truth of such days.
Storms were patient.
They always came in the end.
Until then, warmth still lingered over Stormās End, as if the season itself had decided to grant the newlyweds one final gift before surrendering the world to rain and wind.
Warm rays streamed through the open windows, illuminating the once-dark chambers and gently awakening their inhabitants.
The air carried the faint scent of salt from the sea below, mingling with the fading traces of burnt wood from the hearth and lavender oils rubbed into skin the night before.
In Lyonelās chambers, Victa was the first to stir awake.
Facing the window, she felt the brightness even behind closed eyelids.
Slowly opening her eyes, she stared at nothing for a moment; her mind slowly awakening to reality as the dreams of last night faded away like waves retreating from shore.
She yawned faintly, fist gently rubbing her eyes to chase away whatever sleep had been left.
For a brief moment, she simply lay there in silence.
The world was strangely quiet.
No gulls crying near Greenpoint.
No distant voices from servants beginning their work in the kitchens she knew so well.
No familiar scent of her gardens drifting through an open window.
Everything was different.
And yet... Not wrong. Merely new.
As she tried to move, her body already following a subconscious routine built over years, she registered the extra weight around her waist.
Lyonelās arm remained draped over her middle, palm resting flat against her stomach; fingers spread in a possessive manner.
His chest was pressed firmly against her back, legs tangled beneath bed sheets and furs; his breathing calm and peaceful against her skin.
Somewhere during the night, Victa had turned away from him, occupied by whatever dream she saw that she currently could not remember.
And he had moved as well.
Holding her from behind. As if ensuring no one would take her from him in the middle of the night.
Never again.
Her eyes lowered to the hand resting upon her stomach.
Large, calloused, and Warm.
A hand she had held during journeys, feasts and dances.
A hand that had held hers before gods and men.
Her husbandās hand.
The thought settled softly inside her chest.
Not with shock, not with fear. But with a strange warmth that spread through her like sunlight after rain.
Husband.
The word still felt new.
A little too large for her mouth.
And yet when she thought of Lyonel, it fit so naturally that she wondered if perhaps it had always belonged there.
She was his wife now.
Not in secret wishes whispered to flowers.
Not in daydreams while sailing between islands.
Not in quiet hopes kept close to her heart.
But truly.
By law, faith, the witness of family, friends and gods alike.
The realisation should have frightened her.
Instead, it felt like coming home.
Flashes of the night made her cheeks warm up, a faint soreness spreading from within her legs, thighs stiff from the intense, unfamiliar exercise.
Yet there was no shame at the memories, no guilt at the act.
Only peace. And the faint trace of curiosity.
Of adrenaline to try it again; and again... and again.
Her cheeks warmed further at the thought.
Grenda had spoken so seriously about marriage, duty and expectations. The books she had read had often hidden behind careful words and vague descriptions.
Yet none of them had truly prepared her for the reality of it.
For the tenderness.
For the laughter.
For Lyonel pressing kisses to her skin as though she were something precious.
A small smile found its way to her lips before she could stop it.
As if sensing her internal thoughts or struggles, Lyonel stirred awake.
Slowly, at his own time. Like he did anything in life.
Lyonel Baratheon never rushed.
Not when drinking, not when fighting and certainly not when waking up.
The world could burn outside the walls of Stormās End, and the Laughing Storm would still rise at his own pace, as if time itself had the courtesy to wait for him.
His hand tensed faintly, then relaxed, his brain slowly registering the warm body trapped within his spooning embrace.
Victa.
His wife.
The realisation reached him before his eyes properly opened, and a deep sense of satisfaction settled somewhere beneath his ribs.
His forehead rested against her shoulder blade, breath tickling her naked skin. Even half asleep, he shifted closer, seeking warmth by instinct alone.
The sheets had tangled around their legs during the night, furs twisted and displaced from restless movements and stolen embraces.
He could still smell her.
Lavender. Salt. And something that was simply Victa.
His.
The thought would have sounded possessive from another man.
From Lyonel, it felt closer to wonder.
After months of chasing, longing, waiting and dreaming, she remained there in his arms instead of disappearing with the morning light like so many dreams did.
"You are awake early," Lyonel mumbled, voice groggy, heavier from sleep.
He yawned, eyes half open, using her body as a shield against the bright light of the rising sun.
Victa giggled faintly. "A habit," she confessed, making him groan against her back.
"A bad one," he said, slowly pushing sleep away. "We must do something bout that. Keep you in bed a little longer."
The answer came from the faint press of his hips against hers.
In their sheer nakedness, his hardened member pressed in the small crack between her ass cheeks.
Victa inhaled softly.
The sensation no longer startled her the way it once had. Instead, it had become tied to him in her mind.
To laughter, warmth, kisses, and the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.
Lyonelās hand left her stomach and trailed upwards, resting flat against one breast. He pressed the perked-up nipple against his palm, rubbing it in faint circles.
Victaās approving groan echoed softly through the chambers, sore legs parting faintly in response.
Outside, gulls cried somewhere near the cliffs. Waves crashed against the stone far below Stormās End.
The castle itself had begun to wake; distant footsteps echoed through corridors, and servants quietly started another day.
Yet inside their chambers, the world seemed to have slowed.
As if time itself had decided to linger with them a little longer.
"Lyonel," she mumbled, back arching faintly when he added more pressure.
He gently shushed her with a kiss on her shoulder, then another and another; his trimmed salt-and-pepper beard gently scratching her freckled skin.
"Don't worry, I have other plans for us," he whispered, gently biting the soft spot at the base of her neck.
Victa arched her back, her ass pressing harder against him; her chest pushing outwards. She bit back a moan, yet Lyonel felt it vibrate through her body.
He smirked.
Not the proud smirk of a lord who had won a tourney.
Not the cocky grin of the infamous womaniser the realm whispered about.
This one was softer. Private.
The smile of a husband discovering that his wife sought him just as much as he sought her.
A year ago, Lyonel Baratheon would have laughed if someone had told him this would become his greatest treasure.
Now he could scarcely imagine life without it.
For a fleeting moment, he simply rested his face against the crook of her neck.
No words. No teasing. Just breathing her in.
He had slept in many beds, beside many women.
Yet he could not remember the last time sleep had come so easily. Or the last time he had awakened without the weight of restlessness beneath his skin.
His father often claimed that storms eventually exhausted themselves.
Lyonel had never understood what he meant.
Perhaps now he finally did.
He pressed a kiss against the back of her shoulder. Then the familiar spark returned to his eyes.
The storm had rested. Now it stirred again.
He brought his other hand and gently grabbed her shoulder, turning her until her back was pressed firmly against the mattress, her face staring at the ceiling above.
Lyonel, then, moved.
Muscles helped him up, thighs flexing as they balanced his weight; the mattress shifted with each motion.
Sunlight spilt across his skin in bands of gold and shadow, illuminating old scars gathered from tourneys, training yards, and years spent living exactly as recklessly as everyone claimed he did.
Victa watched him quietly.
Even after months together, she found herself studying him.
His broad shoulders.
The line of his jaw.
The silver was beginning to thread through dark curls and beard.
The broken nose that somehow suited him.
Handsome, she had once thought.
Beautiful, she now believed.
He found himself before her parted legs, rough hands holding her knees. Her entrance staring back at him, wet, needy.
"Lyonel?" Victaās gentle voice bypassed the hazy fog of lust, enough to make him look at her.
"Relax, my love," he said, flashing her his confident smirk. "I will take good care of you."
One hand rested on her knee, the other began to travel between her legs, a rough palm brushing over the soft inner thigh.
Fingers spread to grab, fingers pressing against smooth skin just enough to draw a reaction; never too much to hurt.
His thumb trailed lower and lower, awakening new sensations for her.
Victa tensed.
Instincts told her to close her legs; to protect the jewel between her thighs.
But this was Lyonel. Her husband. Her stag.
The thought made heat bloom beneath her skin.
