Idk

I like to write so that’s it really

[yipyupp]

Dornish flower (5)

(Baelor x reader - I name the character Ilya cos I hate using Y/N, but no physical description given except female so can just replace in your head)

The meeting runs longer than it should. She sits in the council chamber, resisting the urge to fidgit. The air feels thick as always, despite the fact she’s made permanent residence at the window seat now.

Voices wear thin by the end of it, patience softened into something that resembles polite resignation more than agreement.

She speaks when required. Listens when not. Keeps her gaze lowered more often than she means to. She doesn’t have the energy today, or the confidence perhaps. She’s not sure which.

Eventually, chairs begin to scrape. Subtle push backs from the table at first. Then it gathers into full retreat. The quiet, implicit signal of an ending.

Men rise. Papers are collected. Conversations resume in low, measured tones, as if nothing of consequence has been said at all.

She waits. As she has learned to do. Not rushing out, looking too eager to leave as to expose the impolite impatience of youth the men must expect her to have. It is better, leaving last. And easier than navigating the small clusters of conversation, the polite inquiries, the lingering goodbyes in the hallway.

When she finally lifts her gaze from the papers she’s collecting, he is still seated. Of course he is. A lingering lord leans toward him, speaking in a low voice. Baelor listens, still, composed, offering a reply that is too quiet to carry. Another follows. Then another. Each leaves in turn. The burden of a prince, she supposes.

Eventually the room empties around him. Around them. But not entirely. Still some lords lingering by the door, swapping goodbyes and final notes. She keeps gathering her papers, perhaps slower and more carefully than necessary. Aligns their edges. Adjusts what does not need adjusting. She does not wish to leave until those lingering lords do; does not wish to engage in polite small talk while walking down the corridors.

“You stayed quiet today.”

She stills.

“Your Grace.”

“Ilya.”

Oh. No way out now, then. The solid acknowledgment sits there. What to say to that? He does not speak though, does not make it easier for her as he usually does.

Why? Help me.

She can’t bring herself to look at him immediately, but mercifully finds words.

“I spoke when it was required.”

“You had more to say.”

Quick. As if the rebuttal was already on his tongue before she finished. Before she even spoke, perhaps. Not exactly harsh, but firm. Not scolding, but solid. Point taken.

A pause. She lifts her gaze then. Meets those mismatched eyes that are studying her intently, unwaveringly. No mercy today then, it seems.

“And you know that?”

The words escape her. Almost argumentative, defensive. She inwardly cringes. But they’re out now. Too late.

“I do.”

The rebuttal is instant once more. Firm, unyielding. Not harsh though, never harsh. Not challenging per se, but probing. That same steady certainty she has come to recognise. She exhales softly. Buying time.

“I am still learning what is… permitted.”

A chair leg shifts faintly against stone. He rises. Not abruptly, just steady. Controlled.

“As am I,” he says.

What?

Her brows draw, just slightly. He steps down from the raised dais. The distance between them shortens, not by much, but enough that it is felt. He’s tall, imposing, but steady.

Silence settles again. She can’t find a response to that one. And doesn’t have the courage to question it. Just pathetically returns to her papers, if only to give her shakey hands something to do. Busy, be busy.

One page slips. It happens quickly. Too quickly to catch with grace. She reaches. So does he. Their hands meet at the same edge. Not a brush. Contact. Unmistakable. And then stillness.

The parchment bends faintly between their fingers, caught. For a moment, neither of them moves. She becomes aware of it all at once. The warmth of his hand. The weight of it. The coolness of his rings brushing against her skin. The fact that he has not let go.

Oh gods. Her fingers loosen. But his do not. Not immediately. Just long enough that she cannot simply lift her hand away. She has to draw it back. Too quickly, almost harshly. Her gut twists uncomfortably. Her internal monologue just a string of curse words.

The edge of the parchment drags lightly against her fingertips as she frees them. A quiet, papery sound in the stillness. Then.. he releases it. As if nothing has happened.

She steadies the page against the table. Finding it more difficult than it should be. The silence presses on her like a physical thing. Something in her rib cage feels like it’s straining, pulling her ribs apart.

“You should say it,” he says.

Her breath holds, but he continues.

“In council.”

Ah. Of course. She nods once, the weight of her head feeling apparent all of a sudden.

“I will. When it matters.”

Measured, for once. She thanks whatever is watching above for that.

A pause from him that feels painfully intentional. His solid gaze lingering on her a fraction longer.

“It always does.”

The thing within her chest tightens at that. She lowers her eyes, she cannot hold that gaze and keep her own measured. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to believe that it is mere politeness, kindness extended.

“I will keep that in mind.”

“I have no doubt.”

Another silence. Shorter this time. But less certain, less intentional. As though he hasn’t quite finished his sentence. It feels strange, unbalancing. That solid presence he emanates suddenly seeming somehow uncertain now.

She gathers the rest of her papers. More quickly now, rushed.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

“Ilya.”

Her name again.

She turns, but not fully. Her body still angled to the door, just her gaze meeting his over her shoulder. A mistake. Those mismatched eyes are locked on her, glancing over her face as if searching for something. It feels exposing, unnerving. Her gut twists in that familiar way but he does not speak, just an incline of the head once his gaze finishes its soft drift across her face. Did he find what he was searching for? Impossible to say.

She returns the incline. And leaves. Quickly. The corridor beyond feels cooler. Wider. Louder. The last lords dispersing. Only when she is well past the chamber doors does she slow.

Later, in her rooms, she lays the parchment flat across her desk. Her fingers smooth over its surface. There, near the edge, a faint crease. Not deep or damaging. But there. Where their hands met. Her hand stills over it.

She could press it out. Easily. Smooth it out. But she does not. Instead, she turns the page slightly so the mark falls just out of direct view. And leaves it there.

She tells herself she will not think on it. But that night proves her a liar. The corridors seem quieter when she opens the door to her chambers. Not empty, but softened. Less insistent. She needs to walk. Where? It does not matter. Just needs to do something without thought, be somewhere else.

“Jane, you may retire.”

A pause from the girl. She does not usually get dismissed this early in the evening.

“My lady? Is everything alright?”

No

“Yes. Take the evening for yourself. Perhaps the library? I just wish for a walk and then sleep.”

Jane hesitates, as if sensing something, then bows her head. She chooses, once again, to stay behind that line. Ilya doesn’t blame her.

She walks without aim. Or perhaps her mind convinces her that she does. Because, of course, she ends up in the gardens, walking down the southernmost path to those flowers. Dornish flowers.

The night has changed them. Colours muted, shapes softened. As though the flowers less certain of themselves, their petals drawn in, guarded. She pauses to study them a moment. They should be in the cold desert night. Not this mild evening air. Perhaps they know that, too.

“You favour them in the evening.”

She startles, a slight jolt in her body.

No. Yes. Of course.

“Your Grace.”

Instinctual.

“Ilya.”

She turns. He is already there. Standing solidly. Had he only just arrived? Or had she not even noticed him across the path?

“I did not expect—”

The words start coming. He cuts them off though, mercifully.

“No, you did not.”

A hint of amusement in those mismatched eyes, a slight upturn of the mouth.

“I apologise for startling you”

She makes herself return the smile, it feels tight though, strained. She’s at a disadvantage. Like always. She should bid him a polite good evening, and keep walking. Say she must retire. But she does not. The words start coming again, running from her as always.

“They are different at night,”

Why say that? Stop talking.

“They are.”

His voice is soft, as if sensing her unease. That makes it worse.

His gaze mercifully shifts to the flowers. “They close,” he adds. “The petips.”

