Work Text:
An unnatural silence hung over the Small Council chamber, broken only by the scratching of the Grand Maester’s quill and the steady voice of the Master of Coin as he discussed the costs of maintaining the Dragonpit. At the head of the table, on the right hand of King Daeron II, sat Baelor. As Hand of the King, he looked impeccable—his black doublet embroidered with gold emphasized his rank, and his face remained a mask of stern composure.
Yet beneath the table, no one could see how tightly his hand clenched around his knee, his knuckles pale.
“…so, Prince Baelor, do you believe we should increase the tariff on soap from Tyrosh, or remain with the current rate?” the Master of Coin finished, pausing expectantly for the opinion of the second most powerful man in the realm.
Baelor slowly shifted his gaze toward the lord, but his thoughts were already one floor above, in your shared bedchamber. He remembered how you had complained about your back that morning. But what if it wasn’t your back? What if it had already begun? What if, while he sat here debating tariffs on soap, you needed help—help no one could give you as well as he could?
“The tariffs can wait until tomorrow,” he finally said. His voice was so deep and calm that no one would dare call it panic.
“Tomorrow?” King Daeron raised an eyebrow, studying his son with a knowing smile. He understood perfectly well what was happening in Baelor’s mind. “Has the economy of the realm suddenly lost its importance?”
Baelor rose to his feet, straightening his shoulders with the dignity of a man announcing the beginning of a war rather than his intention to check on his wife.
“The economy is stable, Your Grace. However, the condition of my wife requires… the personal supervision of the Hand of the King,” he replied, choosing his words carefully so they would not sound desperate. “I must ensure that the reports of her well-being correspond with the truth. My apologies.”
He inclined his head to his father and the gathered lords, then left the chamber with the brisk stride of a soldier. Only once the doors closed behind him and he was beyond the council’s sight did his pace quicken to nearly a run. He ignored the bows of the guards, feeling an irrational fear growing in his chest that this single hour away might have been one hour too long.
Your chambers were blissfully quiet, and you intended to use the moment to catch up on your reading. Unfortunately, the book you wanted most had been placed maliciously on the third shelf from the top. You sighed heavily, resting a hand on your rounded belly.
“Just one small step, little one. Father doesn’t need to know,” you muttered, pushing a small oak footstool toward the bookshelf.
It was sturdy and only a few inches high, but with your current center of gravity it still felt like a challenge. Carefully, you placed one foot on it, then the other, straightening so you could reach the spine of the leather-bound volume. Your fingers almost touched it when suddenly the bedchamber door burst open with the force of a wildling raid from beyond the Wall.
“(Y/N)! Seven hells, what are you doing?!” Baelor’s voice cracked through the silence like a whip.
Startled, you jerked, which caused you to wobble on the stool for real this time. Before you could even think about catching your balance, Baelor’s strong arms—armored almost in muscle—wrapped around your waist. Your feet left the ground, and a moment later you were seated on the soft chaise with such speed it felt as if the stool beneath you had burst into flames.
Baelor dropped to his knees before you, his face pale. His hands immediately settled on your knees, checking for injury.
“Have you lost your senses?” he asked, his voice a mixture of pure terror and love. “Climbing? In your condition? Do you want the maesters to have to put you back together because you felt like reading about the history of Valyria?”
“Baelor, it was one step,” you laughed, though the genuine fear in his eyes made your heart soften. “I was standing perfectly well on both feet.”
“That step could have shifted. The wood could have cracked. You might have grown dizzy,” he argued, shaking his head in disbelief. He rose abruptly, strode to the shelf, and practically tore the book free before returning it to you with the care one might use to handle fragile ice.
“Next time you will call a guard. Or me. I will drop everything and come hand you that book. Is that understood?”
You looked at him—this towering knight, now your personal librarian, who looked as though he had just survived a siege.
“Understood, my knight,” you replied, opening the book to hide your amused smile.
Baelor, however, was not finished. He began pacing the room, eyeing every piece of furniture as if he suspected the carpet itself of conspiring against your safety.
That afternoon became a lesson in patience worthy of the oldest maesters of the Citadel. Instead of returning to his duties, Baelor had evidently decided that your bedchamber was now the most important battlefield in the Seven Kingdoms.
It began with tea.
The moment you reached for the cup of raspberry leaf tea a servant had placed beside you, Baelor nearly snatched it from your hands.
“It’s hot,” he declared gravely, as if he had uncovered a plot against your life.
“My love, it’s tea. It’s supposed to be warm,” you sighed, watching the crown prince—the man who commanded armies—blow on your cup for five full minutes, occasionally testing the temperature with his finger with the expression of a siege engineer.
Half an hour later the room began to feel stuffy. You wanted to walk to the window to breathe in the sea air from Blackwater Bay. You hadn’t even risen from the chaise before he was already beside you, a hand on your shoulder.
“Where are you going?” he asked sharply.
“Just to the window, Baelor. I want some air.”
“Drafts are treacherous at this hour,” he muttered. But seeing your determined expression, he relented… on his own terms.
“Very well. But you will not stand. Standing strains the spine and ankles.”
Before you could protest he dragged a heavy armchair to the window, added two cushions, and once you were seated draped a thick wool blanket over your shoulders. You opened the window only a hand’s width because Baelor immediately insisted the wind was “particularly strong today.”
For the next hour you tried simply to enjoy the gardens, but Baelor hovered like a shadow.
“(Y/N), don’t slouch like that, you’ll press on the baby.”
“(Y/N), perhaps you need a footstool? I can find a higher one.”
“(Y/N), your hands look pale. Are you sure you don’t need the maester?”
