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The day had been wonderful. You’d gotten the rare chance to dine with just your family, your sons, and husband all present, and no one had stormed in to demand or fetch someone for something. As Valarr left for his study to finish his history lesson, you’d watched Matarys’ archery practice for a moment before you’d ventured out for a walk together with your husband, the slight distance the guards gave you allowing for an illusion of privacy.
As you made your way to the town, you picked wild flowers, weaving them into a colourful crown. The guards had closed the distance when you’d entered, and stuck close when you’d listened to their problems and complaints, promising to tell them forward to the king. Before you’d left, you’d gifted the flower crown to one of the young girls in the village, and you could still feel the warmth of her smile.
As the sky began to darken, you returned to the castle. Baelor left to share the matters of the village with his father, while you sat with Matarys as he fell asleep. You also pried the books out of Valarr’s hands, ushering him towards bed before you’d retired, too. The rest of the calm eve had been spent wonderful time with your husband in the bath and the bed, appreciating each other in a multitude of ways, your hands trailing his bare shoulders and chest as he peppered kisses along your sternum, over your collarbones, and all the way down to your stomach.
*****
It is the dead of night when you wake, blinking blearily, unsure of what woke you. Baelor’s arms are still tightly wound around you, the heavy curtains block the windows, and Dragonstone is silent, only the sound of waves crashing reaching your bedroom from afar.
You are about to settle back into sleep when the lone light of a candle flickers, showcasing a darkened silhouette of a man in the room. You freeze, the warmth of your husband steady next to you as he sleeps deeply, unaware of the danger. There has been a rising number of threats made to his life in the past months, but he had assured you they were nothing and that you should not worry. But you did worry, and apparently, for a good reason. There was an assassin in your shared bedroom, in the heart of Dragonstone, able to make it his way to you without any notable challenges.
Horror floods your heart as you realize the sheen in the air is not of the moon but of a blade of a knife that flickers with the candlelight. Your thoughts flicker to your husband’s sword leaning against the wall, but it is too far, and you are not trained to use it, not in a space this small. Waking Baelor would alert the assassin of your awake state. You need the element of surprise, you’ll need every vantage you get.
You do not think further as the figure approaches slowly, steps silently, the sliver of his face you are able to see covered with a cloth. Your hand shoots out to the heavy candlestick, and your bare feet meet the freezing stone. The first strike meets its target with a sickening crunch, and the attacker yelps, scrambling in surprise. Raising the candlestick above your head, you bring it down in a wide arch, striking again. The figure growls, but it is soon replaced with wails as you strike again, blind with rage and darkness, the candle snuffed out with the scuffle.
You do not hear the movement in the bed behind you, nor the clatter of approaching guards, just swing the candlestick repeatedly, a dark satisfaction rising as you hear it make contact.
“You will not-
CRACK
“-touch my husband-“
CRACK
-as long as I live!”
CRACK
The door bursts open, and light floods in, the torches the guards are carrying reveal the scene unfolding in your room.
You, clad in only an undershirt, one of Baelor’s, so worn and thin it barely covers you. Blood is speckled on your arms and hands, and some drops have landed on your shins. The would-be attacker covers against the wall, trying to shield himself with his arms from your vicious attack. From what you can see, his nose is broken, one arm bent at an unnatural angle, and deep gashes on his forehead and face.
But your rage has not cooled with the guard’s appearance. You make for another swing, but arms wind around your waist and pull you back, to a chest, warm and familiar. The candlestick falls from your hands with a deafening clatter in the silent room as your husband gently guides you away, allowing the guards to seize the man, who is half-carried out of the room, your attack having left him barely able to walk.
“I want him dead.” You seethe, hands squeezed into fists as you stare down the man as he is taken away, face dark and furious as you watch them go.
“All in due time, my love.” Baelor soothes, fingers sliding along your arms, the warmth of him making your shoulders loosen slowly.
The door closes behind them, but you do not make a move to return to the bed, still shaking as you stare at the door. You are ready to fight anyone who steps through it, be it god or man. Baelor, noticing this, gently guides and seats you at the edge of the bed. He fetches a rag, setting it aside as he helps you out of the shirt, flecked with blood, tossing it aside for the maids to pick for laundry later. He knows there will be many people swarming into your chambers soon enough as the attempted attack spreads through the kingdom, but he needs to take care of you first.
Gently running the rag along your arms, he presses gentle kisses along your shoulders, his voice low and soft.
“You protected me, my love.” Feeling the rumble of his words in your chest, you lean back, reveling in his presence, allowing yourself to slowly relax.
Beginning to shake, you bury your head in your hands, now blood-free, trying to make sense of it all. Had it truly happened? It feels like a dream, or as if you’d been watching yourself from afar. But you could not let that man hurt him, not when you could stop him.
“Who was he?” You look up at your husband, who simply shakes his head.
“No one important, my love.” His nose brushes your cheek.
“You protected me.” His voice is like velvet, smooth and gentle as his hands slide along your skin, their warmth soothing the shivers caused by the cool air on your still, shirtless skin.
“Of course.” Your voice is a whisper, you do not know why, but it feels wrong to break the silence in the room.
“You beat a man bloody with a candlestick.” Awe has filled his tone as his hands tug you closer, lips trailing over your cheek, breath warm on your skin.
“Someone had to stop him. I simply couldn’t let him harm you.” Turning your head, you meet his eyes, mismatched and warm with love. His calloused hand winds around yours, encasing your palm in his, interlocking your fingers.
Simply staring at each other for a moment, time seems to have frozen as the silence in the room swirls. You let his warmth soothe you, still quite startled by the whole thing. Baelor can see you getting lost in your head, and he is not about to let it happen, so he kisses you. First, it is gentle and sweet, a question of permission, barely a brush of his lips. When you lean in, the next is filled with assurance that he is here, that he is alright. And the heat gathers, the kiss deepens. He pulls you closer to his chest, one of your hands still clutched in his, trapped awkwardly between your chests.
The kisses leave your head spinning as he pulls away, alerted by a noise at the door. His eyes drop down, and he smiles.
“We'd best find you some clothing. I am sure there will be quite a lot of questions soon, and even if I appreciate this attire, I suppose the others may not.” His eyes flicker with amusement and appreciation as they flit over your naked chest, earning him a slap to his shoulder from you.