“Yes”

It slips out too quickly. Too small. A filler, more than an answer. She feels it immediately, sharp and self-aware, the kind of sound that offers nothing and lingers anyway. He does not comment. No correction. No indulgence. Only a quiet hum. That hum.

“You remember” It escapes her. He remembers.

Of course. Of course he remembers that. Of all things, this. Not politics. Not counsel. Not anything of consequence. The flowers. A passing remark spoken without thought, and yet it stayed. Her throat tightens, not from emotion she can name, but from the weight of being kept in memory in such a quiet way.

“I remember the things you tell me, Ilya.”

It feels like something between being held gently and stumbling off a cliff. She shifts slightly, feeling the gravel crunch between her feet. Grounding herself.

He moves closer. Not quite beside her. But enough that the space between them is no longer neutral. And looks at the flowers, his gaze flickering over them slowly as if they’re something of importance. Something worth taking time to observe properly.

“They close up” Her voice feels strained. Just filling the silence, once more, with something already established. It feels pathetic.

“Less exposed,” he replies as if she hasn’t said something so pathetically obvious.

“I prefer them like this. There’s a beauty in it”Pointless words, but honest. She does. Something about the way the petals close into themselves, huddle together as if seeking warmth, covering their delicate beauty from the outside world together. An alliance, of sorts.

A hum. His hum. Quieter, more thoughtful than usual. His gaze still on the flowers.

“There is a beauty about it. But I find I prefer them open, unafraid.”

Silence settles. Her gut twists. She glances sidelong at him, but his gaze remains on the flowers as if pondering something.

“You left quickly,” he says after a moment, his voice quiet, less measured. Vulnerable in a way she hasn’t yet heard, but still solid.

The air feels heavy all of a sudden. Yes, she did. Should she not have?

“There was no reason to remain.”

“There was.” His voice so soft yet so solid.

That lands. Heavy. Her breath catches. The thing within her ribs pushes outwards again, harshly. The only mercy he seems to provide is keeping his gaze fixed on the flowers instead of her.

“I did not realise that”

The words escape her without thinking, but for once she’s glad of it. The silence would have been infinitely worse.

“I know.”

The certainty again. Unmoved. Unquestioning. Just firm and unyielding.

She looks at him then. Properly. The way his mismatched eyes flicker across the flowers, the silver peppering of his hair in the dim light of the dying evening.

“And what was it, then?”

The question slips out before she can temper it. She didn’t want to know. Did she? Didn’t want an answer. And yet it came out anyway. Perhaps to dull the silence.

He does not answer immediately. But his gaze finally flickers away from the flowers, back to her. He steps closer. Not enough to crowd. But enough that she feels it.

“That I had not finished speaking with you”

Her gaze can’t hold his, immediately dropping to the flowers as if they’ll speak next. There is nothing to say to that, except ask again, what else did he have to say? But this time, mercifully, her mouth does not take over. Instead the silence soaks in.

Her hand shifts slightly at her side, nothing deliberate, nothing reaching. He notices. Of course he does. Mismatched eyes flickering down to the movement as if drawn. And when his hand moves, it is without hesitation. Not to take hers. Not to hold. Just passing, close enough that his fingers brush lightly against the back of her hand as though it were nothing more than the narrowing of space.

Contact. Brief. Unavoidable. But not accidental. And not meant to seem it. The warm dryness of his hand, the cool brush of his rings. But he does not pause. Does not acknowledge it.

“You measure yourself too carefully,”

Her pulse stumbles over itself. What? Well not enough, it seems. Or she’d be in her chambers by now, with Jane, focusing on parchment or brush.

“That is expected of me.”

It comes out smoothly, practiced. Of this, she is sure. The script of court is second nature to her. She can’t trip up on this. Never has, never will.

“By whom?”

Oh. She has no answer. Everyone, perhaps?

He watches her for a moment, not pressing. But she feels that steady gaze on her. Solid but not trapping.

“You are not in Dorne,” he speaks. Softly, saving her.

“No.”

“And so you behave as though you must ask permission to exist within the room.”

That hit her somewhere in her stomach.

Her jaw tightens slightly. Standing somewhere between automatic annoyance of being analysed so plainly, and childish vulnerability that coils somewhere deep within her gut.

“I do not ask permission.”

A lie, a pathetic, defensive rebuttal that surprises even her. He does not falter, though. No outward reaction. Not even a raise of the brow. Just a firm presence beside her.

“No. But you wait for it. You need not. My permission is always given, regarding you”

Softly delivered, but it feels like another blow to the gut. Her breath stills.

The quiet of the gardens presses in around her. Too much. It feels like too much.

She steps back. Not far. Just enough to put space where there had not been. Not even a conscious choice. Just instinctual. This is too off script. Too much.

“I should return”

The words feel strained, soft. He inclines his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. A flicker of something behind those eyes that seems akin to disappointment. Not harsh disappointment, just a soft expression.

“If you wish.”

Not dismissal. Not command. Just a choice. Control handed back over. She nods once, her neck feeling stiff “Goodnight, Your Grace.”

“Ilya.”

Her name again. Soft spoken. Comforting almost, in its tone.

“Please sleep well”

Please. Deliberate in its usage. Too deliberate. She can’t meet his gaze, like a coward. Just turns back down the path. Not looking back. That thing in her ribs aching as if in protest.

But she feels it. That steady awareness focused on her. Unmoved. Certain. Waiting. Not for her to return, she’s retreating for the night, that much is clear. But for her to understand.

Part 4 link:

Post by @yipyupp · 1 link

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 16 · Dornish flower (4) · (Baelor x reader. I hate writing Y/N so named the character Ilya, no physical description given excep

[yipyupp]

Dornish flower (4)

(Baelor x reader. I hate writing Y/N so named the character Ilya, no physical description given except female though so can replace in your head)

Her chambers feel quieter than usual that evening. Not peaceful. Just… still. The occasional footsteps of someone passing by in the hallway, a muffled voice from above or below, and the air. The air that feels thicker than usual.

Jane has long since settled into her corner, another piece of embroidery she’s mending in her lap, though her needle moves slower than usual, as if she too is feeling the thickness of the air. The resistance on her arms. Like swimming.

Or perhaps it’s all in Ilya’s mind. Probably.

She sits by the window. The book resting in her hands, heavy and unopened. She gazes at the cover for longer than necessary, imagining his fingers flicking through the pages, mismatched eyes scanning the words. Hunched over a desk in the library, maybe? Or laid in bed, a fire crackling, after a day of court? She tears her mind from the visions. Stupid.

The roots of the old tree scream.

He said that was his favourite poem in there.

The title does not sound soft. Not romantic. Not the sort of thing one admits easily. It sounds… pained perhaps? Solitary maybe? Intimate definitely.

Her thumb brushes along the spine.

Then, finally, she opens it.

The first poems don’t hold her. Not really. She struggles to get absorbed, to feel the words, take them in. As she so often does.

She feels the frustration growing. The yearning that she could just drown in the words like others do, like Jane almost definitely could. But there’s a distance, always. A distance she’s always felt between her and words on paper. They rarely come close to her. Rarely approach her soul. And for some reason she can never seem to approach them herself. Just treads water, unable to sink.

Her eyes keep moving across the words, but her mind drifts; back to the gardens, to the warmth, to the way his voice lowers when he speaks something with a smile. That thoughtful hum.

She turns another page. And another. Until she doesn’t. She knows before she reads the title fully. A feeling first. Something pushing out beneath her ribs. Her eyes scan the lines slower this time. Carefully. This one has meaning. He chose this one. He wanted her to read this one. Wanted her to know this one was his.

The roots of the old tree wail

deep beneath the quiet earth

not in fear of reaching,

but in mourning of what was reached.