Lyonelās grip remained certain and unyielding, like the castle he would one day rule from.
His blue eyes had darkened with lust as he spent a full minute caressing her thigh, memorising every detail of her as if he would not see her again.
His moves remained confident, stable, mapping every inch of her as if committing it to memory, carving it somewhere deep within himself where neither time nor age could reach.
Then his thumb breached her entrance, slowly; eyes darting up to observe her reaction, to study her face with the same careful attention he gave battlefields and tourneys.
Victa inhaled once, hips rising faintly in response; legs pulling wider from one another.
Lyonel smirked.
"Good girl," he praised her, making heat rush to her neck and cheeks. "My good girl."
The words settled warmly within her chest, strange and unfamiliar, yet somehow right.
Praise had always come from Markis for her gardens, from Grenda for her embroidery, from Ser Herold for lessons learned well.
This felt different.
Not because it demanded, but because it cherished.
His gaze lingered on her as though she were something precious and rare, a treasure discovered after years of searching.
He lowered his face, watching as his thumb moved in and out; wetness already forming around the digit. His index finger rubbed her pearl, pinching it faintly.
His wife responded with a strangled moan, eyes closed and head pressing against the soft pillow beneath her. "Ly-Lyonel..."
He smirked. "Save your voice, my little turtle. You will need it soon."
The teasing words should have embarrassed her.
Instead, they made her cheeks warm further.
There was a playful confidence to him even now, one that had always been there since that first meeting in the inn.
The same charm that made lords roll their eyes, ladies laugh behind their fans, and entire feasts turn louder in his presence.
Lyonel Baratheon had always carried storms with him.
Only now had Victa learned that storms could be gentle, too.
Before Victa could verbally respond, he questioned what he meant; Lyonel withdrew his thumb.
Immediately, she felt the absence. Brown eyes opened in silent protest.
The reaction alone nearly undid him.
Seven saved him; she had no idea what expressions she made. No idea how easy it was becoming for her to unravel him.
"So needy, aren't we?" He teased, lowering his face between her legs.
His breath tickled her wet folds before his tongue darted out, licking a single strip, tasting her in the early hours of the morning.
Victa tried to pull away at the foreign sensation, but Lyonelās hands grabbed her hips, pressing her against the mattress and locking her in place.
The sudden feeling stole her breath.
Nothing in books or whispered conversations had prepared her for this.
Her fingers tightened around the sheets as surprise quickly melted into warmth. Then pleasure.
Sharp and bright.
He repeated his act, again and again; each taste was more addictive than the previous one.
Yet within the safety of stone walls and drawn curtains, the world felt impossibly far away.
There was only warmth. Only tangled sheets.
Only them.
Soon, it wasn't just his tongue teasing but his full mouth pressed between her legs.
Ā Lips sucked her the same way he devoured ripe peaches during hot summer days, juices staining his beard.
A hand, curious as it was uncertain, rested against his head. Fingers grabbed his salt and pepper locks, pulling him faintly, or were they pushing?
It seemed even she did not know what she wanted.
His moves became hungrier, sloppier; tongue adding to the ministration.
His fingers pressed harder against her flesh, and he hummed in pleased response; mumbled sounds vibrating through her.
The vibration sent another wave through her body.
One she had no name for.
One she could only feel.
"Lyonel!"
His name came from her lips in a high-pitched tone, her hips desperately trying to pull away.
Pleasure built within her in quick waves, her abdominal muscles tensing in preparation.
She had felt it the night before.
That strange tightening.
That rising tide.
The feeling of standing at the shore while a wave larger than herself rushed forward.
It was when his teeth gently teased her pearl that the dam was broken.
Victaās gasp left her breathless, body tensing and shaking as the wave of pleasure washed over her body like the rising tide beneath a full moon.
Her fingers pulled his hair harder for support, thighs locking his head in place as her juices coated his chin and beard, drowning him in their sweetness.
And Lyonel?
Lyonel was in heaven.
He sucked and drank with the greediness of a man who wasted no drop. His tongue deep into her caverns, leaving no spot untouched by it.
His beard was soaked, and yet he kept going, even when her oversensitive body tried to pull away from him.
Eventually, temporarily satisfied, Lyonel let go of her thighs; red imprints of his fingers were gently visible on her soft skin.
He paid them no mind as he untangled her thighs from around his head, giving him back his freedom.
"You taste divine," he said, looking at her, tongue licking the remnants from his lips. "Sweeter than arbour gold, more addictive than that local wine of your people."
Victaās cheeks were flushed, eyes closed, yet a peaceful smile of pleasure gave away her thoughts and feelings.
There was a softness to her then that made his chest tighten unexpectedly.
Not because she looked beautiful, though she did.
Not because she was his wife, though she was.
But because she trusted him completely.
And gods, no tourney victory, no feast, no lover before her had ever made him feel half so victorious.
Lyonel crawled on top of her, forearms resting next to her head, supporting his weight. His hardened manhood rested heavily against her stomach, a reminder that he was not done.
"Are you with me, little turtle?" He asked her gently, observing her reaction, studying her face.
Victa opened her eyes, one hand moving to cup his cheek, feeling his beard softer against her palm. She nodded. "I am, my stag."
His cock twitched at his new nickname, blood rushing almost painfully to his groin. "Say it again."
"My stag," she obeyed.
Lyonel buried his face against her collarbone, groaning against her skin. "Again."
There were songs written about great knights, about warriors and kings.
Lyonel thought none of them had ever felt half as triumphant as he did at that moment.
He got himself in one hand, moving back until he was positioned by her entrance.
Victaās legs remained parted, entrance glistening.
She gently pulled him until he was facing her, mouths hovering inches away from one another. "My stag,"
"Fuck," Lyonel cursed, losing control.
With one single thrust, he pushed in, fighting the restraint of her untrained walls until he was almost fully in.
His lips fell upon hers, swallowing her gasp of surprise and the faint groan of discomfort. He pulled back almost fully before pushing in, her body jerking from the sudden thrust.
Lyonel kissed her with hunger, the sweetness of her juices still on his lips. He gave her a taste of herself again and again, matching each breath-stealing kiss with his thrusts.
Her hands found his back, fingers pressing into his skin; trimmed nails threatening to draw blood.
He felt them slipping faintly, dragging red lines; marking his skin.
It made him groan, hips thrusting faster in response; rougher than the night before.
Still in control, still careful enough not to cause pain, but there was a lack of restraint compared to the first time.
And Victa...
Victa moaned encouragement through breathless kisses, hips bravely lifting faintly, attempting to match him.
Brave hands had moved lower, gripping his firm ass with a surprisingly strong grip. Her breasts pressed against his, sensitive nipples rubbing against the planes of his chest.
Outside, the inhabitants of Stormās End were starting off their day.
Inside, the newlyweds caught up with their pent-up needs after a full year of celibacy and sinful dreams.
This is how Victa found herself in an unoccupied room, facing the tower of presents given to her and Lyonel for their wedding.
She sat on a comfortable red armchair, two extra pillows right beneath her, easing the soreness that resided between her legs.
Victa did not ask for them, did not even realise she needed them until Grenda brought them up. And once the servants had brought them, the young turtle felt relief.
The gesture warmed her chest.
Grenda always noticed.
The older woman had done so since Victa was little, noticing scraped knees before tears appeared, noticing hidden worries before they were spoken aloud. Marriage had not changed that.
Some things remained steadfast.
Like tides.
Like family.
Grenda was up and moving, fetching the gifts closer, inspecting them from top to bottom before revealing their contents.
Young Estel was with Gunthor, exploring Stormās End with Ser Heroldās guidance. At the same time, Markis had one last meeting with Lord Baratheon before their return to Turtle Isle.
The thought settled heavily within Victa's chest.
Return.
The word felt strange now.
Greenpoint remained home.
And yet...
When she had awakened that morning, it had not been Greenpoint's ceiling she saw above her.
Nor Greenpoint's sea she heard below. Stormās End was becoming something else.
