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Smiling, you watch as Matarys toddles around in the training yard, the guards, squires, knights, and soldiers alike standing aside, chased away by your glare. The young prince is spoiled rotten by the servants, you know this, they sneak him treats when they can. But he is just a sweet young boy, always happy and smiling, his giggles ringing in the halls as he runs around.
Your smile dims as Matarys trips over his feet, tumbling to the ground. You hear him sniffle as he stares at his hands. At your approach, he looks up, his eyes filled with tears, and you coo softly.
“You are alright, my brave little knight.” Brushing his hands gently to see there are no cuts, you lift him to his feet, brushing the sand off his clothes.
“Shall we go and find your father? He said he has a surprise for you.” The boy perks up instantly, nodding enthusiastically as he begins tugging you by your arm towards the castle. Not big with words, his eyes plead you to follow as the training yard returns to its normal hustle and bustle, with the prince now gone.
Baelor had returned from a diplomatic mission late last night, and your sons were in deep sleep when the party arrived. He’d been tired and almost fallen straight to bed when you’d assisted him out of his clothing, but first making sure to wrap you into his embrace. You’d been slightly confused. Usually, he’d waste no time in reuniting with you in a more … physical way. But he’d been tired even before he’d left, the difficult birth of Matarys had weighed on him for a long time after the birth and up to your full recovery, which took time, too*.
****
As the winter slowly turns into spring, the cold moving aside and bringing out the sun and warmth, you still feel detached from your husband. Baelor is his usual charming self, kissing your cheek with every opportunity, escorting you on his arm everywhere, but something is missing. You cannot quite find a way to describe it, but it feels as if he is pulling away even if he is right beside you.
It is only when you hear the ladies of the court start whispering about the diplomatic mission and the Lord who offered his daughter’s hand to him, quite brazenly, as he knew Baelor was married, that you start to worry. Could he be growing bored with you? You are not a young maiden anymore, your body shaped by two sons. But he’s assured you that you are beautiful to him, especially after bearing him his sons. Had that all been verbiage, pretty words to keep you satisfied? Could he be considering the offer, weighing the opportunity for a younger wife?
As the doubt sets in your mind, you start looking and seeing proof of his boredom with you everywhere. The way he looks at you after greeting the women in town. The way he pulls his hand out of your hold when he greets the lords of the court. And you begin to pull into yourself, spending more and more time with your sons in their rooms, dodging his invitations to meetings and events, even private walks, with lame excuses. The whole court can see the change, seemingly holding their breath as the formerly loving couple turns to stone when they are close to each other.
Baelor misses you so much that he feels physical pain. He misses your touch, your love, your hand in his. But he cannot chase the images of you, pale in the bed, face ashen, and the maesters unsure whether you would wake again. Matarys is healthy and happy by then, even after being lifeless in birth, now energized and kicking his legs. Loud giggles ring in the chambers as Baelor sits by your bedside, unable to sleep at or drink, holding his infant son*.
He cannot be the reason you are brought to the brink of death again if something goes wrong again. He’d love another child with you, as many as you’d give him, but the thought of losing you to the child bed terrifies him to his core.
****
Maekar sees the way you shrink into yourself as Baelor approaches the other ladies of the court. Your eyes watch the exchange with intensity, studying every move, every gesture, as if it would give you the opportunity to solve all the hunger in the kingdom. He sees you flinch when Baelor smiles at one of them, stance polite with his posture stiff. Your shoulders fall, still, and you excuse yourself quickly, returning to your rooms with tears in your eyes. Whatever you have convinced yourself is full horse shit, Maekar knowing that Baelor loves you more than anything, unsure of why his brother is acting so. But there is a change in Baelor, too. He seems dull, emotionless as he serves his duties, attends and leads meetings, takes care of this and that around the kingdom. But it seems as if he has lost something in him, like some pieces are missing.
Maekar seeks his brother out, hunched over a towel of papers, scrawling signatures with an impassive expression.
“Why the fuck are you acting like this?” He doesn’t knock, doesn’t announce himself, but goes straight to the issue.
“I do not know what you mean.” Baelor’s head doesn’t rise, his tone even.
“You’ve been prowling around the kingdom for weeks now, snapping at everyone. And when your lady wife graces us with her presence, you turn to stone.” His brother doesn’t respond now, just scratches another signature.
Sighing, Maekar runs his hand over his face. How is it that he has to be the voice of reason?
“Talk to your wife, she has convinced herself that you do not love her anymore. She spends so much of her time with the children, the people are starting to gossip.” Maekar stares down his older brother, but he has long stopped listening to what he has to say.
