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Baelor wakes before you every morning.
Not because he must, but because he likes the moment where you are still half-asleep and unaware of his gaze, the quiet of the day where it can just be you two.
Your back pressed to his chest, your breathing slow and even. His arm rests around you, holding you close like you might slip away in the night if his hands are not always on you.
He does not move. His fingers curl slightly, just enough to feel the warmth of you, grounding himself in the knowledge that you are here. When you stir, his grip tightens instinctively, a quiet pull closer.
“Good morning my love” he murmurs once, low and steady taking the opportunity to kiss your cheek.
“Good morning my prince” you tease lightly, a ghost of a sleepy smile on your face as he dips his head into your neck, inhaling the warm scent of you, letting out a low contented moan.
You smile, turning in his arms to face him. His face, soft in the early morning light, his mismatched eyes looking at you in adoration.
“We still have time before your first council meeting” you say sultry, your hand moving to his chest, intention clear.
He lets out a low growl before rolling on top of you, your surprised giggles, silenced with a kiss.
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He has always been a fidget, bouncing his leg, brushing his clothes or twisting his rings. It was a habit his Maester was never able to train out of him.
Council meetings where the worst for it, the meetings dragged on as the listening as lords argue over coin and borders.
He speaks rarely, but when he does, the room stills as hand of the king and heir to the Iron Throne, his word was as good as law.
But as a patient man, he often let the lords have the illusion of choice or control, especially when his wife was in attendance. The master of coin was giving spending reports as beneath the table, Baelor’s hand seeks yours.
His thumb rubs slow circles against your knuckles, he does not seem aware he is even doing it. When the discussion drags on as an argument breaks out between the master of coin and master of ship. He twirls his fingers between yours, his finger lingering on your wedding ring, grounding himself through you alone.
You smile softly, squeezing his hand gently, a united front.
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The Red Keep was a buzz with activity. The King had invited the Lords and Ladies of the realm to a great tourney to celebrate his milestone anniversary on the iron throne.
However that meant that you and your husband had seldom been left alone. As Heir and Lord Hand he was often whisked away to be part of ceremony, meetings and showing his face amongst the Lords. Whereas, you had been pulled away to play the part of hostess, with no current queen, the duty of tea’s, feasts and chamber preparations had been left to you.
The whirlwind of activity had been exhausting, made worse by the longing you both felt.
When your paths did cross it was often fleeting and surrounded by servants, Lords and Ladies.
You pass him in the corridor, Baelor does not stop you, you do not speak, but your eyes lock. As he passes, his fingers brush the silk of your sleeve, just barely, deliberate enough to make your breath catch, your fingers flexing involuntarily, reaching out to him.
Later, alone, he will remember the feel of that fabric under his fingertips. Later, it will not be enough.
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You change soaps without telling him, a gift from a visiting lady of Dorne.
He notices immediately. Jasmine clings to you now, soft and floral, warming as the day goes on. When you lean close to speak to him, it surrounds him, settles into his senses, into his clothes. He finds himself stopping as you pass, just to breathe you in.
That night, long after you have gone to bed, Baelor pauses in his office, fingers brushing your forgotten shall, his fingers tracing the soft purple fabric where the scent lingers faintly, bringing it to his nose.
His eyes close. Just for a moment.
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The feast is loud with music and laughter, cups raised high as the dancers take the floor. Your husband had slipped into the alcoves to speak with Maekar. You were seated at the high table, with your good sister swapping gossip, your head falls back in laughter as she tells a story of northern lord who hung out the window naked, to avoid the husband of his lover.
You where about to tell an even juicer story, when Lord Lannister approaches face flushed, clearly already deep his cups. Bowing low (with only a slight wobble) and offering his hand “may I have this dance your grace?” You smile tightly wanting to say no, but you already know the truth of it. A princess of the realm cannot refuse.
“Of course my lord” you say in faux cheerfulness, putting your goblet down and taking his hand, your other coming to smooth down your dragon embellished dress as you stand.
You are led out to the floor, your good sister’s eyes meeting yours as you widen them exadurating, she laughs using her goblet to hide it.
The lord’s hand settles at your waist as the music begins. At first, it is proper, you smile and make small talk, stopping yourself from leaning back from his wine breath. But as the song goes on his steps grow closer, his fingers drift, wine clearly dulling his senses.
The lord’s hand lingers too low at your waist. You feel the intention in it, his fingers beginning to squeeze. Your spine straightens as you flush with irritation, you draw breath to put him in his place, threatening to remove his hand from his body.
Your mouth opens, but you never get the chance.
A familiar hand closes over yours, warm and certain, interrupting the movement entirely. In one smooth motion, you are spun away, red silk flaring, the offending touch gone as if it never existed.
You look up to your husband’s beautiful face. He does not address the Lord Lannister, who is stood there dumbfounded,. He does not even look at him, his attention is wholly, completely on you as he draws you in, one arm firm at your back, the other clasped in your hand still.
The dance continues, Baelor leads as if the dance was always meant to be his.
“I would have had his hand” you grumble, moving closer your chest against his.
“I would have had his head” his whispers darkly into your ear. He spins you once more, controlled, reverent, drawing you back against him with ease. His hand settles at your waist, exactly where it should be,
You let out a breath of laughter, leaning up to kiss him. When the music ends, he does not release you immediately. Neither do you ask him to.