Not a place she visited. But a place she belonged.
The realisation was both frightening and comforting all at once.
"Oh, look at that, Victa," Grenda said, grabbing a folded-up piece of fabric.
She unfolded the present, revealing the emerald-green and black dress with a low V-cut.
Lace was stitched to the ends of the sleeves, and around the cut, a detailed, fabricated ribbon was used as a belt at the midsection.
"Now that is a Hightower fashion," Grenda continued, pressing the dress against her body. "Most noble women in Oldtown wear such dresses almost daily."
Victa was handed the dress, which she rested against her thighs. Fingers traced the stitching, taking in the fabricās texture.
"It's rather soft," she pointed out, smiling as fingers traced the embroidered design of roses on the sleeves.
The material slipped easily beneath her fingertips.
No roughness.
No itch.
Only smooth fabric and careful craftsmanship.
She could almost imagine herself wearing it during a feast, perhaps while seated beside Lyonel beneath the banners of House Baratheon.
The thought made her smile faintly.
"They usually are. The Reach has the second-best dress fabrics after Myr," her sister informed before turning to the now smaller pile of presents.
Hands rummaged through them, avoiding badly wrapped daggers and fancy goblets. Gifts clearly meant more for Lyonel than Victa.
That, too, made a strange sort of sense.
Lords gifted weapons to lords.
Knights gifted cups and hunting knives.
Yet increasingly, there had also been gifts for her.
Lady Victa Baratheon.
The title still sat oddly in her mind.
But each gift seemed to make it more real.
Something caught Grendaās attention, a dark shade of a present just at the side of her eye.
Tywin Lannister was a man who was tough to love and even tougher to be loved. Even his deceased wife sometimes had a hard time.
And yet, there seemed to be a single, unique woman as the sole exception.
Josephine has been by Tywin's side since his younger days, before the lion's marriage, bound to him in more ways than one. After Joanna's death, she was sent away for years but vowed to return when Tywin truly needed her... and he did during the War of the Five Kings.
Pairing: Fem!OC x Tywin Lannister
Chapter Warnings: None
Previous - Chapter 21: The Saviour of The CityNext - Chapter 23: A Silent Gift
Chapter 22: Celebratory Feasts & White Lies
After some court drama and a lot of knighting, the ceremony was over, and all the noble guests could finally leave, heading straight for the famous Red Keep gardens where the feast would take place.
Fresh fruits and little delights were served, as well as wine and cold water, as lords and ladies spread, quickly forming groups for discussion and gossip.
Josephine entered the gardens alone, passing amongst other nobles and feeling wandering eyes upon her form.
A few Lords tried talking to her, some merely commenting, and she had to refuse more than once flowers from some men.
It was becoming rather tiresome, and she wondered how long she had to do this and where Tywin was. She had seen him faintly in the beginning, but he was surrounded by people, and so was she, though the interests of each group were very different.
She headed for one of the walls, the white stone having stood despite the centuries that passed after the castleās creation.
She leaned faintly against it, feeling the warm sun rays against her skin.
Momentarily, she closed her eyes, letting herself bathe in sunlight that she had not seen for months. The weather of the Riverlands was truly as depressing and sad as many said it was.
One could not even wonder why the River Lords were always on edge and seemed to lack a smile or a carefree attitude.
Despite the crowd in the open gardens, Josephine remained on her guard, and her instincts warned her when someone chose to approach.
Opening her eyes, she turned slowly as she spotted Lords Mace Tyrell & Mathis marching her way.
She had seen Lord Mathis in the tent, yet was rather quiet. Whenever a decision had to be made, he always looked at his Lord Siege and merely agreed with him.
Now, it seemed he was following him behind like a lost puppy; a sight that internally amused the Lioness.
āMy lords,ā she greeted them with a small fake smile and a smaller bow.
Both men held a goblet of wine in their dominant hands, but Josephine had chosen not to drink anything, preferring to keep her hands free to act if necessary.
āLady Josephine,ā Lord Mace greeted her, arms spread faintly in an exaggerated greeting motion. "We missed you in battle. We thought of the plan details you had planned, and we were sure you would join us.ā
Josephine bit back any snappy remarks and kept the forced smile, reminding herself she needed to behave like a lady.
āYou honour me, my lord,ā she said, her sharp mind quickly forming a good excuse. āI am afraid battle is no place for a woman. I chose to reside back and let the real soldiers handle it, which I heard you did incredibly well.ā
Lord Mace puffed his chest faintly, his belly following suit, as he took in all the praise. Even though Josephine knew the man had barely lifted his sword in battle and had entered last.
He was a coward in battle, and she had smelt that on him since their first meeting in the War Tent.
Yet, she had to play along, and she had come to learn that complimenting the vanity and ego of men was the best way to brush suspicions of you and could even save your head from the executioner's block.
āThank you, my lady.ā He eyed her slowly, his gaze lingering a little too long on her cleavage. āYou are a true beauty in a dress, my lady. Red is such a beautiful shade on you.ā
āCareful of your words, my Lord. It sounds as if you are trying to court me,ā she said, her words quickly being passed off as a joke.
A joke that Mace laughed at, Lord Mathis following suit.
In the far distance, Josephine spotted Lord Randal Tarly standing not too far away, watching them with faint suspicion in his eyes.
āWell, I certainly wouldnāt be the only one.ā He joked, drinking from his goblet. āI fear that Lord Tywin has a competition for your attention, my Lady.ā
Immediately, Josephine spotted the chance and grabbed it like one would grab a bull by their horns. āI am afraid you are mistaken, my Lord. There is nothing of a personal nature between Lord Tywin and me.ā
Now, she had piqued the interest of both men. By the edge of her peripheral vision, she saw a few faces pretending to stand closer, eager for the gossip and the information she was about to deliver.
āYou are not...?ā
āNo, my lord. I am afraid our relationship is more... family related, for his deceased cousin was once my husband. A loyal man that perished a little too early, I'm afraid and left me with his possessions,ā she lied, her brain easily creating a feeble story. āI was passing through the Riverlands, after visiting a sick family member, when I encountered Lord Tywinās campsite. He offered me his protection in this war and ever since.ā
She was not sure how Tywin would react to that, but he was the one who had given her the freedom to pick the storyās details.
In her mind, the story sounded good enough to brush away any suspicions of her and perhaps even gain some sympathy.
The game in the court was not foreign to her, but unfortunately, she had never spent enough time in it to master it. Thus, she had to navigate the traitorous waters carefully or risk being attacked.
āSo you are a widow, my lady,ā Mace pointed out, raising his goblet slightly. āIt is such a shame, a lady with your beauty having felt the lack of a husband so early. I am a widower myself, and I would be more than honoured to accompany you if you ever need friendly company.ā
The Lioness could easily see through his words and his intentions were rather clear, to the point that even Lord Mathis held back the need to roll his eyes.
In the distance, she could see Lord Tarly shake his head faintly; not being able to hear them but suspecting the Head of House Tyrell was making a mess of himself, again.
āI will keep your offer in mind, my Lord,ā Josephine said through her teeth, feeling the need to flee this pointless discussion and find some solace in a shady corner.
āYou know, my Lady, my son Loras is a fine young man, as you recall. Brave and strong, he is, but a fine match as well.ā
Now, Josephine truly felt the need to flee but had no true means of escaping; finding no safety in the sea of unfriendly foreign faces.
āI am afraid he is a little too young for me, my lord. But I am honoured by your guess at my age,ā the forced smile made her cheeks hurt as her attention diverted from the chubby short lord to the world around her, looking for an excuse to leave.
Suddenly, Mace noticed two familiar faces approaching; Loras and his younger sister, Margaery.
The beautiful blossom of Highgarden stood out thanks to the Hightower cut of her expensive dress, which matched her unique beauty, consisting of dark brown hair and eyes.
Josephine was not the only attractive woman drawing men's attention; Margaery seemed to fall into the same category.