They remember warmth

in a place that has none.

They remember reaching

and being answered.

Now they stretch through emptiness,

learning its shape by heart,

curling around nothing

as if it were still there.

Locked in a single room,

With only the ghost of that touch,

and I still would not want for the world outside.

And when they finally tear free,

when the soil gives way,

and the old tree falls

it is not peace that they seek.

Let it hurt.

Let it split them open at the core,

so the earth might know

they held something once

worth breaking for.

She stares at the page for a moment. Something feels heavy. Something else inside aches, and she’s not quite sure what. It hurts. Hurts in a strange way that feels something like peace. A paradox within her.

She reads it again. Slower. And again. The ache doesn’t stop. Doesn’t go away. Like a phantom limb.

Locked in a single room,

With only the ghost of that touch,

and I still would not want for the world outside.

That part. That part aches the most. In a strange, unsettling way.

So why keep reading it? Why keep the ache there? Where is the self preservation in that?

It makes no sense and yet perfect sense. She sinks underneath the words finally, and reaches out to touch an emotion she can only describe as profoundly, devastatingly human.

The room feels different now. Like everything is so far away and yet so close at the same time. Her fingers tighten slightly around the spine of the book, tracing down the length.

It is not a long poem in comparison to the previous ones, which reach out to bridge multiple pages. Nor is it particularly complex. Not grand.

But something about it lingers. Like moss growing within her rib cage.

Uncomfortable, but strangely right.

“My lady?”

Jane’s voice is soft. Careful. Like how one might call out to wake a child from a deep sleep. Gentle.

She blinks, as though surfacing, her head breaking through the silence of the water and into the rush of the air once more.

“Yes?” Her voice feels hoarse, strained. Tired? Is she?

“Is it… good?”

Ilya hesitates. Is it? Is good the correct word?

“I don’t know.”

Hollow honesty wins out.

Jane tilts her head slightly, as if half between understanding and not.

“That usually means it is, my lady”

A small, involuntary huff of breath leaves Ilya. Does it?

Then why does something she can’t even identify, deep inside her, ache? Why does something beneath her ribs feel like it’s straining? Why does she feel the need to stare off into nothingness all of a sudden?

“Or perhaps that I don’t understand it.”

The words leave her mouth like something foreign. She doesn’t even remember saying them. Just hears them.

Jane sets her embroidery aside, rising to stand by her side.

“May I, my lady?”

She hesitates only a moment. It feels strangely intimate, giving Jane access to something that has so clearly affected her. Like handing her a piece of something that’s wrong inside of her. But she holds the book out anyway. Let her see. Perhaps she’ll identify the ache, the ailment.

Jane takes it gently. Their fingers do not touch. She reads silently. Her expression doesn’t change much, no flickering of light or darkness behind her eyes, but Ilya notices the slight tightening at the corners of her mouth. The way her eyes linger on the last lines.

“Do you understand it?” Ilya says. It feels vulnerable, asking that question. Like admitting to a fault within herself, a deficit that she can’t understand.

Jane simply closes the book gently, pausing a moment before responding softly.

“I think so.”

“And?”

Jane looks at her then. Not as a handmaiden. Just as herself. Just as another woman.

“It feels like something that didn’t need very much,” Jane says, her voice measured, thoughtful. “Just one thing… and that was enough.”

Ilya watches her. Stays quiet.

Say more. Fill the silence. Please.

Jane’s fingers brush lightly along the edge of the page, as if tracing the thought rather than the words themselves. She speaks again, mercifully.

“It sounds like something that found enough of the world in one place,” A small pause. “And never needed to go looking beyond it.”

Ilya exhales softly. That felt right, true. Something feels like it loosens within her. The ache still there, but more familiar now, more understood. An acquaintance within her ribcage rather than a stranger

“That’s comforting”

It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Not weighed out or measured, but no less true.

Jane glances at her, a furrow of the brows tells her that she’d spoken the wrong answer. Said something strange, off-putting.

“I don’t think it’s meant to be,” Jane says simply.

Oh. Okay.

A pause. Ilya looks back toward the window, toward nothing in particular.

“It is to me”

The words seem so small. Like a child defending the wrong answer to their Septon.

Only a small pause before Jane speaks once more.

“Well I suppose there’s no wrong interpretation to art, my lady”

My lady. The barriers are back up. Princess and handmaiden again. No longer woman to woman. Ilya sighs softly, somehow missing her already.

Silence stretches between them for a second.

Come back. I liked talking to you.

“I think he chose it deliberately.” The words slip out before she can police them. Before the thought has even properly crossed her mind.

Jane does not ask who. Perhaps she was listening in the library. Perhaps she just implicitly knows.

“He seems the sort,” she says quietly. Whatever that means.

“That is not reassuring.”

“No,” Jane agrees. “I imagine it isn’t meant to be.”

A knock at the door breaks the quiet contemplation. Sharp. Formal. Business.

Ilya straightens, book still clutched. But Jane is already moving. When the door opens, a young servant boy stands there, head bowed. All pale skin, dark curls and plain, neat clothes.

“Your grace. You are requested in the small council chamber.”

She frowns slightly. What? Why?

“At this hour?”

“Yes, your grace. Apologies were sent, but the matter is pressing.”

The walk there feels different than usual. She knows the path too well, could trace it without light if she had to.

But today she notices it in pieces. The angle of a turning, the pause between corridors, the distance still left to go. As if the space itself is aware of to whom it leads.

When she enters, the room is not full like usual. Only a handful of councillors. And him. Already seated. Already watching her as she walks in, bowing their heads slightly.

Just do the usual routine, she tells herself, dipping her head at the table toward where he sits without meeting his gaze.

“Your Grace.”

A slight incline in return.

“Ilya.”

He says it naturally, so solidly.

In council it is always Princess.

Formal, correct.

This is neither. Her stomach twists.

“Apologies for the late summons,” one of the councillors says, though she barely registers which. “A minor matter, but one requiring your insight.”

“On Dorne,” another adds.

Of course.

Just do the usual routine.

So she moves to her seat, meets the gaze of a councillor. Doesn’t matter which. Just anyone but him. And places her hands neatly before her. Composure. She knows how to do that. Here, at least.

The councillors begin speaking. Explaining first, then discussing. Or arguing. Depending on your outlook. But when she reaches for her notes-

She realises.

She’s brought the book. Not clean parchment. Not ink. The book.

Her fingers still, just for a moment. Too long.

Across the table, she sees it. The flicker. The smallest shift in his expression. Recognition. And then… Nothing. Gone as quickly as it came.

“Princess?” She looks up. Forces her attention forward to the weathered face of the councillor looking her way.

“Yes. Of course.”

She speaks well. Carefully. Measured. Everything she should be. She knows the dialogue here. Knows the script. Where to go off, where to stay on. This is her arena. What she’d been raised for. Comforting in its conformity, its predictability.

But once, just once, she makes the mistake. Whether it’s a deliberate choice she makes, or an honest blunder, she can’t say. But her eyes flicker across the table, and find his.

He is already looking at her. Not studying. Not searching. Just… there. Present. And it feels like too much. Too much to be seen. Her gaze returns to the councillors so quickly it might as well have never left.

When the meeting ends, and chairs scrape softly against stone, he does not approach her. Does not speak. A small mercy. A soft exhale escapes her. Not tonight.

But as she gathers her things, her fingers brushing once more over the spine of the book, his quiet voice, low enough not to carry, reaches her ears.

“Did you read it?”

No. Yes.

She does not look at him. Can’t. Pathetically keeps pretending to gather her papers.

“Yes.” Her voice feels weak. Too soft. She doesn’t like it.

