Chapter Text
You had learned the corridors that led to the library in your first week.
Not for the love of books, though you loved them well enough, but because it was the only place in the Red Keep where something was not expected of you. The court expected brightness. Wit quick as a blade and twice as polished. It expected laughter at the proper moments, and silence at others. It expected you to shine.
The library asked for nothing.
Scarcely two weeks had past since you had been placed within the retinue of Kiera of Tyrosh, the beloved wife of Prince Valarr Targaryen, presented with moderate ceremony in one of the many halls of the castle, before half a dozen watching and scrutinising ladies. Your grandmother had overseen every single stitch of the gown you wore that day, hawk-eyed and unsparing.
“Not too ostentatious,” She had hissed, bony fingers tugging at the sleeve. “But not forgettable.”
The sigil of your House had been embroidered subtly along the cuffs of the sleeve, visible to any who looked closely. It was meant to whisper lineage without begging for notice.
Lady Kiera had received you with grace that day. The Tyroshi princess possessed a soft voice and careful manners. She had spoken kindly to you, warmly even. But you could not say the same for the rest of the household.
The other women of her retinue had measured you with polite smiles and narrowed eyes, from the dainty pieces of jewelry you wore in your hair, down to what you had worn on your feet. They knew why girls like you were sent to court. You were not there to merely pour wine, or carry messages. You were there to be seen, to be chosen, to be advantageous.
You were meant to glide through this world as though perfectly born to it. Instead, you felt as though you were forever a step behind the music.
You now stood between two towering shelves, heavy with the histories of Old Valyria, your fingers curled into the skirts of your dress to keep them from shaking. The silk had been imported from Qarth, her father and grandmother had insisted on it, and dyed a rich colour that marked your House. It caught the candlelight beautifully.
You had been proud to wear it at first, but now it felt like armor too heavy for your shoulders.
You pressed your mouth close against the sound that was threatening to escape your throat. You would not sob. You would not!
Eldest daughters do not sob.
Eldest daughters secure futures.
Eldest daughters win over alliances.
If your grandmother could see you now, she would be livid. A woman from your House did not weep in shadowed corridors. A woman of your House did not skulk between shelves like a frightened little girl.
The words rang sharp and restless in your mind.
At the same time, the hidden pocket sewn into your skirt was heavy with your father’s letter. It had been opened and folded so many times that the creases had begun to gray.
“You will shine, daughter.” He had written. “Remember why you’re there.”
As if you could forget.
A fortnight at the Royal Court had taught you more than home ever had. You had learned how laughter could slice without drawing blood. How admiration and how words could be measured like coin, offered only when it profited the giver. How even the kindness from the great ladies often carried calculation beneath its courtesy.
Lady Kiera was gracious, you had to admit. You could not accuse her of mistreatment or cruelty. But she was surrounded by women born into influence, women who had navigated courts since girlhood. And they watched. And they weighed. And they judged.
Every night, you replayed every conversation you had had, counting any missteps. Had you spoken too quickly or too softly? Had you smiled enough or too much? You could not help but feel that you were failing at every step.
A tear escaped despite your best efforts, despite your resolve, sliding hot and humiliating down your cheek. Your throat burned, as if you had swallowed smoke. You drew in a trembling breath, then another, and then another, fighting for control.
Turning further into the shadows between the shelves, you pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, biting your lower lip, willing the sound that threatened to come back to retreat.
You would not sob like a child. You would not, you could not… The tremor in your breath refused to obey. It slipped free from you anyway, soft, humiliating.
“I would not recommend The Doom of Valyria for comfort reading.”
A voice came from the end of the aisle. It was not sharp or mocking. It carried a low, measured warmth that did not belong to the draft-prone corridors of the Red Keep. You froze, your breath catching violently enough that you feared you might choke. Slowly, you turned, blinking through your wet lashes.
Prince Baelor Targaryen stood at the end of the narrow passage between shelves, one hand resting lightly against a spine of a book, as though he had paused mid-selection.
You had seen him before. Not closely though, never closely.
You had seen him across courtyards, from the far end of long tables, in council chambers you were not meant to linger. He was not loud in the way princes were in the stories her Septa had told to her and her sisters. He did not laugh loudly, nor allow his temper to show. He listened as though words were coins, and he meant to spend none carelessly. You had seen how he spoke to courtiers, to council-members and servants. There was never rebuke or scorn found in his words. Admiration had taken root in you before you realised it had been planted at all. But you had not been sent to court to admire princes who were beyond your reach.
He was the Crown Prince, the Hand of the King, a man seasoned by war and council both. You were a fortnight at court and already nearly in tears in a library. You had no right to such fantasies.
Yet you had found yourself marking his presence in rooms without truly meaning to. The steadiness of him, the quiet charm and grace. The gravity that seemed to gather around him like a cloak.
And now he was here, in front of you.
The candlelight traced the lines of his face. The strong, thoughtful set of his brow, the beard threaded faintly with grey, kept neat and close. His dark doublet was newly changed, charcoal and black, the silver Hand of the King with the dragon scales pinned at his breast catching the light with a restrained gleam.
He had changed his clothes before supper. That was the first absurd thought that crossed your mind. The second was that he was far more handsome at arm’s length than he had ever been from across the hall, in the quiet, commanding way of a man accustomed to being obeyed and yet not too eager to command.
His mismatched eyes, one dark brown and the other light blue, same as his sons’, were fixed on you.
You dropped into a curtsy too quickly, vision blurring, nearly tangling yourself in the silk of your dress. “Your grace! Forgive me, I did not mean to-”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” His voice was low and gentle, the sort that did not need to be raised to be heard.