Mace grabbed their hands as they passed by and quickly pulled them into their conversation, well, Margaery mostly; Loras was motioned to leave, and the young knight was more than happy to leave all this nonsense.
Margaery sent him a last look that spoke of silent betrayal before she focused on the adults around her; offering a gentle smile.
āMargaery, my dear, have you met Lady Josephine? She is an acquaintance of Lord Tywin and under his protection,ā he introduced.
Immediately, the young flower was intrigued once she realised this woman's connections. After all, she had not been sent to Kingās Landing and playing pretend with the other ladies and lords for nothing.
She was trained to win the biggest game of all, and her dear grandmother waited for her to succeed, using all the ways she had taught her granddaughter while raising her.
āMy Lady,ā Margaery offered a gentle bow. āIt is an honour to meet you finally, from close. I saw you by the War Camp two nights prior, but we were not introduced.ā
āLady Margaery, the honour and pleasure are all mine.ā Josephine copied her, finding that at least talking to another woman was a pleasant small break. āYes, I happened to be travelling under the protection of Lord Tywin, and I was allowed to attend.ā
Immediately, young Margaery went for the attack. āI am afraid I have not heard of many women participating in war councils, my lady.ā
However, Josephine was more than ready to defend herself. āI do not offer advice to war councils, Lady Margaery. My late husband and father had both been trusted advisors to House Lannister, and I share their knowledge, which I rarely give when I am allowed to.ā
Once again, the young flower was intrigued, but this time, not because of her titles but of her skills.
Margaery could easily detect a strong woman in the crowd, with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue that could be used to tell.
And Josephine checked all those boxes, proving to the young Tyrell that perhaps there was a trusty ally she could obtain; a woman who could offer her a greater insight into a world she had not yet access to; the Lannister World.
āMy apologies for your losses, my Lady.ā Margaery added equally quick.
āThank you but it has been quite a while since they took place.ā
āSo, you are alone my Lady? No heirs?ā
Josephine narrowed her eyes faintly, recognising the cunning glow in Margaeryās brown eyes.
The young woman was trying hard to gather information for herself, and she was asking just the right questions under the cover of innocent looks and interest.
"A lot of fine lords are and will be available for the time being, lots of future heirs too,ā Mace commented, trying once again to bring himself or Loras into the picture. Josephine was unsure. āI am sure, Lady Josephine might find company before the years pass.ā
The topic of turning back to marriage quickly annoyed her, and her fake smile began to fade; her facial muscles were too tired to carry it any longer.
She fought hard to keep her composure, her body trapped between the two gossiping Tyrells and the stone wall behind her.
Thankfully for her, her saviour came just in the nick of time.
Tywin joined the festivities as soon as they started. He had removed his armour and was now dressed in his fine black jacket and pants. The pin of the Hand of the King sat proudly on his jacket, visible to the world.
A goblet of wine was quickly served to him, and the Lords flanked his sides as quickly as he was available, many congratulating him on his victories and being the Saviour of the City.
A few available ladies even tried their luck; their compliments were far too targeted, but Tywin knew better than anyone that they were interested in his familyās power and gold.
And much to their misfortune, he was not interested in their fake smiles and overpriced beauty.
He hummed as others talked and commented very little, his emerald, golden-flecked eyes looking around the open gardens filled with people and faint music. He found Josephine among the crowd, passing by men who sent her hungry and lustful looks as she did.
He was unfortunate enough to hear a few comments thrown between groups of men, their topic being none other than Josephine and her availability.
And while Tywin had been the one to push her into the open as a Noble Lady, it did not mean he suddenly had no regrets. Mostly, he was annoyed by what he had heard and felt the bitter taste of jealousy in his mouth.
His frown was evident on his lips and his gaze remained locked on wherever Josephine went, his gaze often turning to a deadly glare at men that whispered as she passed; as if she were fresh meat to be devoured by the fastest one.
Tywin found his grip on his goblet tightening subconsciously.
The necessary attention Josephine was receiving was annoying him more than he wanted or expected. He even felt the need to mentally scold himself for reacting in such a way, as if Josephine were his Lady Wife.
Thankfully for him, the Lords around him quickly left as new ones took their place. Some had descent enough conversation to draw his attention but his gaze often lingered, searching for his partner.
When he saw her again, she was cornered by the two Tyrells, Mace and Margaery. From before, Lord Mace seemed to have a deep interest in her but he was the last lord Tywin would ever consider a threat.
Yet, it was the look Josephine had and the need to look around in need of escape that truly stirred him awake. His instincts to interfere and protect her kicked in, as if they were again trapped in a raging battle.
In battle, they always had an instinct to protect one another; a rather strong instinct that seemed to be awoken even when an imminent threat was nearby.
āIf you will excuse me, my lords,ā he said without waiting for any replies; he marched towards his partner.
On his way there, their eyes connected, and Tywin saw relief flashing in front of her grey orbs. A faint smile slowly formed at the sight of her partner and literal saviour.
He did not often receive this look but found himself more determined to interfere, with dormant instincts leading his actions.
āMy Lords, My ladies,ā he quickly said, joining in their conversation and earning a few bows.
āLord Tywin! What a great time for you to join us,ā Lord Mace greeted as Margaery remained silent, merely studying the older lord.
āI am afraid you will have to excuse us, but Lady Josephine and I need to discuss a matter,ā Tywin said, gently moving his free hand around her waist.
āOf course.ā
Without another word, Tywin started to walk away, and Josephine was more than happy to follow, quickly finding the chance to exhale the more distance they put between them and the Tyrells.
āYou could have come a little sooner; it would not have hurt,ā Josephine commented, making him scoff.
āDonāt tell me the mighty Lannister Lion was having a hard time,ā he mocked, expecting a snarky remark from her.
To Tywinās surprise, Josephine grabbed his goblet and emptied it in one go, leaving a second deep sigh before closing her eyes momentarily.
āBloody Tyrells,ā she mumbled as they managed to find a more isolated and shady area to stand. She noticed how he was looking at her, one eye raising an eyebrow at her odd behaviour. āI apologise, but I could no longer play pretend and ignore advances.ā
His mood for games was gone as quickly as a flame extinguished by strong winds.
āAdvances? Of what kind?ā he asked, his tone rather calm, but his eyes hardened with hatred and annoyance.
Josephine looked at him and tilted her head faintly to the side. āYou know of what kind. I do not recall men being so... lustful back then or so keen on offering themselves and their sons as potential suitors.ā
Immediately, Tywin spotted a laughing Mace and glared at him. āTyrells,ā he spat, his hand itching to act for the fat manās insolence.
If they were not a noble lord and their needed ally, Tywin would have acted in some way. But he knew he had to remain calm and keep both his acting and alliance intact.
āMargaery, of course, has other intentions in mind. She was keen on finding more bout me and my past, to be more precise,ā Josephine said, earning his attention as a servant passed by. She left his empty one and quickly grabbed two more. āI added details to the story, as you asked. I was travelling through the Riverlands after visiting a sick family member when I fell upon your camp. My late husband is your cousin, and both he and my father were on your war councils, explaining my knowledge and presence in the Tyrell Tent two nights prior.ā
Tywin accepted the goblet and kept looking at her, his mood shifting the more Josephine talked. His eyebrows shot up faintly, a smile, and he looked silently surprised, wed by pride as he listened to what she had come up with.
When she was done, Tywin did not hide his reaction. āA very fine tale, one that will be believable enough to knock any suspicions off.ā He commented, making her smile.
This time, her smile was true and not forced.
āThank you. It was not easy, and I do hope this...ā she silently motioned for the small chaos of people. āWill not be a daily occurrence, or you might have to practise excuses to help me escape.ā
At her words, Tywin chuckled, quickly seeing her spirit and sharp tongue return now that she was away from the nobles.
His chuckle was rather silent, but it was evident by the faint movement of his shoulders and the smirk on his lips.