A pause. She doesn’t look up to his face. Doesn’t want to see.

“What did you think?”

She gathers the last of her papers. Nothing to hide behind now.

“I don’t think it was about trees.”

She can’t stop it coming out. Wrong answer. Or perhaps right answer, but wrong to speak aloud. Her gut twists. Silence.

Then… A quiet hum. That hum. Her gaze finally flickers up to meet his mismatched eyes. Watching her. Intently. Like something profound.

“Goodnight, Ilya.”

She leaves before she can answer. Rude, perhaps? Definitely. But something implicitly tells her he would not take offence. He knows, understands. Something that that she does not wish to examine too deeply.

The corridors feel longer on the return. More oppressive. The route somehow less familiar. Her grip on the book does not loosen.

Jane is already standing when she enters, as if she had not sat at all the entire time.

“My lady?”

She does not answer immediately. Just moves further into the room, setting the book down on the desk where it should have sat the whole time. It shouldn’t have left this room. Shouldn’t have left the library in the first place. A blunder. So, so many blunders. But still, her finger lingers on the cover a moment longer than necessary before withdrawing.

“It was a council matter,” she says, her voice breaking through the silence too abruptly, too sharply.

Jane simply nods. “I assumed as much, my lady.”

She moves to the window. Nothing to see but the darkened gardens below that feel more like an abyss at this time. She exhales.

“He was there.”

Jane says nothing. Of course he was. Why say that? Why mention it at all? Why assume Jane even knows who ‘he’ is? Stop talking. But she doesn’t. Can’t. Never measured without a script. Words seem to betray her. Escape her. Run from her, and into the arms of another.

“He asked about the poem.” There. It sits between them now.

Jane tilts her head slightly.

“And what did you say, my lady?”

“I said I did not think it was about trees.”

It just comes out. Again. She almost feels resigned to it now. Perhaps she just has a leak. It all drips out of her no matter how hard she tries to plug it.

Jane’s lips press together, not quite a smile. Not quite anything. Just a shift. One she can’t decipher and isn’t sure she wants to.

“And was it?”

Ilya huffs softly, but there is no true amusement in it.

“No.”

Silence settles again. Thick and stifling. If it’s awkward, she’s too far gone to notice. Her gaze drifts back to the desk. To the book. To the sketch, half-finished beside it. The mirage lily stares back at her. Wrong still. Still not quite right. She crosses the room and picks it up again.

Jane watches, then speaks softly like one may to a child. It doesn’t feel particularly patronising though.

“You were working on it before”.

“I still am.”

“It looks finished.”

“It isn’t.”

Jane hesitates. As if not sure whether she can step further. But does anyway. Good. She’s acting like a human again.

“What is wrong with it?”

Everything. Everything and nothing.

She shakes her head.

“It does not feel like anything.”

Jane frowns slightly.

“Does it need to?”

Yes. Dorne. It needs to feel like Dorne.

Her fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the parchment.

“Yes.”

She sets it back down, not willing to look at it anymore. A failure. A perfect, pretty failure. Her eyes flicker involuntarily to the book again. Then away. Then back.

“He said perfection was not required.”

Jane’s brows lift faintly. Surprise? She hadn’t been listening in the library, then. Odd. And sweet. She likes her more now.

“That sounds… kind.”

“It was not,”

It comes out quickly. Too quickly.

Jane’s mouth twists slightly. Not a frown or smile. But she says nothing. Well what can she say to that? Poor girl, she hadn’t really given her much to work with.

Another stretch of silence. Longer this time. She can see Jane fiddling with her sleeves out the corner of her eye. She wants to say something, Ilya can tell. She can also tell that she won’t. And to be honest, for once, Ilya doesn’t want to hear it anyway.

“I think he chose it. The poem. Deliberately”

She says it definitively this time, surprising even herself in the solidness of her tone.

Jane nods.

“I thought as much too, my lady”

“Why?”

Jane’s mouth twists again in that familiar way. She doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to cross that uncomfortable line into familiarity she’s been trained not to cross.

Cross it. Please.

She does, finally.

“Because it feels too intimate of a thing to recommend without reason.”

A hum. His hum from her mouth.

Stop it.

She moves back to the desk. Sits. Opens the book again. Her fingers find the page more easily this time, bent from where she’s held it. The maesters would cringe at the sight.

Give me but a single room,

and the echo of that touch within it,

and I would not call my life a small one.

That ache again. Familiar now.

“You should sleep, my lady” Jane says after a while.

“I will.”

But she doesn’t move.

Jane hesitates, then begins to dim the candles anyway, one by one, leaving only those nearest the desk still burning.

The room softens. Shadows stretch. Friendly though, somehow. Embracing.

“I think,” Jane says quietly, pausing at the door, “that perhaps it does not feel like anything… because you are trying to make it everything.”

Ilya looks up. She’d crossed that line again. By choice this time. A warmth grows inside of her.

Jane does not elaborate, though. She simply dips her head in that familiar, trained way. Scripted in the same way Ilya is, in council. Not so different.

“Goodnight, my lady.”

“Goodnight, Jane.”

The door closes. The silence that follows is different. Not empty. Occupied. Busy.

She looks down at the sketch again. At the fine, precise lines of the petals. The light. The careful, measured slopes and shapes. She reaches for the charcoal, and turns the page.

Begins again.

This time, the lines are less careful. Not measured in advance. Less perfect, precise. Softer in some places. Sharper in others. Imperfect but alive.

She does not notice how much time passes. Only that the candles burn lower, and her hand aches slightly.

When she leans back at last, it isn’t finished. But it feels closer. Her gaze drifts, once more, to the open book. To the page.

Let it hurt.

Let them split open at the core

She closes it gently. Not hiding it this time. And when she finally moves to her bed, the warmth of the room feels different. Not like Dorne. Not quite. But not entirely unfamiliar, either.

Part 3:

Post by @yipyupp · 1 link

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 20 · Dornish flower (3) · Baelor x reader (I hate putting Y/N so I named the character Ilya - no physical description except fe

[yipyupp]

Dornish flower (3)

Baelor x reader (I hate putting Y/N so I named the character Ilya - no physical description except female given, so can just replace with your name in your head)

The next couple of days are a blur of council meetings. Council meetings she meets his eyes at multiple times and sees that slight incline of the head, or upturn of the lips, before glancing back at her parchment of notes…

And sketching. Lots of Sketching. Sketching of those mirage lilies she misses so much. She even hides the paper when Jane cleans around her, not wanting to admit to even her handmaiden that she took his ask seriously, that she’s spending an oddly long amount of time making sure the shading is just right, the lighting of the picture just real enough

It’s on one of these evenings, hunched over the desk of her chambers, Jane tottering about arranging clothes she’d haphazardly thrown on the bed when dressing this morning, that she sits back just to stare at it in quiet dissatisfaction. The sketch is by no means bad, she knows this. By her usual standards, it’s done. But this is different. This is trying to depict Dorne, a land so far away, to somebody that’s never been. Trying to capture the humidity on the petals, the desert dust on the leaves, the way the sun rays don’t simply filter through the leaves as they do here but seem to strike right through them.

She sets the brush down firmly on the table, a noise that makes Jane look up “my lady?” “I can’t look at this anymore.” She cradles her head in her hands, as if pained. It’ll never look quite right, never. Jane speaks quietly, “my lady I’m sure it’s beautiful”

“Beautiful but wrong”

“My lady…. Perhaps a break?”

“To mope?”

“To walk the gardens?”

“I can’t face the flowers right now, Jane. I can’t face them”

A flicker of a smile from Jane, only just visible from the corner of her eye.