“You do not have the power to tell me what to do.” Baelor barks, and Maekar blinks in surprise. He’s never heard him use such a tone before, but his brother returns to his papers and gestures to him to leave before he can say anything else. From experience, he knows it is no use in trying to get more out of him, and Maekar takes his leave, but he is not finished with him yet.
If that is how Baelor wants to play this, Maekar will go to the person who has the power to make Baelor do as said. Their father, the King.
*****
You fiddle with your fingers, nervous as you approach the small meeting hall. You’d received a letter from the king himself, requiring your presence urgently. Leaving your children with their mentors, you’d hurried across the halls, your steps echoing in the halls.
You enter, and to your surprise, it is not your father-in-law, whose face you meet, but your husbands. His mismatched eyes meet yours, his brow rising as you peer into the room, not seeing the king anywhere. You stand there, silent for a moment. Unsure what is happening, why you have been called here, but your head keeps coming up with terrible scenarios. Horrible injuries in the family, a rebellion breaking out, the people's crop gone in a fire. But mostly, it concerns your husband and his want for a new wife.
The more you try and push those thoughts away, like you’ve been doing for the past weeks, the more you are forced to think about the matters as they invade your head. The official request of the king, Baelor’s rigid posture, the way he cannot seem to be able to look at you, avoiding your gaze as he has been doing. The rumors of the castle, the ladies whispering that stills as you enter.
The reality of life without him begins to solidify in your mind, your heart breaking at the thought of not being able to hold him whenever you can. His warmth on the cold winter days, his love on the days you need it the most, his laugh as he plays with your sons.
The simple thought of not being his tears you apart inside. You try to stop the tears from falling, but the fear you have been trying to control all morning mounts, and tears spill from your eyes. You try to keep quiet, head downcast, gently wiping them away with a handkerchief, but the first sniffle alerts him.
Baelor steps closer, reaching to take your hand into his, and you are still as his warm palms wrap around yours. His heart clenches as he sees your tears, a spark of anger lighting inside of him, too. Had someone hurt you?
“What is the matter, my love?” You shake your head, tears falling, still not looking at him, turning away as he tries to brush the tears off your cheek.
“Has someone hurt you?” He demands, and your eyes rise to stare at him, for a moment. He has not seen such a look in your eyes before, and his brow furrows.
“I do not know.”
“You do not know if someone has hurt you?” He is incredulous and confused, trying to get a better sense of what you are feeling.
“Have you hurt me?” Your question almost knocks him back, horror flooding him.
Baelor does not remember hurting you, always holding you with the utmost gentleness, always making sure not to pull you too harshly when dancing, making sure that you do not even graze walls when he escorts you, assuring you that-
“Have you been thinking of taking a second wife?” His frantic thoughts grind to a halt.
“W-What?”
“I know Lord Lannister offered you the hand of his eldest. I am growing older, and I have given you two sons, my body is not what it used to be. Are you growing bored of me? I must know, I will leave on my own accord, I cannot bear you taking another wife, you disrespecting me in such a way.” Your chest heaves as you finish, and he stares at you, horrified. How could you think of such things? His tone is even as he stares deeply into your eyes.
“My love,” he sees you flinch, and tries to hide it. The gesture pains his heart more than any punch or slap you could have dealt.
“I would never take another wife. I would never disrespect you so.” He vows, one knee on the ground as he kneels in front of you, your hands in his.
You see the earnestness in his gaze, and the doubts in your mind crack as you study his face, the promise in it.
“Then why…?“ So much is packed into that simple statement that trails off, questioning his behavior of the days past.
“I was afraid, after Matarys’ birth. Seeing your almost lifeless body terrified me. I cannot bear to think of losing you. Of being the reason for your death. So I forced myself to be away, to give you the chance to live, even if it hurt. I didn’t realize how it would hurt you, too. I am a fool.” His voice is low, only barely above a whisper, love pouring out with every word, held back for too long. His arms pull you into a tight embrace.
Relief floods you so your body feels warm, and you laugh, beside yourself.
“My honorable fool of a husband.” You coo, hand rising to his jaw. His eyes slip closed at your touch, and he feels his knees buckle as your thumb brushes his cheek.
“I am alright. Matarys is healthy and happy, and I do not intend to die with our next child.” His eyes flash with surprise as they snap open.
“N-Next?”
“Of course.” You breathe, laughter surfacing again.
“I think the gods would not give me such a handsome husband if they didn’t intend for us to have plenty of children.” Your fingers trail on his arms as you peer at him from under your lashes, smiling softly. He returns the gesture, pulling you closer, allowing himself to relax fully for the first time in a while. The warmth of your body against him, the smell of your perfume wafts over him, chasing away the dreaded images that threaten to surface.