āNever thought the Lioness would require saving from people in fancy clothing,ā he mocked and Josephine was tempted, for a second, to show him her tongue as if they were teenagers once again.
āWell, considering your late interference, I suspect the old Lion of Casterly also had an issue with the same people in fancy clothing,ā she commented, wiping that smirk off his face. āYou did seem in a little tough place before when that group of ladies cornered you.ā
āI believe I had it all handled; otherwise, you would have interfered, as it is your duty to do so.ā He quickly defended himself, amusing her.
āOf course, for noble ladies, interest in your hand and money is a serious threat that would require me to be present.ā
She cornered him, and he knew it.
āDrink your wine, and we will depart soon,ā he told her after a silent minute, indicating temporary defeat. āYou'd better have spent your time gathering useful information than practising on your cold humour.ā
Josephine flashed him a toothy smile. āOh, I assure you. I do.ā
While our heroes mingled with the crowd and acted their part, two pairs of eyes were watching them; most focused on Josephine.
Petyr Baelish, known as Littlefinger and Lord Varys, had spent the majority of this event just watching.
Littlefinger was occasionally congratulated as the new lord of Harrenhal, but he didn't bother joining the crowd.
From afar, he could better monitor things, and he did until Varys approached him. Then, attention turned to the latest court gossip: Josephine.
āLady Josephine is an interesting woman, wouldnāt you say?ā Varys asked, watching her as she talked with Lord Mace.
āInteresting is one thing to call her,ā Petyr agreed, his eyes quickly finding her in the crowd. āShe was present in Harrenhal when I visited, and Lord Tywin even allowed her to remain present while I was introducing the plan."
āWell, little birds talk that she was with him for months while at war and seems to be his acquaintance; a widow, like him,ā the Eunich said, his hands hidden within his big sleeves. āBy the end of this day, I am sure we will have more light shed on her mysterious story.ā
Even to Petyr, it was clear that Varys did not seem to buy what had been spoken so far, and he would not blindly trust any gossip about her. There was something more about her, he could sense it.
āYou believe she is spreading lies? That she hides something?ā Petyr asked, glancing at the shorter man.
Of course, his companion would not offer him a straight answer. āDo you recall the Lannister Legend, Lord Baelish?ā he asked, glancing at him. āSoldiers mentioned a Lioness showing up in the Battle of Blackwater Bay, fighting by Lord Tywinās side.ā
Littlefinger scoffed. āIt is a mere bedtime story that the Lannisters invented years ago to justify their rule over the Westerlands and ensure their minor lords would not try to upstage them,ā he argued, both men looking forward as they caught sight of Tywin moving through the crowds. āSoldiers would believe anything they saw; many would still talk of Renlyās Ghost, claiming it to be a true event.ā
āIn the end, wasnāt the Ghost a man in disguise? What the soldiers talked about, they saw, and they did not make the story up.ā Varys counter argued. āPerhaps the Lioness was also someone physically present in the battle.ā
āIf you claim Lady Josephine to be part of this tale, then was there no mention of her until now? If the legend were said to be true, she should have been by Lord Tywinās side for years now.ā
The two men watched as Tywin guided Josephine away, the two of them talking in lowered tones as they moved to be further away from the group.
They both mentally agree that the Lionās interest in a woman was odd and unlike him.
But that was as far as they would agree on the subject, having little to no evidence to support their claims.
Or so, Petyr though because Varys had one last argument to drop.
āThat is true, Lord Baelish. But one needs to remember that Lord Tywin was not in a real war until this one. His House was not threatened until Lord Tyrion and Ser Jaime got captured.ā
Littlefinger hummed as they both focused in the distance, the faint figures of Josephine and Tywin talking. If they focused really hard, they could also catch a glimpse of Tywin smirking and seeming to be enjoying the conversation with his companion.
It was an odd sight, and from the looks of the duo, it was evident that many thought the same. Yet it still did not explain many, and the two men were not ones to leave things like that.
No, they needed answers, and they did not speak further to agree that research had to be done, in their own ways.
Pairing: Baelor "Breakspear " Targaryen x OFC x Maekar Targaryen
Warnings- fluff, pregnancy cravings
Summary- laenira was hungry and desperately wanted pumkin pie but theres none in the house.
The penthouse was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft sound of someone rummaging through cabinets like a raccoon on a mission.
Laenira stood barefoot in the massive kitchen, one hand resting on her rounded six-month belly, the other yanking open drawer after drawer. Her silver-blonde hair was piled in a messy bun, and she wore one of Baelorās old Harvard hoodies that hung almost to her knees. She was starving. Not normal hungry. The deep, soul-crushing, pregnant kind of hungry that made her want to cry.
And it had to be pumpkin pie. Nothing else. Not apple, not pecan, not even the fancy chocolate one Maekar had bought yesterday. Only pumpkin.
She slammed another cabinet shut with a little growl. āWhere the hell is itā¦ā
Heavy footsteps came down the floating staircase.
Maekar appeared in the doorway wearing nothing but gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, silver-blonde hair loose and messy from sleep. He rubbed a hand over his face, squinting at the kitchen lights sheād turned all the way up.
āThe hell you doing, runt?ā His voice was gravelly with sleep. āItās two in the fucking morning.ā
Laenira turned, lower lip already trembling. āIām looking for pie.ā
Maekar blinked slowly. āPie.ā
āPumpkin pie,ā she clarified, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. āIāve checked everywhere. We donāt have any.ā
He leaned against the island, arms crossed over his broad chest. āBaby, we have half a pantry full of shit. Thereās those fancy cookies Baelor got from Paris. Thereās ice cream in the freezer. Just grab something and come back to bed.ā
Laeniraās eyes welled up. She hated how emotional she got lately, but the craving had her in a chokehold. āI donāt want cookies or ice cream. I want pumpkin pie. The good kind. With the spiced whipped cream on top.ā Her voice cracked. āI almost never get cravings like thisā¦ and now I finally do and we donāt have it and Baelorās gone and I just..ā
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, embarrassed.
Maekar sighed, long and suffering. He walked over and pulled her gently against his chest, one big hand rubbing slow circles on her back, the other resting protectively over her bump.
āAlright, alright. Donāt cry. You know Iām shit when you cry.ā
She sniffed against his bare chest. āI donāt care that itās 2:00 am, Maek. We need pie.ā
He pulled back just enough to look down at her, deadpan. āWe? Iām not the one up at 2am scavenging cabinets for fucking pie.ā
She gave him the saddest, most pathetic look she could muster. The one that always worked on both brothers.
Maekar groaned, tipping his head back. āFucking hell.ā
Ten minutes later he was dressed in a black hoodie and joggers, keys in hand, grumbling the entire time.
āYouāre lucky I love you, runt,ā he muttered as he shrugged on his coat. āIf Baelor was here heād probably have the chef on speed dial and a pie delivered in thirty minutes like the fancy bastard he is.ā
Laenira followed him to the elevator, arms wrapped around her belly. She rose up on her toes and kissed his jaw. āThank you. Iāll make it up to you when you get back.ā
āYeah, yeah.ā He tried to sound annoyed but the corner of his mouth twitched. He cupped her face with both hands and kissed her. āStay on the couch. Donāt climb anything. Text me if there anything else you fucking decied you needā
āI will.ā
He stepped into the elevator, shaking his head. āPumpkin pie at 2:30 in the goddamn morningā¦ā
The doors closed.
Laenira smiled softly to herself, rubbing her belly as she waddled back toward the living room couch.
Summary: Maekar Targaryen comes home exhausted from work, eager for a moment alone with his wife Dyanna Dayne. When he finds her at the kitchen sink, he does what any handsy, loving husband would do, presses up behind her, kisses her neck, and lets his hands wander.
Except itās not Dyanna.
Warning- mm not much it mainly a fluffy idea. Some curing and a bit of light smut talk bit nothing terrible
Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x Dyanna Dayne
Maekar Targaryen slammed the passenger door of his brother Baelorās sleek black SUV with more force than necessary. The late afternoon sun glinted off the suburban driveway of their modest but comfortable two-story home in a quiet neighborhood just outside the city, nothing like the ancestral Summerhall estate their family still technically owned, but perfect for a growing family that valued privacy over pomp.