“Perhaps a snack from the kitchens then, my lady? A visit to the stables? A trip to the library?”

The last suggestion is added on so quickly, as if the girl regrets saying it as soon as it leaves her mouth. It’s obvious why of course, the little scholar wants to go herself. Ilya has no desire to, not really. She’d much rather go to the stables, saddle one of her best and gallop through the paddocks to clear her head, but she knows Jane has suggested something selfish for the first time. Something she wants to do. And she can’t let that slip.

“The library. Of course, good idea Jane. You can recommend me those books we talked about”

“Yes, my lady, I’d love to”

A genuine smile this time from the girl. It makes her feel warm inside.

They make their way down the staircases and corridors towards the library. A large place, albeit not as large as some of the libraries she’s visited in Dorne. The society had always been quite scholarary, particularly well versed in medicines and herbs, writing down knowledge to pass down - ironic as the southerners had dubbed them uneducated savages when first contact was made. Even now, they still appear to ignore the fact Dorne is far ahead on many advancements like this.

Inside, bookcases span from floor to high ceiling, ladders nearby. The highest editions a servant must be asked for, to make the climb. Dusty, despite cleaning, tables and chairs appear every so often - like checkpoints to sit at should you need. Windows are hard to come by, occasionally you’ll wind around a bookcase to be greeted by the largest window, overseeing the back of the gardens, a beautiful green expanse… but for the most part… bookcases and stone walls… and a strange wonder about how the place stays so bright despite this.

She turns to Jane once they enter

“Poetry then, Jane. Educate me. Show me your favourite”

“Yes, my lady”

For once, Jane leads. She looks back as she walks, unsure and slightly uncomfortable. Never having been the leader. Ilya merely gives her a slight smile.

They wind corner and corner, bookcase and bookcase… until. Mismatched eyes. Glancing at her before she sees them. A slight upturn of the lips and incline of the head. A slight furrow of the brows, surprise. The first bit of surprise she’s seen from him.

He’s stood with one of the maesters, whom is flicking through the pages of a large tome. Presumably finding something for him? She blinks, and inclines her head to him, but keeps walking… today is not the day. She should have kept sketching.

Jane keeps leading, thankfully a few minutes walk away from him… before stopping before a large bookshelf.

“How do you even remember this? This spot I mean?”

“I come here so often, my lady”

“Did you get lost at first, lose books you’d started?”

“Yes, my lady. That’s the part you don’t see”

She pauses. Jane had added that last part on for her, most definitely. As if she’d sensed the insecurity behind the mask. The unease of being here. Ilya was always a good student, yes. But no ‘gifted’ student like her siblings. They seemed to know everything first time, be amazing at everything first time. She was not. She had to work.

She glances sidelong at Jane, and simply nods.

“This one is one of my favourites, my lady” Jane says brushing the spine of a thick red book, “although there are some from dornish poets…” she brushes a calloused finger over a few spines..

“I see… thank you. I suppose… choose one for yourself and I’ll join you in a moment”

Jane nods, quickly picking a leather bound book out and moving back towards a dusty table but a few metres away, sitting and opening it immediately… Ilya watches her a second… the way the girl immediately gets sucked into the words, her attention immediately taken by it. It would take Ilya at least a few pages to gain focus, but she finds herself admiring it in the girl rather than resenting it…

“Ilya”

Smooth, soft but somehow solid. She turns.

“Your grace”

An upturn of the lips, she can’t meet those mismatched eyes, forcing her gaze to the books in front of her instead.. pathetically pretending to browse

“Poetry?”

“Yes…. Jane suggested it”

“I see”

She risks a glance to see his eyes flickering over the books in front of her.

“These ones are Dornish written”

“Jane mentioned the same”

A hum. That hum. Then a hand, rings adorning each finger, reaching out to grasp the spine of a thick blue book in front of her, flicking through…

“I read this one last year”

“You enjoyed it?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“Then I’ll read that one”

It slips out, once again, before she can check herself. But his lips simply flicker upwards once more.

“Good”

He hands her it, and their hands brush in that cliche manner… she swears it’s deliberate… a brush of warm skin and the coldness of a ring against her own…

“Thank you”

“Of course”

A pause. Her stomach twists uncomfortably, at the silence…

“Why are you here?”

Why did she say that? A blunt question, a disrespectful question… but he shows no offense or outward reaction.

“To gain advice from the maesters”

“About?”

She inwardly cringes once more. It’s not her business. Not at all.

“I mean… apologies your grace… I speak without thinking”

“You seem to think yourself out of speaking in council meetings”

The rebuttal makes her stomach twist, he’s right, but when her eyes glance up his expression is, somewhat soft, lips slightly upturned.

“I apologise your grace… I forget myself in outside settings”

A hum… that steadying hum

“You should learn to forget yourself in council meetings too, then”

It’s not mocking, it comes out somewhat soft. Her cheeks feel warm. Why do they feel warm? She shuffles a little in place… Perhaps he takes mercy..

“Some of the reach nobles visiting court have become ill. I wanted to ensure their conditions were acceptable, and the maesters were not overtly concerned”

“And are they?”

An upturn of the lips. She’s done it again, asked too much. It’s really not her business at all. She inwardly cringes.

“No, Ilya, they are not. Common colds, it seems”

She smiles tightly “ah. Good. I hope they recover soon”

A nod, and a slight tilt of the head “as do I”.

Those mismatched eyes glance down at the book she’s clutching hard, sweaty palms.

“I shall leave you to your reading then Ilya. My apologies for the interruption”

Interruption? Oh. Yes. He had really, hadn’t he? And why? He had nothing of value he’d told her, not really. Just sought her out. For what? Politeness perhaps? Yes, must be.

“You didn’t interrupt, your grace. Thank you for the recommendation…”

A hum. That hum.

“The roots of the old tree wail”

She blinks. What?

“Your grace?”

An upturn of the lips, amusement as his mismatched eyes meet hers.

“That is my favourite” a gesture to the book she’s holding “of that collection. I hope you read it”

She swallows, not really sure of the correct response that isn’t a flat ‘thank you’ or ‘of course’.

“Of course, I will” an inward cringe. It felt empty.

“And the painting? Perhaps I can see it soon?”

He’s saying more words. Wasn’t he meant to be leaving? The painting? Oh gods the painting she can’t get right.

“I am working on it, your grace. Apologies, I am trying to… struggling to… make it exactly as it should be”

She avoids his eyes as she speaks, looking at the book in her hands like a lifeline, nail grazing over the hard cover back and forth in an effort to self soothe.

“Exactly as it should be…” he repeats it a moment in a soft, thoughtful voice. She can tell his eyes are on her. It makes her want to melt into the ground.

“If it is perfection you’re seeking Princess, I assure you that is not required. Memories rarely are anyway, to paint them as such would be a contrived effort. Do not fret so much” a small upturn of the lips. Something about his attempt at comfort makes it worse, makes her stomach twist uncomfortably.

“Ah, well… thank you your grace. I shall try and get it finished in the coming few days”

She can’t meet his eyes. She must look so strange right now, talking at a book she’s holding instead of the man in front of her. But he makes no comment, not even a raise of the brow.

“I look forward to it” a small smile. A genuine one she sees when her eyes flicker up for the briefest of moments.

“Enjoy your reading, Ilya. And your day”

“You too, your grace” the words come out fast. Too fast. Does she seem so eager to get rid of him? It feels rude. She internally curls up and dies.

Her eyes flicker up to gauge his reaction but there’s just a slight incline of the head, almost a half bow, and a meeting of the eyes that feels like stab to the stomach, and then he’s turned. Walking away through the bookshelves. She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“Jane. Tell a maester we will take the books to my chambers. I… need privacy”.

