Work Text:
They did not let her go to the docks.
Alys knew they would not. She and Emilya were not guests of the royal family. Emilya’s marriage to Lord Redwyne was a political one, orchestrated to ensure a traitor’s kin stay loyal to the crown. They could not risk another daughter’s chance of escape or give the party the fanfare of a royal procession.
Emilya was escorted by her husband in the early dawn, leaving only memories and Alys.
They had said their goodbyes the evening before. Tears were shared as well as embraces, promises to write and to not let this be the last time they saw each other.
Alys had done her best to stay strong. All the same, sleep evaded her and by the early light of day, she found herself standing on the small fishing pier looking out into Blackwater Bay.
It was just about the only place in the Keep where one could escape the persistent stench of the city. Salt clean air filled her lungs. Gentle waves lapped against the wood of the dock. Above her lay clear skies; the sun, mocking her.
In the distance she could spot the Redwyne fleet. The largest was heading the charge, its sails adorned in blue, purple and green. She could not make out any on board, but she liked to think she caught sight of a head of strawberry blonde hair looking back at her from the stern.
They were not so far away. If she jumped off the edge of the pier, she could meet them. She was a strong swimmer. Or, failing that, she could hand her fate to the Gods and let the current take her where it will. The water couldn’t be that cold.
“Lady Alys?”
She straightened, the familiar voice pulling her back to herself.
The ease in which Prince Baelor could pierce through her thoughts came as both a blessing and curse. There were times she wondered if it was natural talent or the subject of serious study. Knowing him, both were possible.
She turned to face him. Unsurprisingly, he stood behind her at the most inarguably respectable distance. His Kingsguard stood even further back, alongside the latest gold cloak assigned to her. Their distance, notably, out of ear shot of any private conversation.
A sudden surge of gratitude filled her as she gave the prince a small curtsy. “Your grace.”
He bowed in turn. “I apologize for the intrusion, my lady. You were not at breakfast nor in any of your usual places. I wanted to ensure you were well.”
Despite her position, Alys felt herself smile, just a little. For a man who made an art of hiding his true feelings, he had a habit of sincerity when he did allow them to shine. There was comfort in his concern and in knowing at least one person still knew her usual places.
“I am well,” she assured. “I simply needed some air.”
She tilted her head, silently permitting him to join her.
He did so, his boots all but silent on the wooden planks as though not to disturb her sanctuary any more than he had.
The fleet was still easily visible from where they stood. Even so, Baelor made no comment allowing an easy silence to settle between them.
For the first time since her sister’s parting, a tension loosened in her chest.
Emilya would be well. She trusted Baelor’s judgement. Mercenary as the motivations were, she knew he would not condemn her sister to a marriage of cruelty. Lord Redwyne had been kind and dutiful, and while not to her particular taste, Emilya had liked him. There was no doubt in her mind that if she had not, Baelor would have advocated for another match.
He was a good man. That simple fact complicated a great many things; but, in that moment, she could not think of another she’d rather have standing beside her.
“It’s a fair day,” she noted, gently breaking the silence. “They should have an easy journey.”
“It is,” Baelor acknowledged. “It is a wonder I did not find you in the water. I would have thought you half way across the bay by now.”
She let out a laugh. It was a relief she had not known she needed.
“I had considered it,” she admitted. “But, alas, I have no fins.”
She could tell he was fighting a smile of his own, even as he nodded in solemn understanding.
“What of your sister’s trunks?” he asked.
She gave a dramatic sigh. “No room. I tried to persuade Emilya to part with a few of her gowns, but she would not listen to reason. She threatened to throw me off the tower if I tried it.”
He considered her words, before conceding a small shrug. “Perhaps that is for the best, I cannot imagine it would be a comfortable journey.”
“No, indeed. Besides, what would I do at The Arbor? Their wine is too sweet, their people too fat and their conversation kept strictly to the weather. I would die of boredom.”
He did finally laugh at that. It was a small breath of a thing, but one Alys came to recognize as a victory.
“You’re quite right,” he said, humor clear in his tone. “Does that mean you are content to stay a while longer?”
“For now,” she allowed. “But I will say this whole ordeal has put certain aspects of my life into perspective.”
“In what way?”
“Is it not obvious? I shall have to marry.”