āTell Dyanna I said hi,ā Baelor called through the open window, his heterochromatic eyes (one brown, one violet) sparkling with that effortless charm Maekar had never quite mastered. āAnd donāt forget the park run. Kidsāll riot if you bail again.ā
Maekar grunted, adjusting the strap of his bag. Heād spent the day at the firm. His silver-blond hair, cut short and neat with just a hint of gold under the light, was slightly mussed from the AC vents. The square-cut beard he kept trimmed framed a face marked by faint pox scars across his cheeks, remnants of a rough childhood illness that only added to his perpetually stern look. Stocky and powerfully built, standing a head shorter than his towering eldest brother. Today, though, he was just tired and looking forward to his wife.
āYeah, yeah. Thanks for the ride.ā He waved Baelor off and headed up the walk, the front door already unlocked, Dyannaās habit when she knew he was due home.
Inside, the house smelled like lemon cleaner and whatever Dyanna had been cooking earlier.
Maekar smiled faintly, the rare, soft curve that only his family saw. Six kids. Daeron (the eldest, currently āfinding himselfā at college), Aerion (the dramatic one), Aemon (the quiet bookworm), Daella, Aegon (Egg to everyone), and little Rhae. Chaos, but his chaos. He dropped his bag by the door and loosened his tie, rolling his shoulders as he followed the clink of dishes toward the kitchen.
There she was at the sink, back to him, long dark hair that fell in thick waves tied in a loose ponytail that brushed her shoulders, the familiar curve of her hips in those comfortable jeans she favored for home days. Dyanna. His wife. The woman whoād somehow tolerated his prickly nature for over a decade now. House Dayne roots gave her that striking Dornish fair skin with a warm, sun-kissed glow, vivid purple eyes that could pin him in place, and a graceful build that still made his blood heat after all these years.
He walked up behind the figure at the sink, not even questioning the slight differences in posture. The hair, the scent of her favorite soap, it all screamed wife. He pressed flush against her back, one large hand settling possessively on her hip while the other slid around to rest just below her ribs. His lips found the curve of her neck, warm and insistent, beard scratching lightly in that way he knew she loved.
"Mmm, you look lovely this afternoon, wife," he murmured, voice low and rough with that flirtatious edge he only used with her. His body molded to hers, heat radiating through his clothes. His hand on her hip wandered lower, giving her ass a playful squeeze. "Missed you. Kids out of the way soon?"
Deria froze. The deep, familiar timbre of Maekar's voice sent a jolt through her. This was not her brother-in-law. Not like this. "Maekar-" she started, voice stuttering as his hand drifted lower, kneading firmly.
He chuckled against her skin, mistaking the squirm for their usual game. "What are you doing?" she squeaked, trying to twist away without dropping the soapy plate. Her cheeks burned.
"Ahh, are we doing another one of the roleplays again?" Maekar purred, clearly delighted. He turned her smoothly in his arms, pulling her flush against his chest now. She looked up, cheeks a deep, burning red, purple eyes wide with panic. Gods, she was adorable when she committed. His hands bold, confident squeezed her ass, pulling her hips tighter to his. "Naughty girl. Playing hard to get today? I like it." He leaned down, lips aiming for hers with that hungry intent.
Deria dodged, turning her head sharply. "Maekar, wait-"
He huffed, a playful, frustrated sound, and tried again, one hand tangling gently in her dark hair. This was their dance, the chase, that always led somewhere fun.
The kitchen door swung open. āDeria? Did you want to grab dinner too while weāre out at theā¦oh.ā
Dyanna Targaryen stood in the doorway, one eyebrow arched high, Little Rhea on her hip. Her hair was in the same loose ponytail, her purple eyes sparkling with mirth. Identical to the woman in his arms, save for the faint differences only he knew intimately: the tiny beauty mark just below her left ear, the way her smile always reached her eyes first. Deria was the younger twin by a mere few minutes, but the resemblance was uncanny. Sheād been traveling for nearly a year, backpacking through Europe, sending postcards and the occasional chaotic video call. Visiting to see her nephews and nieces, apparently.
"Dy, please get your husband," Deria said, voice high and mortified. She pushed against his chest. "He is squeezing my ass."
Maekarās face went slack. He looked at Dyanna, actually Dyanna, then down at Deria, still pinned flush against his chest, her hands fisting in his shirt. Realization hit like a freight train. He shoved himself back so fast he nearly tripped over a stool, hands flying up. "Fuck!" he hissed, face flooding with rare, vivid color, turning his neck and ears crimson. The pox scars stood out stark against the flush. "Deria! I thought,..seven hells."
Dyanna burst into giggles, shifting Rhea on her hip. The little girl, oblivious, waved at her aunt. Aegon stared wide-eyed at his dad's rare fluster. "Oh no, you didn't," Dyanna laughed, covering her mouth. "Maekar, you absolute disaster."
Deria glared at her sister, still red as a beet, arms crossed protectively. "It's not funny, Dyanna! He was kissing my neck and everything. Your husband is handsy as hell."
"I know," Dyanna said, winking at Maekar, who looked ready to sink into the floor. "Trust me, I know."
Maekar ran a hand through his silver-gold hair, muttering curses under his breath āI didnāt know you were here.ā
Deria crossed her arms, still flushed but starting to smirk despite herself. āYeah, well, surprise visit. Been a year. Figured Iād pop in, see the rugrats, help out. Not get molested by my brother-in-law.ā
"I-gods, Deria, I'm sorry, I..I thought-ā He gestured helplessly between them.
Deria softened a fraction, though she was still glaring daggers at her giggling twin. "Apology accepted, but next time, maybe confirm it's actually your wife before the full grope session?"
Listen, I don't know whether you started sacrificing virgins before I officially requested it, but I've written 23k words in one week and accidentally created an entire extra chapter.
The good news is that I'm now editing and translating, which means the update should be arriving within the next few days.
At this rate, I'm not saying the sacrifices worked... but I'm not not saying it either.
When your land is plagued by wars and death becomes an everyday thing, your hands learn to become more stable than a maester's.
You learn to look into a killer's eyes and understand forgiveness. You learn that justice is a heavy sword to be carried.
But when you meet a Targaryen Prince burdened by duty and grief, your souls vibrate to the same frequency. And perhaps, the world is not as dark as you both originally thought.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warnings: None
Chapter XXVII: LINK
Chapter XXIX: LINK
Chapter XXViII: Tensions All Around, part 2
Unexpectedly, your frustration softened.
Not completely, but enough.
Before fully thinking through the gesture, your hand moved quietly across the table and settled gently atop his.
Warm skin met warm skin.
Not because the touch itself was improper, but because it was you who initiated it.
You, who had guarded your space so carefully since arriving within the Red Keep.
You, who rarely reached for others first, unless comforting the boys.
And now your hand rested over his as though the gesture had come naturally to you.
As though touching him no longer felt entirely forbidden.
And Baelor froze instantly beneath your touch.
You felt it immediately: The slight inhale he took. The subtle tension shifting through his hand beneath your own.
Slowly, he looked back toward you, and you smiled.
Not politely.
Not carefully.
Genuinely.
With the same softness you reserved only for the boys.
āThank you for trusting me,ā you said quietly, giving his hand the faintest squeeze as though emphasising the sincerity behind your words.
Because you did not lie merely to soothe people, that had never been who you were.
You spoke honestly, openly, reserving that kind of sincerity for only a very small number of people throughout your life.
And despite everything, the misunderstandings, the confrontation, the frustration, you truly were thankful for his trust.
The King had been right.
You were a stranger from a small, forgotten village with no noble blood, no family name powerful enough to shield you, no wealth or status to justify the place you now occupied within the Red Keep.
Yet Baelor had entrusted you with the people most precious to him.