Part 2 link:

Post by @yipyupp

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 1 · Dornish Flower (2) · Oc/reader x baelor (I hate writing Y/N so I’ve given the character a name, but no other physical descr

[yipyupp]

Dornish Flower (2)

Oc/reader x baelor (I hate writing Y/N so I’ve given the character a name, but no other physical description except female so can always just replace it with Y/N in your head)

A week passes. She’s seen him in council meetings but not spoken properly since. A few stolen glances here and there, probably unnoticed. More curious than anything. That’s what she tells herself, anyway.

She sits in the window seat at most councils now, taking his advice. The air does help. It also leaves her across the table to him, meaning her eyes are almost always in a perpetual downward gaze to the parchment in front of her, not wanting to look up and meet that steadying gaze that may or may not be upon her.

She speaks a little more, mostly on things to do with dorne, not wanting to overstep with southern politics yet until she feels more solid. Stable.

The evening grows warm in her chambers one night. Not stifling like dorne, just a warm hum of the air… if you close your eyes and imagine it almost feels like a dornish morning, early before the sun properly emerges upon the scorched earth. Her handmaiden, Jane, sits in the corner quietly sewing a rip on one of her riding cloaks, a snag on a bramble bush from yesterday.

The light hits her sun-kissed skin just right. Ilya studies her a moment. She’s not an elegant girl, by any means. Rather plain. But there’s a grace to her, kind eyes and calloused fingers. A tight smile that she can sometimes coax into a bright one when she makes a funny enough statement that Jane manages to forget her station. She’s rather fond of her, she realises.

Jane looks up as if feeling her gaze… “your grace?”… Ilya blinks and then shakes her head with a smile. “Sorry. A million miles away. Somewhere warmer. And sandier”.. Jane gives that familiar tight, polite smile “indeed your grace”. “You can call me Ilya, if you wish”…

Jane’s expression is response enough… an uncomfortable twist of the mouth….

“Or not. Perhaps just my lady. Sounds less pompous”… that tight smile greets her once more “as you wish my lady”.

She hums softly, realising for a second who she sounds like. Thoughtful hums in place of responses. She shakes her head.

“Accompany me to the gardens? I’m told the southernmost path grows dornish flowers”. Jane nods immediately, setting the cloak aside and rising “of course my lady”.

The walk down the keep is peaceful. Most nobles at ease, idle as the days work and councils are over. Slow, meandering paces rather than the brisk walks of morning and midday. Jane trails behind her, and Ilya gently taps her arm, guiding her to her side instead, without a word. It’s curious to her, in dorne the servants are respectful but not so quiet, not so invisible. It troubles her for some reason, and she doesn’t want to dig too deep exactly why.

The courtyard to the gardens appears almost blurry in the afternoon heat, some women fanning themselves as they walk by, a Lord on their arm… funny. It doesn’t feel that warm to her. Mild. Comfortable.

The sand path crunches beneath her, walking the direction of the southern path when she sees him. Tall, cloaked, stern faced but not cruel, speaking to a couple of lords she’s seen in passing by the fountain. His stance is always the same as when she’s seen him before: straight, stern, but not unwelcoming. They could be discussing business or idle chatter for all he gives away.

She keeps walking but catches his eye as she walks past, Jane at her side. It’s brief, and she has no desire to hold the eye contact for any longer. There’s a slight upturn to his lips that could be imagined, but a definitely not imagined incline of the head towards the southern path to his left…. Her eyes leave his but still she inclines her head forward, knowing his eyes will be upon her. A silent response. What she’s responding to, she’s not quite sure. Perhaps simple acknowledgement?

She continues with Jane, finding her silence strangely unsettling. “Do you come to the gardens often Jane, in your down time I mean?” “No your gra— I mean my lady. Rarely.”

“Why? Not to your taste?”.

“No, of course not, the gardens are lovely my lady. Although I spend most my time in the library”.

Ilya pauses briefly, that’s the first bit of personal insight she’s gotten from this uptight girl. “What books do you enjoy? History, romance, poetry?”…

The girl seems to hesitate at first, like she’s never been talked to in such a way… “oh… I enjoy poetry your grace… and history…”.

Poetry and history. Ilya enjoyed books sure, but she’d never been like some of her many siblings back home; nose in a book, scholarly prodigies. But she finds she doesn’t resent it so much in Jane.

“Perhaps you could recommend me some books sometime Jane, I find myself not reading as much as I ought to”…

The girl nods “of course, my lady”.

She stops abruptly. They’ve reached them. Orange flowers, large, wide open petals with bright yellow pollen, swollen and open. Desert blooms. A common flower in dorne, nothing special. But it feels like the most beautiful sight she’s seen in months…

“These are from dorne, Jane”…

“They’re beautiful my lady”.

“They’re plain. But yes, beautiful”….

A few steps further leads to big green bushes, shoulder height, with mixtures of open and podded pink flowers, downturned facing the path. The blooming ones opening up, the interior housing delicate purple petals. Pink petips…

And scattered in the flower beds around, tiny yellow flowers, the shapes of bells. Fragile and easy to break but blooming… yellow bells.

Both flowers again, common, almost pests in dorne, so easily adapted to desert that they pop up anywhere they’re unwanted, plucked and deposited carelessly… but here. Here they’re a rarity. An impossibility.

They blend in with the southern flowers so well that one would not know the difference, unless one was from dorne. Had seen the small patches of land where life sprouts regardless of pressure and heat. She kneels, taking a yellow bell into her hand, not plucking, just turning the small downturned head upwards, examining. Flowers she plucked so easily, so carelessly as a child…

A crunch of gravel behind her and a “your grace” from Jane tells her that he’s there. She doesn’t stand at first. Despite the fact she really should, it would be respectful after all. But for some reason her gut tells her he’d understand. An uncomfortable feeling when she examines it too closely.

“You found them. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”. She rises, dropping the delicate head so it returns downturned once more, gazing at the ground, and turns her own gaze to him. Tall, regal, stern, but thoughtful. And patient. Waiting for an answer.

“They are. Have you visited dorne?”.

“No. Not personally. Although my mother hailed from there”.

His mother, of course. His slightly sun-kissed skin, dark hair, dornish features. The reason he looks more human, less like a Targaryan. She nods “These flowers are pests there.”

She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth. They sound spiteful, insulting. The effort it must take to tend to them, to get them to grow in this environment…. And she’d just brushed them off like that. Except that’s not what she meant. His face remains passive though, non-offended, and he hums in response, as if seeing from her face that she desires to elaborate, and thus choosing not to interject.

“I mean… not in an insulting way your grace. They’re lovely. It’s soothing to see them here, it reminds me of home. It’s just… strange… they’re so common that they’re seen as plain in dorne. They’re pests that spring up where we don’t desire them, and yet here you coax them to grow and admire their beauty. It’s… comforting… in a way..” She realises that she’s babbling and stops, settling for a tight smile instead. But he’s just watching, eyes flickering over her face…

“Comforting?”. Comforting. What had she meant? She hadn’t meant anything, had just felt it, so said it. She turns her gaze over his shoulder, not wanting to meet that gaze that seems to see too much. “Yes, I suppose that even the most mundane of things can be hailed and cared for somewhere, as if they’re precious”.

When her gaze flickers back to him the corners of his mouth are slightly upturned. For definite this time. And he nods. “That is a comforting thought, princess. You’re rather poetic, with your words”.

She looks down immediately embarrassed, cheeks heated. She’d probably sounded pompous, arrogant.

“I… apologise your grace I went on a tangent”

“You did not, I asked. And you answered with beautiful words. Do not apologise.”

