Chapter Text
Victoria has been getting to know the shape of the room over the last few days. The bench near the bookshelves, with the elaborate candlesticks and silk cushions near the windows. The sizeable desk that suffered misuse until Baelor was granted the lodgings for his short stay. The formidable Targaryen sigil canvas, placed there just before their arrival, hid the worn cupboards and their contents. During their short stay, she felt an insistent urge to tear the heraldry away, examine what they hid inside.
It was an irrational sort of need since Lord Ashford, whose quarters they were currently occupying, was nothing if not conventional and somewhat of a bore, in her opinion. There was nothing hiding in those cupboards that could improve her stay. Then again – what could?
In the weeks they spent discussing it, she crafted quite the romantic image in her head – of honourable jousts, secrets kisses and unspoken things revealed. She couldn’t even blame Baelor for the illusion, not really. It was her own imagination running ahead, ignoring their reality and clinging onto what should, but would never be. He never lacked generosity in their encounters and truly, she had nothing to complain about.
What could a steward’s daughter hope to achieve?
Victoria was the first between the two of them – first to notice him, first to notice him noticing her, first to make her interest clear and undoubtedly first do something about it. How fitting she’d be the last to realise the gravity of the situation.
A shout tore through the castle, making her flinch and almost drop the book she was holding. The voice was unmistakable, nothing but steel and disillusionment. Maekar had made his way back to the castle. The Dance of Dragons was a contentious topic on any given day and since she was keen to avoid an argument, she quickly placed it back on the shelf.
‘A loosened tooth and bruised ribs, I will not have it!’ a shout came from the hall ‘ Do you hear me?’
Victoria just about managed to straighten her creased skirts and sit down on the bench before the solar’s double doors banged open and the prince barged in.
Maekar’s presence was nothing if not intimidating. With his silver, almost-white hair and beard, he looked a man far older than his actual years. Some of that could surely be attributed to his troublesome children and too-early departed wife, but that made him no less terrifying. Victoria remembered cowering in the early days – not in fear of a blow, that was never his way, but perhaps a cutting remark or even a too-honest look. It took months and an abundance of her patience to see behind the rudeness and obvious entitlement. Nowadays, he just about managed to irritate her. Relentlessly.
‘You!’ he exclaimed angrily and immediately turned towards the desk with the flask of wine on it.
‘Me.’ she replied dryly, eyeing his trembling hands.
He could hide it as best as he wanted to but she saw. He was worried, worried about Aegon, about Daeron and even Aerion.
The question was at the end of her tongue but she was saved from asking it by different, hurried footsteps approaching the solar.
He must know I’m in here she thought and glanced longingly at the flask of wine near her. This conversation she had planned would be so much easier if she wasn’t fully in control of her senses. But no. He deserved better, they both did. Wasn’t that the point?
Maekar’s brother steps slowed down closer to the door and he walked in a proper prince – languid and unconcerned. Baelor always had a way of making the room his, without even trying. Such was the privilege of being born royalty, she supposed. His gaze swept the room, from his brother swallowing a generous amount of Arbor gold to her, clutching the silk pillows with Ashord’s white sun embroidered on them.
A worried look crossed his face and Victoria hated the instinct in her to go to him, to reassure.
She looked away. The princes could not be different if they tried. One dark, the other silver. Maekar temperamental and brisk, Baelor patient and chivalrous. Never wavering, never rising in his temper. She found it a challenge, in the beginning. What could I do to provoke him? What could make him lose control? But, in the end, it was his hesitation and deference that drew her in. He never sought anything without her permission, never assumed without an invitation. And oh, how she lo…
‘You may defend this rouge hedge knight however long you wish, brother, the truth remains.’ Maekar’s voice cut through the building tension. ‘He attacked my son.’
Bealor’s eyes snapped to his brother but instead of rising to the challenge, he sighed and closed the doors behind him ‘That fact is not in dispute.’ He reasoned. ‘Merely the circumstances of the assault itself.’
She knew who they spoke of. Ser Duncan the Tall. Such an unsignificant name bore by a man of such significant size. What a nobody to cause such a rift in the house of the Dragon. And yet she felt nothing but sympathy for the man. To have blundered so spectacularly to gain the attention of not one but four Targaryen princes. And almost none of it favourable.
‘I shall have the man tried and sentenced, as is my right, my son’s right.’ Maekar growled ‘I will hear no more of slain dragons and blameless puppeteers.’ He got up and made for the other door, leading to the connecting chambers.
There’s my place, Victoria thought uncharitably. Behind curtains and locked doors.
Baelor looked ready to argue but made no move to stop his brother. Now was not the time. Maekar would rage for hours, perhaps days before he was ready to listen to reason. Best to leave him to burn out.
Thus leaving her with no reason to delay their conversation.
Once his brother was safely out of the room, Baelor’s attention was fully on her. There was an apology in his eyes – for his brother, the situation or something else entirely, she wasn’t sure.
She focused her eyes on him and smiled hesitantly. She thought to find some change in him to justify herself but, annoyingly and as expected, found none. He was his charming self – with his hair dark hair and beard adorned with some grey, the laugh lines at his eyes and mouth and his kind, kind eyes. He wore a simple black doublet with a dagger at his hip. Unassuming yet powerful.
He took a step towards her and reached out his arm, hand glimmering with the modest rings he wore. One for the royal house and one for her, she knew. An invitation only. You could refuse. You could always refuse. And yet…
Like the coward she was, she got up from her seat by the window and meeting his urgent steps, they collided in the middle of the room.
Baelor’s long, warm hands grasped her cold ones in a comforting embrace, drawing her closer and tucking her head under his. About a head taller than most men, Baelor’s size never unnerved her, only comforted her. Here was a man, not just a prince, who would always stand between her and any danger. He proved it again and again.
So why am I so afraid now?
The time for truths came and she felt more unready than ever.