His sons. His future kings.
Not because of your birth or appearance.
But because somewhere beneath all those layers of grief and stubbornness and fear, he had seen you clearly.
And because he had seen you clearlyā¦
He trusted you enough to place his entire world within your hands.
The words seemed to strike him harder than any accusation ever had.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
The candles crackled softly nearby while distant wind brushed faintly against the tower windows, yet somehow the rest of the world itself seemed to fade quietly away around the two of you.
Baelorās eyes searched yours silently. Closer now... Far too close.
Sitting side by side at the table, the distance that usually remained between your chairs had somehow disappeared without either of you noticing when exactly it happened.
Warmth mingled where your hands remained pressed together atop the wood, skin against skin, neither one attempting to pull away first.
Your breathing slowed faintly without permission as awareness settled heavily between you in a way neither of you could ignore any longer.
Not merely comfort. Not merely affection.
Something warmer.
Something dangerous.
You noticed his gaze fall then, Briefly, instinctively, toward your lips.
The movement was subtle enough that another person may never have caught it, yet you did. You always did.
Observation had long ago become instinct after the war, sharpened by months spent reading expressions, movements, and silences before danger could fully reveal itself.
And suddenly you became painfully aware of your own breathing.
Of the closeness between your faces.
Of the warmth of his hand beneath yours.
Of the way candlelight softened the harsher edges of his features until he looked less like the feared Hand of the King and more like simplyā¦ Baelor.
Your lips parted faintly as you inhaled, tongue brushing unconsciously across suddenly dry skin.
Baelor noticed.
You knew he did by the subtle shift within his expression afterwards, by the way something darker entered his gaze almost imperceptibly.
And had a mirror stood before you then, you suspected your own eyes would have betrayed the same dangerous softness.
Neither of you moved away, not immediately.
And for one suspended, dangerous moment, you genuinely wondered whether he would finally close the remaining distance between you.
Part of you waited for it.
Another part questioned whether perhaps you should be the one to move first instead.
Not because of love, but because closeness itself had become intoxicating.
The shared quiet. The trust that was slowly built between you. The warmth lingering after weeks spent learning one another piece by piece beneath guarded conversation and careful restraint.
And Baelor...
Gods, Baelor looked tempted.
You could see it openly now, within the tension tightening subtly across his face, within the way he leaned forward almost unconsciously until barely a breath remained between you.
Your eyes drifted upward toward his, silently questioning...Waiting.
For one terrible moment, Baelor almost forgot every reason he should stop.
The crown.
His position.
Your fragile trust.
The risk of ruining whatever had slowly begun growing between you.
All of it faded beneath the simple, devastating reality that you were still there.
Still close. Still looking at him. Still waiting.
A wiser woman would have pulled away then.
Would have stepped back before the moment could become something irreversible. Yet you did not.
No.
You remained exactly where you were, equally tempted despite every warning your mind attempted to offer.
Your gaze dropped briefly toward his mouth as well, drawn helplessly toward the shape of lips now close enough that you could make out every faint crease and shadow softened beneath candlelight.
You were focused on his lips as well, drawn helplessly toward their closeness now that the distance between you has nearly vanished entirely.
They were softer-looking than you expected, parted faintly with a restrained breath, every subtle detail illuminated beneath warm candlelight.
His breath brushed warmly across your skin. Close enough that it sent a faint shiver through you despite the heat lingering within the room.
The distance between you narrowed further somehow, impossibly intimate now.Ā
The air between you had changed completely now, heavy with something neither of you had openly acknowledged before tonight.
A single movement was all it would take.
The faintest tilt forward. Nothing more.
And you would kiss him.
For one suspended heartbeat, you truly thought one of you might finally do it.
That perhaps Baelorās restraint would finally fracture beneath the closeness, beneath your touch still resting over his hand, beneath the dangerous softness settling openly between you after weeks of carefully guarded distance.
Or perhaps your own restraint would fail first.
Because gods... You were tempted too.
Far more than you wished to admit.
Yet you did not pull away.
No.
You stayed exactly where you were, temptation curling slowly beneath your skin despite every sensible thought attempting to rise above it.
The thought unsettled you almost as much as it thrilled you.
You had not expected this when arriving within the Red Keep.
Had not expected quiet suppers and soft laughter and lingering looks to slowly become something capable of making your pulse race whenever he stepped too close.
Yet here you were.
Sitting before a prince of the realm while openly wondering what his mouth would feel like against yours.
Your eyes lifted back toward his.
Baelor looked equally lost within the moment now, whatever careful composure he usually carried around himself thinning visibly with each passing second.
You could see it in the tension gathered across his shoulders. In the meantime, his breathing had slowed in the restraint tightening behind those mismatched eyes fixed entirely upon you.
He leaned forward another fraction without seeming to realise it himself, until only a breath separated you.
Your own breath caught softly within your throat.
A wise woman would have stopped this long ago.
Would have moved away.
Would have laughed softly and broken the moment before it grew dangerous enough to consume either of you truly.
Yet neither of you moved.
You remained there, silent and waiting, your hand still resting over his while your thoughts tangled hopelessly between caution and desire.
Your gaze dropped once more toward his lips. And for one reckless moment, you nearly closed the distance yourself.
You nearly did it.
The realisation flashed through you so suddenly that it left heat rushing upward along your neck and cheeks alike.
Baelor noticed, You knew he did.
Not because he spoke, but because something shifted within his expression immediately afterwards. Something darker. Hungrier.
The restraint in him was thinning further with every heartbeat spent this close to you.
And gods... The way he looked at you then nearly undid you entirely.
Like a man trying desperately to remember himself while every instinct begged him to forget.
His thumb shifted faintly beneath your hand. The smallest movement imaginable, yet somehow it grounded him again.
Slowly, painfully slowly, Baelor inhaled through his nose. Not like this, he thought.
Not while emotions still lingered raw between you after conflict and confusion and vulnerability, neither of you fully understood yet.
Not when trust itself still felt fragile enough to bruise.
The realisation visibly hurt him.
You could see it.
See the battle waged silently behind his eyes while temptation fought against restraint.
And in the end... Restraint won.
Baelor pulled back first, not abruptly or coldly... Reluctantly.
As though every inch of distance forced between you cost him effort.
The sudden absence of his warmth altered the room immediately, leaving behind something breathless and strangely hollow in its place.
Then gently, almost carefully, he withdrew his hand from beneath yours as though fearful roughness might shatter the fragile atmosphere entirely.
You looked downward briefly afterwards, attempting to steady your breathing before the silence swallowed you both whole.
And the first thing that escaped your mouth was: āYour mother frightens me far more than your father.ā
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
An awkward attempt to break the unbearable tension lingering between you.
Because deep down, you feared that if the silence stretched even a moment longerā¦ Neither of you would have stopped a second time.
For one heartbeat, Baelor merely stared at you.
Then suddenly, softly... He laughed. Real laughter. Warm and low and utterly genuine.
The sound eased the tension coiled tightly around your chest almost instantly, allowing air back into the room where moments before there had only been heat and dangerous silence.
āShe frightens most men at court as well,ā he admitted, amusement lingering beneath his voice. āYou are hardly alone.ā
You exhaled a faint laugh of your own, grateful for the return of something lighter between you. āShe looked at me as though she already knew every secret I ever had.ā
Baelorās smile deepened subtly at that, softer now than before. āThen you should consider yourself fortunate,ā he replied. āUsually she waits before doing that.ā
A groan escaped you beneath your breath while he chuckled again quietly, and somehow the heaviness hanging over supper gradually softened afterwards into something gentler.
Easier.
Though never entirely harmless again.
After supper, you left the Tower of the Hand with a lighter heart yet a far more clouded mind.
While the change of topic and the occasional laughter had eased part of the lingering tension between you, it would have been foolish to pretend the moment near the table had truly disappeared.
It followed you, quietly, persistently.
Like warmth lingering upon skin long after a hand had already pulled away.