A beat of silence. What to say to that? Her cheeks feel warm, the sun she found mild suddenly feels too warm. Too much.

He seems to take mercy and breaks the silence, though she can see his mouth is still slightly upturned. Not mocking though. Almost fond. “Are you a poet, princess?”

She feels herself laugh a little awkwardly at the question, not sure if it’s a jest or serious.

“No… Jane is more a poet than me”. He tilts his head “Jane?”

She pauses “Oh…. this is Jane”. She gestures to her handmaiden who seems utterly put on the spot as she curtsies… and Ilya realises she’s just thrown her to the lions without intending to.

“I mean… Jane reads poetry a lot. She’d be a better poet than I”. Jane just smiles warily, bowing her head “you honour me, my lady”.

His head tilts slightly, barely perceptible, at the use of ‘my lady’ rather than ‘your grace’.. and his lips curl slightly upright “you know your handmaiden well then?”

“Not as well as I’d like”.

It slips out naturally, she inwardly cringes. Jane’s head remains slightly bowed, downturned but Ilya swears she can see a flicker of a smile from her out of the corner of her eye.

Baelor nods, as if thoughtful for a second “We oft overlook those who toil closest to us for favour of those few above. I’m sure you’ll grow close in time”.

Ilya nods “I hope so”.

He smiles, not just a slight upturn of the mouth, an unmistakable smile that can be seen at first glance this time.

“Indeed. Care to educate me on these dornish pests then?”

She can’t help but smile, schooling it quickly, and nods “Of course. These….” she gestures to the orange flowers “are desert blooms. They tend to grow along walls in dorne, the yellows are yellow bells, they grow everywhere they can, even in cracks between the stones of paths and courtyards. And the pink are pink petips… common, the buds open in daylight but by night they close again. Mothers in Dorne oft tell their children if they’re not asleep by the time the buds close, the bush will be dead by the morn”…

He tilts his head almost imperceptibly, looking at each one as she speaks. As if a prince of the realm has nothing better to do than listen to lessons of dornish flowers. “Did your mother tell you that?” He turns his head to her as he speaks, watching.

“She did”.

“And did you always make sure to sleep? Before the buds closed?”…. A pause.

Somehow the question seems intimate. Which is strange. As it’s such a simple question. Perhaps even playful. But it feels loaded, and she can’t put her finger on why. She should just say yes. But it comes out anyway. Something about his stoic, stern but somehow comforting presence makes it come out.

“Usually. But when I grew older I wondered if it was a lie. So I rushed out to the gardens late at night, only to find the bush still alive and well”.

He hums “were you disappointed? That it hadn’t died? That it wasn’t true?”….

“No. I sort of knew at that age that it wasn’t true. I suppose I was more disappointed that I was right. Because that meant that I was too old to get disappointed by those sorts of things”.

He turns to her then, his face strangely unreadable, and his eyes seem to flicker over her face for a second before he speaks “To lose one’s wonder can be a painful thing.”

“Wonder or ignorance?”

A smile. Another proper smile. And she wishes she hadn’t said it. She’s so measured, so withdrawn during councils, but around him, words just come out without thought.

“Wonder, Ilya. Not ignorance.” The use of her name takes her off guard. Is that the first time he’s used it without the precursor of princess? It feels familiar. Too familiar? Perhaps. It makes something twist in her gut that she can’t decide is either discomfort or… wonder?

“You should keep some of that wonder. Even if you really know deep down that it’s not true. Many don’t get the option to”.

It doesn’t sound scolding. More thoughtful, almost kind. Her head moves to nod without thinking “Yes. I suppose so.” He nods too.

“I’m surprised you’re not a poet, you know” A slight upturn of the lips. Teasing? She finds herself smiling slightly “Why is that your grace?”… he raises his brow slightly “you just seem… forgive me princess, you just seem like the sort”

“An artist?”

“Yes”

She smiles, looking down, unable to look at him right now, probably because of how his small, barely there smile makes her stomach twist. “I suppose I am. Just not with words” “you draw? Paint?” “Yes”.

When she looks up his eyes are locked on her, focused. Interested in a way she hasn’t seen in council meetings

“What do you draw? Portraits? Scenery?” “Sometimes, yes. I like portraits. Real ones though, as people are. Not the careful ones you see hung in the halls. Sometimes I just like to paint scenes. I suppose it depends on the mood in a way”

He smiles, another real one “I would wish to see some someday, if you’d permit it Ilya? I imagine they’d be… different”.

She glances up at him, at the use of that word ‘different’, but he’s just watching her, that halfway smile that does in fact reach his eyes. His mismatched eyes.

“Of course. Though I doubt they’d reach the standards of the artists you’ve employed” He shakes his head, a wave of the hand dismissing it before she even finished the sentence fully. “I doubt that”. A pause. “Would you like to walk further? The flowers up this path are all in bloom this season”.

She blinks. She didn’t expect that. Although she should have really, he’d spent enough time stood talking to her that it was past the point of courtly niceties exchanged and more on the air of conversation. “Of course your grace”.

He starts walking, slow and steady, by her side. She takes Jane’s arm in hers, wondering what this girl must be thinking. On the arm of a princess, walking beside a king, but trained to be invisible. It troubles her slightly, but she says nothing, remembering the uncomfortable face, the twisting of Jane’s mouth when she’d mentioned that she liked poetry. She should not overstep. Even with good will.

As they walk he points out flowers in a soft but somehow solid voice, mentioning their names, where they came from… for her benefit of course. Coming from Dorne, most of these flowers she’d never laid eyes upon. Too fragile, too fragile for the very sun they took life from.

He stops beside a bed of white flowers, delicate and white as snow “snowdrops. These were my mother’s favourite, strangely enough, since she came from a place with anything but snow”.

She smiles faintly, “do you know why?” “Because when I was born, it was snowing”. She pauses. He looks thoughtful.

“That is beautiful”

“It is. She was”

“She still is”

He hums… looking at the flowers a moment longer “She is”.

They walk again, she finds the question slips out before she thinks. Once again. “Do you have a favourite. Flower?” Such a trivial question too. Asking a prince, a someday king what his favourite flower is. He makes no outward reaction at the absurdity of the question though, just hums in thought for a beat before responding “I have never thought about it before”.

Of course, of course he hasn’t. Why ask that? Such a stupid question. She inwardly cringes at herself.

“But I suppose it would be the ones you named to me, the yellow ones. Like bells”

Oh. “Yellow bells?”.

“Yes. I like those”.

She hums, realising she’s picked up his habit for real this time. A strange thing. She scolds herself inwardly. “And yours, Ilya?”.

She doesn’t hear him for a second, too focused on whether or not he’d noticed her picking up his habit so quickly. Whether he thought her strange or fawning. A subtle squeeze of her arm by Jane, brings her out of it. So the girl does like her then? Enough to warn her she’s being a fool at least. It warms her a little. “Oh… apologies. Mirage lily.”

“Dornish?”

“Yes, it grows near the waters edge. And only in the shade. Difficult to grow in gardens, but it finds places for itself”.

He hums. “I suppose a visit to dorne is in order then”.

She laughs slightly. His attempt at a jest? It’s sweet, kind of.

“Or you could draw one. So I may see it from the southern shores”.

Did he just ask that? She’s surprised for a moment but… “of course. If that’s what you wish”

“It is, if you’d be so kind”

“Of course”

“Thank you, Ilya”… her stomach twists… so much that it hurts.

The paths looped around by now, to the main courtyard entrance of the gardens. A few nobles still milling about, out for evening walks with family, friends, lovers. He pauses by the entrance. A Lord, anything but subtle, is glancing in his direction with a bow of his head in respect… the message clear but still extremely polite.