“I fear I startled you.” He added, not stepping closer. “That was not my intent.”
Your cheeks burned hotter than the candles lining the table beyond. You were painfully aware of your reddened eyes, of the tears you had not managed to hide. Could the floor swallow you whole?
“I shall leave at once.” You said quickly. “I would not intrude upon-”
“You are not intruding.” The words were firm. His gaze flickered to your face, to the tears you had failed to wipe away, and then, deliberately, he looked aside to spare you the humiliation of being examined when in distress.
He moved then, coming a step closer, but remaining a respectful distance. A small linen square appeared in his hand. He extended it, not pressing it upon you, merely offering it.
“In case the dust proves troublesome.” He said, a faint smile on his mouth.
A lifeline offered, as though it were nothing at all.
You stared at the handkerchief for a long moment. Then you crossed the distance between you and took it, your fingers gently brushing against his.
The contact was fleeting, but it felt like striking flint.
“Thank you, your Grace.” You said timidly, dabbing at your eyes. The linen was clean, scented with mint and fresh flowers. “You are very kind.”
“The Red Keep is not always so.” He replied. He tilted his head slightly to the side, considering you. “One must balance it, when one can.”
You managed a small smile of your own.
Silence settled between you, but it did not last long, as words tumbled out of you in your need to disrupt it.
“I did not think princes had time to visit libraries.”
“I do not, I’m afraid.” He admitted, glancing at the shelves. “Though I wish I did. It is the only place in the Red Keep where no one demands something of me.”
The confession was quiet, almost wry. It felt like you were let in on a little secret.
“I feel the same way.” You said before caution could catch up.
Something passed over his eyes. Something akin to recognition.
He moved towards the long table nearby and drew out a chair. He did not sit, he waited.
You frowned faintly, confused at his actions.
“For you to decide,” he explained gently, “whether you prefer solitude… or company.”
Baelor said that so simply, but they struck you harder than any barbed remark from the ladies in Kiera’s retinue. No one had asked your preference in anything since you arrived. Not even in your father’s hall had such questions been posed without some sort of expectation behind them.
You still hesitated. You could almost hear the shrill voice of your grandmother, admonishing you. You do not deny a prince of the realm.
But this did not feel like a command, it felt like a choice that was yours alone to make.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, before softly saying: “Company.”
Something in his expression softened at that. He inclined his head and only took his seat once you had taken yours opposite him, after having reached for a nearby volume.
Minutes passed. Your breathing steadied, and the tightness of your throat loosened. You clutched his handkerchief loosely in your lap.
You stole glances at him when you thought he would not notice. He did not truly read, his fingers tracing absently along the edge of the pages. His shoulders, broad beneath dark wool, seemed heavier now in stillness than they ever had across a hall. Up close, you saw the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, earned by laughter and strain. Responsibility clung to him as tangibly as the silver Hand at his breast.In the candlelight, he seemed less of a prince at that moment, and more a man worn thin by the stress and expectations of his station. Yet unbowed by it.
You had heard whispers of his fairness in council, how he listened even to those beneath him. How he did not mock weakness, nor tolerate cruelty. It had been that steadiness that had first drawn your foolish admiration. Now, sitting across from him in the hush of the library, the feeling deepened into something warmer.
“I am afraid I will fail…” You said suddenly, the confession slipping free before your pride could catch it.
He lifted his gaze to you at once. “Fail at what?”
“At… at what I was sent to do.” Heat rushed to your face, your eyes dropping to the handkerchief. “My father… he…” It felt disloyal to speak of pressure, especially in front of him. “He believes I may be of use.”
“Use?” Baelor repeated unkindly.
You nodded. “To my house.”
When he answered, his voice lowered. “Serving your house, wanting to do so, that is no failing.”
“But…” Your voice cracked. “I do not think I am suited to this place.”
A faint sigh left him.
“No one is.” He said softly. “We endure it. Some may learn to shape it, if they are fortunate.”
You looked up then. He was watching you fully now, not as a prince assessing a courtier or petitioner, not as a man weighing advantage, but as one person listening to another. There was no calculation in his expression, like you found in so many others. Only attention.
“How long have you been here? A fortnight?” He asked, pulling you ways from your tangled thoughts.
“Yes…”
“The Red Keep requires longer than that to defeat a person.”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You clapped your hand over your mouth, mortified.
But his mismatched eyes warmed, faint amusement lighting them.
“There.” He said “You see? It has not defeated you yet.”
“Your grace… my prince,” You asked before sense could intervene. “Why are you so kind to me?”
For a heartbeat you feared you had overstepped, as the question hung in the air. But he did not bristle.
“Because you were crying.” He answered simply. “And because this castle… this court is seldom gentle.”
Something shifted in you then, a warmth spreading low through your chest and stomach, unfamiliar in its tenderness. Fresh tears threatened to fall, so you stood quickly instead, smoothing your skirts.
“I have taken too much of your time.”
”You have taken none.”
You curtsied properly this time.
“Thank you, my prince.”
You extended your hand, offering his handkerchief back.
“Keep it.” He said, that smile from before returning.
As you stepped between the shelves, his voice reached you once more.
“You need not shine all at once. Stars that burn too brightly attract hunters.”
You paused, turning slightly towards him. “And what of those who burn quietly?”
He held her gaze. “They endure.”
You left a steadier step than the one that brought you to the library. You would replay every word Baelor said to you before sleep claimed you. You knew you would scold yourself for the warmth spreading in your chest, when you remembered his eyes and the brief brush of fingers against yours.
But for the first time since arriving at court, you did not feel alone within its walls.