The halls of the Red Keep had grown quieter by the time you descended the tower.
Torches flickered softly against stone walls while passing servants lowered their voices beneath the lateness of the hour.
Somewhere far below, beyond the thick castle walls, Kingās Landing still breathed with distant life and noise, yet up within the higher levels of the Keep, night had finally begun settling properly.
You barely noticed the walk back toward your chambers.
Your thoughts remained elsewhere entirely.
Back in the solar.
Back beside the hearth.
Back at the table, the distance between you and Baelor had nearly vanished altogether.
By the time you finally entered your room, the silence greeting you felt almost too loud after the intimacy of the evening.
For a brief moment after closing the door behind you, you simply stood there in silence, fingers still resting loosely against the wood while the evening replayed itself endlessly within your mind.
Then your gaze drifted instinctively toward the armchair near the hearth.
Toward the dark cloak still folded carefully across its back.
You had almost forgotten about it entirely during supper.
Almost.
Slowly, you stepped closer before thought could stop you.
Your fingertips brushed lightly against the heavy fabric, tracing absentmindedly near the clasp where his hands had secured it around your shoulders upon the beach.
And instantly, the memory returned with dangerous clarity.
Warm fingers at the back of your neck.
His closeness.
His breath mingled with the sea breeze while he stood far too near.
Your stomach tightened faintly. Gods.
You pulled your hand back almost immediately afterwards as though the fabric itself had suddenly become too warm beneath your touch.
The hearth still burned softly near the wall, filling the chamber with gentle warmth and amber light.
Ellyn had clearly come and gone already while you were away; fresh water rested beside the bed, blankets properly turned down, candles lowered for the night.
Spur barely lifted his head from where he slept before the hearth before deciding you were not interesting enough to abandon sleep for.
You almost envied him.
Slowly, you changed for bed and slipped beneath the covers, yet the softness of the mattress and warmth trapped beneath heavy blankets did little to quiet the restless beating of your heart.
Instead, you found yourself staring upward at the ceiling long after extinguishing the final candle beside your bed.
And as you lay there within the dark, your thoughts returned helplessly toward the same moment again and again.
The closeness.
Gods...
You always sat in the same chairs during supper.
Always maintained the same careful distance between you, enough space to preserve propriety and caution and all the invisible lines neither of you openly crossed.
Yet tonight that space had somehow disappeared without either of you noticing.
For one suspended moment, it truly had.
You swore you could still feel the lingering heat of him near your skin even now, despite him being nowhere close.
And his gazeā¦
The darkness that had entered his mismatched eyes while looking at your face, then your lips.
The restraint is visible there.
The way he had stopped himself.
A muffled groan escaped you before you shamelessly dragged your pillow over your face in embarrassment.
You would be a liar if you claimed the same thoughts had not crossed your own mind.
Gods, you had been tempted. Far more than you wished to admit aloud even to yourself.
Part of you had genuinely wanted to close that final distance just to see what would happen.
To discover whether he would follow or retreat.
Whether his lips would feel as warm as the rest of him did, standing close enough to breathe against your mouth.
āBy the Sevenā¦ā you mumbled weakly against the pillow, suddenly feeling like an utter fool.
You were no sheltered maiden untouched by men or unfamiliar with attraction.
You had kissed boys growing up, had nearly lost both dignity and clothing within barns and hidden fields at least twice before one of your siblings ruined the moment through catastrophic timing.
You understood desire.
Understood temptation.
And because you understood it, you recognised exactly what had nearly happened tonight.
It was just the moment, you told yourself firmly. Just closeness. Just emotion. Just the shared vulnerability after difficult days and softer conversations.
Nothing more.
You repeated the thought like a prayer despite how unconvincing it sounded even within your own mind.
Because deep down, another truth unsettled you far more.
You had wanted him to kiss you.
And perhaps what unsettled you most was not even the almost kiss itself... But the realisation that you had been the one to reach for him first.
You had touched his hand without thinking.
Had offered comfort without hesitation.
Had sat there and allowed the closeness between you to grow instead of stopping it while you still could.
The memory alone sent a fresh rush of heat across your face beneath the pillow.
Not the Hand of the King.
Not Prince Baelor Targaryen.
Justā¦ him.
The man who looked at you as though he truly saw you beneath every wall you carried.
The man whose ridiculous need to care for you both irritated and warmed you in equal measure.
The man whose mismatched eyes seemed to follow you long after leaving every room.
You groaned softly again and buried your face deeper into the pillow as though the fabric itself might smother the humiliating thoughts before they multiplied further.
Unfortunately for you... Baelor fared no better.
Far above within the Tower of the Hand, he still sat awake long after your departure, one arm draped heavily across the chair while dying embers flickered weakly within the hearth before him.
His goblet rested forgotten within his hand, Untouched.
He had not moved for quite some time now.
Instead, he simply stared at the fire while replaying the evening endlessly within his mind, no matter how hard he attempted to think of literally anything else.
The way you had thanked him.
Gods.
That alone had nearly undone him.
Your hand over his had felt impossibly warm and soft against his skin, smaller than his own yet strong all the same.
Not the delicate, untouched softness noble ladies prized so highly, but real softness marked faintly by traces of labour and life. Human. Yours.
And your faceā¦
The candlelight had transformed you into something dangerous entirely without meaning to.
Your eyes had darkened while staring at him.
Your lips parted softly beneath unsteady breath.
The warmth in your expression as you thanked him carried such genuine sincerity that he felt almost ashamed sitting beneath it.
Baelor groaned quietly and passed one hand slowly down his face in frustration as though the gesture itself might somehow drag him back toward reason.
His trousers remained painfully tight against his groin, every thought of your face and your closeness only worsening the situation further.
He ignored it stubbornly, refusing himself even the smallest relief.
This was punishment enough for what he had almost done.
Idiot, he thought bitterly while leaning his head back against the chair. You could have frightened her away entirely.
He was no longer some green boy ruled blindly by lust and curiosity. He was a prince of the realm. A father. A widower.
And you...
You were the woman he trusted most with his sons.
The woman he had nearly lost once already through his own failures and misguided attempts to protect what never needed fixing in the first place.
And now here he sat, long after midnight, haunted not only by guilt over what almost happenedā¦
But by the terrible realisation that part of him desperately wished it had.
He had been tempted. Gods, he had been tempted.
The closeness between you.
Ā The trust.
The softness in your eyes while thanking him.
You could have pulled away at any moment.
Could have stood. Broken the moment. Left him sitting there alone with his shame.
You had not.
And worse still... You had touched him first.
Not out of duty. Not politeness. Not an obligation. But gently. Openly. Willingly.
The memory of your hand settling over his had undone something within him far more thoroughly than the almost kiss ever could.
Because for the first time since meeting you, Baelor could no longer pretend the longing existed only within himself.
You had stayed.
And that truth tormented him almost as much as the memory of your lips only inches away from his own.
Slowly, Baelor set the untouched goblet aside and released a long, exhausted breath into the empty room.
For one reckless fleeting moment, Baelor nearly stood.
The impulse came suddenly and without reason; sharp enough that his body had already shifted forward before sense finally caught hold of him again.
He could still picture you leaving his solar only moments earlier.
The sound of your footsteps fading down the tower.
The softness lingering within your eyes before you disappeared beyond the door.
Part of him wanted to follow.
Gods, part of him wanted to stop you before distance and walls and propriety returned between you again.
To call you back.
To finish what almost happened between the two of you at the table.
To let you touch him more.
The thought alone sent fresh guilt crashing heavily through him.
With a quiet curse beneath his breath, Baelor leaned back into the chair once more and dragged one tired hand across his face.
Idiot.
He did not look toward his bed, did not even attempt sleep.
Because deep down, while replaying the evening again and again beneath dying firelight, he already understood something dangerous neither of you had spoken aloud.
Neither of you had truly wanted him to pull away.
And that realisation would haunt him far longer than he would ever dare admit.
