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21 years ago…
The prince looks… stressed, to put it mildly. He’d summoned you to his solar hours ago, and when you entered, he’d been seated at that massive oak desk, reading scroll after scroll, but the stacks never seemed to shrink. So you’d sprawled out on the sofa, idly stretched out and waiting for him. Your spot was perfectly in line with the window, so you tracked the passing of time by the path the sun traced across your skin, basking like one of House Lannister’s lions. You were waiting for some lecture or discussion or something that involved your mind, but it never comes. The prince just keeps working, because this is exactly why he’d called you in. Letting you lay around, letting you relax, it was your breathing that he’d wanted. A calm, soft, even sound, gentle with the ease of your mind in the moment. His work was long and tedious, and your company soothed his building temper.
You two had known each other since boyhood, your father one of his father’s many advisors. Baelor, as a boy, had always been level headed, but the princeling was still prone to the stresses and temper of any boyhood, and his position as heir. The council had learned quickly how you soothed his moods and in turn decided that you were to be Baelor’s. You evened him out, regulated him. So a common sight over the years would be His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Baelor, going about his duties, you following close behind.
Entering your twenties, the pattern continued, evolving to days like today. Days where after you laid there, waiting for the entire day, you finally snap, asking Baelor what he’d wanted. Only for him to tell you that you’d been doing it the whole time. Keeping him calm. Keeping him company. You shot him a foul look, "You realize that I can just leave, right?"
Baelor just smiled back at you, in that infuriating little knowing way he did so often. "You could, but you won't."
Huffing, you settle back onto the sofa. "I could. The door is right there, and you can't make me stay."
He nods. Insufferable brat prince that knows you far too damn well. "I can't. The door is indeed right there." Baylor's gaze is twinkling as he watches you pout. You're mostly just put out that you waited all day when you could have just brought your own work in here to do, and complete it in the tandem silences you share so often.
Still pouting though, you huff and flop so you're laying across the sofa like it's a noblewoman's fainting couch. "You could have said something. It's not like I mind staying, I just don't like-"
"Being bored."
You two say it in unison, Baelor's voice gentle as he speaks with you. You two grew up together, so of course he knows you. So many older nobles have called you his shadow, a prince without the blood. You're technically not of the status to spend so much time with the Crown Prince, but not many can argue with him, and none who can truly care all that much. You keep Baelor from dropping dead by stress of his position, and you're not some floozy - not your words - that Baelor can knock up to have little Targaryen bastards running around. Seven knows you're all already dealing with too much of that.
And that's it, really. You, as much as anyone can be, are the Crown Prince's best friend, and according to him, the person he trusts most in King's Landing outside of his immediate family. Of course, you know he's mostly just referring to Maekar, but still. And as such, you just huff back at Baelor, raising your eyebrow in expectation. The prince knows the cost of your attention, and you can only grin when he rises, crossing from behind his desk to kneel in front of you. Kneel in front of your seat like a peasant before a throne, the crown prince kneeling for the only man in the kingdom with no dragon blood that could make him bow.
He's careful, ever so gentle with you as he takes one of your hands, pressing a kiss against your knuckles. This would be considered odd, maybe improper, but he only ever does it behind closed doors, and so you don't worry. When Baelor speaks, his voice is smooth, quiet and even. "Thank you, truly, for being so willing to follow me. I think by now, if I had not had you, I would have already succumbed to the madness of my line."
You wince, lifting his hand to your lips and returning the kiss so gently, your lips soft on the back of his hand. "Baelor, you are a good and fair man. You are not mad, no matter how much you seem to think you are. You will be a sane king, and a great one too. Yes?"
All he can do in turn is to smile ruefully, looking up at you with the same gentle kindness that begets his demeanor. At least, towards you. He is still a prince, after all. Getting to his feet, Baelor pulls you after him too. "Come now. We have been in here all day. Shall we see to getting supper?"
You two had gotten supper together, as far as Baelor remembers. You'd eaten together in a private dining room, and walked back to the hall where each of you held chambers. That had been the last time he'd seen you, sweet and smiling. Love personified, he would call you. A good man, who evened him out. That night though, something had happened. The maesters couldn't explain why, but that night, the night after you'd told him to sleep well, and that you would break your fasts together in the morning, something had happened.
You'd gone to sleep, and you simply hadn't woken up. The young serving boy assigned to you had gone in to help you dress, only to find you still and quiet in bed. Not quite stiff yet, but skin cool to the touch. Your funeral had been a simple affair, for all Baelor wanted to shroud the keep in black and demand King’s Landing stop to mourn you as he was. It was… wrong. Strange, to be without you.
Your father had agreed to let you be burned, saying that you would want whatever made sure you would meet Baelor again in the next life. All he had wanted was your happiness. All Baelor had wanted was your happiness. But he’d watching you burn with his family and your father. Your mother had died years ago, and you’d been an only son. It had just been you and your father. And Baelor. And now there was no you.
Present day…
The iron throne was a cold seat. Bitter, with points stabbing into his back, constantly reminding Baelor of his mistakes. So much had happened, so much had changed. Baelor had changed. In the heat of summer, sun baking down across the castle, it wasn’t the iron throne that was cold. Baelor was. Yes, he’d married and had sons, but anyone who knew him as a boy would agree.
There was a light in him that had died with you. Yours was the first true death he had mourned. Real tragedy, a young man taken before his time. When he’d ascended the throne, Baelor had had a portrait of you hung in the great hall, amongst all the Targaryens past. Every day, he sat the throne, gazing at you. Your kind eyes, the sweetness the painter had managed to capture. You had been handsome, and were in the portrait, but even that failed to show you off truly.
There had been anger, backlash, when he’d hung it up, but the King didn’t care. There were none to order him about. None to control him. And Baelor was terrified of forgetting your face. There were portraits of you hung next to those of his family, hung where he could remember. For him, it may have been summer, but there was no warmth.
You’d been his warmth, his light. You’d been it, and you’d died, and with you, it was like a cloud had slid over the sun. He knew it was there, just like he knew you were not, but he could not see it. He couldn’t bring himself to care, honestly. Why should he, when anyone who looked at the throne could see their king, and see the gaping place next to him where an advisor should be? Where you should be. But you were gone. Smoke and ash, and all Baelor had were quickly slipping memories.