Baelor turns to look at her once more, turning his back fully to the Lord so keen to speak with him “Thank you for the walk Ilya, and the lesson”

“The lesson?”

“The flowers”

“Oh. My honour your grace”

He waves it off with a dismissive hand before she even finishes

“No need for that. Sleep well tonight Ilya, I’ll know who to seek out if the pink petips are dead by the morn”

She laughs. A genuine one that results in a quirk of the lips by him.

“I’ll be sure to sleep before the buds close”

A genuine smile from him and a nod.

“As shall I. Goodnight Ilya”

“Goodnight, your grace”

She bows her head quickly, as does Jane, as she turns to walk through the entrance back to the castle. He doesn’t turn away immediately, she knows this. Can feel it. He stays planted for a couple of seconds, watching, before turning to the Lord that so patiently waited for his prince.

Part 1 and part 3 links:

Post by @yipyupp

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 23 · Dornish flower (1) · Baelor x Oc/reader (no physical description given just female, I just hate writing Y/N so can replace

Post by @yipyupp · 1 link

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 2 · Dornish flower (3) · Baelor x reader (I hate putting Y/N so I named the character Ilya - no physical description except fem

[yipyupp]

Dornish flower (1)

Baelor x Oc/reader (no physical description given just female, I just hate writing Y/N so can replace in your head)

The council chamber had grown warm with too many bodies and too many voices.

Princess Ilya of Dorne sat quietly near the end of the long carved table, hands folded in her lap, eyes lowered just enough to appear deferential without seeming disinterested. It was a careful balance, one she had perfected over the last few weeks.

She had attended six council meetings now.

Six long, meandering, careful dances of politics and pride.

She had spoken only once, a brief clarification on Dornish trade routes, and even then she had kept her voice soft, measured. She was here as a diplomatic envoy, not a disruptor. Observing first felt wiser than stepping where she did not yet know the ground. Still, she watched.

She watched Lord Harroway’s habit of tugging at his beard when nervous. She watched Lady Meris tapping her ring against the wood whenever she grew impatient. She watched the way the scribes leaned forward when someone important spoke.

And she watched Prince Baelor. He sat near the head of the table, slightly removed, not quite presiding but never ignored. His expression rarely shifted: stern, thoughtful, composed and yet there was something strangely approachable about him. Not warm, precisely. But steady. Quietly attentive.

He listened more than he spoke. And when he did speak, the room listened. Ilya found herself studying him more often than she intended. He never met her gaze back though, perhaps he never noticed or perhaps he knew if he did she’d never look again.

Tonight’s meeting stretched longer than most. The sun dipped lower, painting the high windows in soft amber and rose. When the steward finally called for a brief intermission, chairs scraped and quiet murmurs filled the room as council members rose to stretch their legs.

She slipped out through the tall double doors that led to the balcony. The evening breeze greeted her gently.

The sky stretched wide and open, washed in pinks and pale golds, clouds drifting like brushed silk. The air was cooler than Dorne’s evenings, softer somehow, touched by distant greenery rather than dry heat.

She rested her hands lightly on the stone railing and exhaled. The moment was brief though. The doors behind her opened again.

She turned instinctively.

Baelor stepped onto the balcony, the fading light catching along the edges of his dark cloak. He paused when he saw her, then inclined his head slightly. “Princess.” She bowed immediately. “Your Grace.” He waved it off with a small motion, stepping beside her at the railing. “No need.”

They stood side by side for a second, looking out over the gardens below. Her gut twisted uncomfortably, should she say something?

“Beautiful evening,” he said after a moment. “Does it match Dorne?” She thanks the gods for the small talk, the relief from the silence…“Not quite,” she admitted softly. “But… it’s different.” He hummed quietly, as though that answer pleased him.

Silence settled between them again. It wasn’t uncomfortable at first, merely quiet, but after a few moments she felt that same faint awkwardness creeping in. She was not accustomed to silence with strangers, especially not those of such standing. He, however, seemed entirely at ease.

“You can speak at these meetings if you wish, Princess,” he said eventually, still gazing out over the horizon. It takes her off guard…. She lowered her head slightly. “I’d rather learn of the southern court before I provide misguided insight.” Another quiet hum. A nod. More silence.

The breeze shifted, tugging gently at her sleeves. “Do you miss your home, Princess?”

She hesitated. The question felt oddly intimate, even if it was just courtly nicety. “I… suppose I do.” He nodded, as though she had responded something more, something interesting, not the pathetic offering of small words she’d managed.

“The southernmost path of the gardens grows flowers native to Dorne,” he said. “Should you wish to have a glimpse of home.” She blinked, taken off guard. She’d not had time to explore the gardens yet.

“…Thank you for telling me, Your Grace.”

He hummed again, soft and thoughtful.

“And if you need pick at something during meetings,” he added casually, “I’m sure the serving staff can provide a cloth. Let it not be your skin.” Her breath caught. She looked down instinctively at her hands, the raw edges of her nail beds, tender and faintly reddened. She always did it beneath the table, hidden by her sleeves. How had he noticed?

A faint frown pulled at her lips as she tried to tuck her hands into the folds of her silks, ashamed, and unsure what to say. His gaze never left the horizon. “You need not be ashamed,” he said gently. “Many have the same affliction. Though it pains me to see you take it out on yourself.”

She stared at him, unsure what to say. His voice had softened, almost warm now. “Oh.”

The word slipped out before she could stop it. She inwardly cringed. Baelor did not laugh. Did not even glance at her. He only nodded slightly, as though she had again given a thoughtful reply.

“I find the meetings long myself,” he continued calmly. “Small distractions help.”

She cleared her throat softly. “I… I will try and stop myself”. Another quiet moment passed.

The sun dipped lower, deepening the pinks to soft lavender. “I have noticed,” he said, almost absently, “you listen more than most.” She blinked again, she’d not seen him so much as glance at her. “I… yes. To learn, i suppose”. “It is a rare skill.” She wasn’t certain what to do with that. “…Thank you.”

He shifted slightly, resting more comfortably against the railing. “You also watch.” Her fingers twitched in her sleeves. “That can be useful as well.” She dared a small glance toward him, his face fixed on the horizon, thoughtful?. “Oh”.

His mouth curved, just barely. Not quite a smile, but close. “You will do well here, Princess.” Warmth crept unexpectedly into her chest, still twisted by awkwardness but present. “You are kind.” “I am honest.”

She looked away quickly, suddenly very aware of the closeness between them. Not improper, not even particularly near, yet she felt it all the same. Below them, lanterns were beginning to flicker to life along the garden paths.

“I visited the Dornish flowers,” he said after a moment. “When they first planted them. She turned toward him in surprise. “You did?”. “They required more care than the others. The gardeners were worried.”

“And?”. “They flourished eventually.” She smiled faintly. “I’m glad.” He glanced at her then, properly this time, his eyes thoughtful.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “As am I.”

The doors behind them opened again, voices filtering out as the council began to reconvene. Neither of them moved immediately. Then Baelor straightened. “We should return.”

She nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.” He paused before stepping away. “And Princess?” She looked up. “If the meetings grow long… you may sit nearer the windows. The air helps.”

She blinked again, surprised by the small consideration. Closer to the window. “…Thank you.”

He inclined his head once more, then stepped back inside. Ilya lingered a moment longer on the balcony, watching the last sliver of sun dip below the horizon. Then she followed him in, her hands tucked safely in her sleeves, and her thoughts far less quiet than before.

Part 2 link:

Post by @yipyupp · 1 link

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 1 · Dornish Flower (2) · Oc/reader x baelor (I hate writing Y/N so I’ve given the character a name, but no other physical descr