Eventually you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You loved him beyond measure, and his concern was touching—but you were beginning to feel less like a royal consort and more like a porcelain figurine someone had placed on the edge of a table.
“Baelor,” you said softly but firmly. “My dear. If you adjust this blanket one more time, I might start biting.”
Baelor froze instantly, his hand hovering midair where it had been about to straighten the edge of the blanket. A flicker of genuine hurt crossed his face.
“Biting?” he repeated slowly. “But I was only… (Y/N), the maesters said clearly that in the final weeks a woman is like—”
“Like what? Glass? Sugar?” you interrupted, turning toward him. His confused expression was so comical your irritation began to melt into amusement. “Baelor, I’m strong. I’m carrying a small dragon who’s been kicking my ribs for the last hour, and you’re worried about the angle of my chair.”
Baelor sighed heavily and finally sat on the edge of your chair—carefully enough that the furniture did not even tremble. He took your hand in both of his and began stroking your skin with his thumb.
“You don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice no longer the voice of the Hand but that of a frightened man. “On the battlefield I know what to do. I know where the blow will come from. But here? Here there’s you, and our child, and I… I cannot protect you from exhaustion or pain. I feel useless if I cannot at least bring you that cursed pillow.”
He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a long, reverent kiss to it.
“I’m sorry,” he added, meeting your eyes with such intensity you felt warmth rise to your cheeks. “I will try… to give you more space. At least for the next hour.”
You smiled triumphantly, though you knew the promise would last about as long as fresh milk.
“An hour is a fair bargain, my prince,” you said, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Because tonight there’s the feast, and you promised I could attend if I rested all afternoon.”
Baelor’s expression darkened immediately.
“Yes. The feast. Crowds, noise, and slippery marble floors. I can hardly wait,” he muttered.
You knew instantly that his brief recovery from overprotectiveness had just ended.
The throne room glittered with thousands of candles, the smell of roasted meats and spiced wine mixing with the suffocating warmth of the crowd. Baelor sat beside you, but his presence felt less like a companion and more like a drawn bowstring. His gaze constantly scanned the hall—from servants passing too close with trays to laughing lords whose voices seemed dangerously loud.
You, however, were beginning to feel worse. The heavy air made your breathing shallow.
“Baelor,” you whispered, touching his shoulder. “It’s too stuffy here. I’d like to step out into the gardens for a moment. I need fresh air.”
Baelor turned instantly, alarm flaring in his eyes.
“The gardens? Now?” he frowned, placing a hand on your stomach as if checking whether the child had requested the same thing. “It’s dark. The grass will be wet with dew—you could slip. And the air from the bay is very damp tonight. You could catch a cold, (Y/N). And a cold in your condition is—”
“Baelor, please,” you groaned softly. “Just ten minutes. I want silence.”
You tried to stand, pushing against the edge of the table. Baelor reacted faster than you could comprehend. In a heartbeat he was on his feet, one arm behind your back, the other beneath your knees.
Before you could protest, the world tilted—and you found yourself in his arms.
“What are you doing?!” you hissed, aware that half the court had fallen silent.
“Rescuing you from this chaos,” he replied loudly and clearly, unconcerned that King Daeron was watching with a raised eyebrow. “The gardens are out of the question. Too dangerous after dark. You are returning to the bedchamber. Immediately.”
“Baelor, put me down!” your cheeks burned as he strode toward the exit carrying you like a priceless treasure. “You promised! I can walk!”
“I promised to keep you safe,” he answered shortly. “Walking across slippery stone at night does not qualify. You will rest in bed. I will make certain no one disturbs you.”
The guards at the doors struggled to keep straight faces as their prince—mighty Baelor Breakspear—marched through the corridors of the Red Keep with his pregnant wife in his arms, ignoring her whispered threats and pleas for mercy.
Once the heavy oak doors of your bedchamber closed, the outside world ceased to exist.
Baelor did not leave your side for a moment. With almost religious devotion he helped you bathe, personally checking the water temperature every few minutes to ensure it had not cooled by even a degree. His large hands—rough from the sword—were impossibly gentle as he helped you from the bath, dressed you, and wrapped you in soft linens as though you were the crown’s greatest treasure.
Now you lay in the great bed, surrounded by pillows he had personally arranged to support your back. The fire crackled softly, and the only sound was Baelor’s steady breathing.
He was not sleeping.
You rested against his side, half-reclining. Slowly, as had become his nightly ritual, Baelor slid down until his dark head rested beside your belly. His hand moved slowly, rhythmically, stroking the taut skin.
“Forgive me,” he murmured softly, his voice vibrating against you. “I know I can be… overbearing. But when I look at you, I see my whole world. And I cannot bear the thought that something might happen to you when I am not beside you.”
The child inside you suddenly kicked. Baelor’s face lit with a wide smile.
He leaned closer and pressed a long, tender kiss to the very spot where you had felt the movement.
“Did you hear that?” he whispered to your belly, abandoning every trace of princely dignity. “Your mother thinks your father exaggerates. But you know better, don’t you? Tell her not to escape to the gardens again. Keep watch over her from the inside, little one. I promise that when you arrive, you will have the safest kingdom in history.”
You closed your eyes, running your fingers through his thick hair. The irritation from the feast, the closed windows, the “tea incident”—none of it mattered anymore. In the warm, love-filled quiet of the Red Keep, you simply felt safe.
“Baelor?” you murmured sleepily.
“Yes, my love?”
“I love you. But if tomorrow morning you blow on my porridge again, I will kick your ass.”
You heard his low, rumbling laugh as he pressed his cheek more firmly to your belly.
“I promise nothing, (Y/N). Nothing at all.”