It was a matter she had been considering for some time. Emilya’s departure only cemented what she knew in her heart to be true. For all her prayers and dreams, freedom was out of her reach. She would have to settle for a change in jailors.
She turned to Baelor, giving him a sardonic smile. “It’s a shameful thing to admit, but I see no other recourse.”
He matched her light expression, even if she felt the full weight of his gaze. They had spent enough time together for him to comprehend her feelings. He also knew better than to show any pity. For that, she was grateful.
“Would it make the task less painful if I were to assist you?” he offered.
She had to laugh. “Oh, I wish you would. Might I request someone of your character? I would ask if you had a brother, but all seem otherwise occupied. A cousin, perhaps?”
“None I would recommend,” he confessed, his tone just that slight shade of teasing to allow him plausible deniability.
He paused for a moment, his eyes lingering longer than one such of him would consider appropriate. It was a look she almost did not recognize; fondness, perhaps, but with just a hint of something else fluttering behind it all. Were he any other man, she might think him nervous.
His glance flickered back to her and it was only then she realized he had been staring at her lips.
“Will you have me, lady?” he asked, with the softness of a man who could no longer keep his thoughts silent and prayed no one would hear.
Alys stilled, her lips parting in an unladylike gape. Even as they stood under an open sky, she felt as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs.
Conversely, he stood as he always did; respectable with his hands clasped dutifully behind his back.
She searched his eyes for some jest, but in vain. There was a true question in his gaze and just enough shine of hope to make her heart pinch.
“No,” she answered, all too easily.
A blink of surprise and just as quickly she could see him retreat back into the prince he was to all but her.
“Unless I should have one of you for working days,” she corrected, placing a playful smile on her lips, pleading it would be enough. “Your grace is too costly to wear every day.”
He mirrored her expression, flaws and all. “Perhaps there is some truth in what you say. But, if I were not so costly, would you consider it?”
She had. More than once. She thought of it after conversing for hours in the library, those moments she caught him hiding a laugh in his cup, or the rare occasions where she could persuade him to join her in a dance. She had even imagined how things would be different if he had been born to a minor house in Dorne rather than the royal palace of the Targaryens. In those circumstances, she could easily see herself happy to name him husband and to hear him call her wife.
Nonetheless, the simple reality remained. Baelor was a Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King and Heir to the Iron Throne. There was no use pretending otherwise.
“No, your grace,” she answered. “Even if you were made of rough spun wool; you would simply fit me ill and I have no intention of changing my shape.”
“I would not ask that of you,” he insisted.
“Nor I you. I would curse any who would dare approach you with a pair of sheers.”
His shoulders sunk as a sharp breath escaped his lips. “Are we still speaking metaphorically?”
She shifted slightly, averting her gaze. “I believe I’ve come to the end of it.”
“Plainly then?”
She nodded, although did not yet possess the bravery to face him fully.
He seemed to understand. His movements were slow, as if approaching a frightened animal. She watched his hands unclasp from behind his back before reaching out for her. She made no moves to meet him nor did she protest as he guided her hands between his own.
His palms were rough, more that of a warrior than a perfumed lordling. Still, he remained gentle. The warmth of his skin and tenderness of his touch could not help but affect her. She knew if she made even a flinch to pull away, he would let go without hesitation.
That simple action; the acknowledgement that the choice was still hers to make, allowed her the resolve to meet his eyes.
He squeezed her hands, his expression one of a man finally permitted to breathe.
“I do not ask you such a question idly,” he said. “I care for you, Alys. I would love you, if you would let me. You challenge me to be better, not just as a prince, but as a man. I believe together we might do true good for the realm. And I know my life would be brighter with your presence.”
His eyes gazed deeply into her own, one purple, one brown; Targaryen and Martell; enemy and home. Both remained open, allowing her to see his heart exposed in a way that pained her to witness.
He was a good man. More to the point, he was her friend in a place where she had none. She would be a fool to let such care slip through her fingers. Then again, she never claimed to be wise.
“I have no doubt of your intentions,” she murmured.
“But?”
“I do not see how a marriage to you frees me.”
He stared at her, the wound she had just inflicted marked on his features. “I would not trap you. You would be my wife, not a prisoner.”
“I fail to see the difference.”
“Alys–”
“Baelor,” she cut off, her voice sharp. “Plainly.”
He stilled, his lips pressing down into a hard line. She could see the conflict within him; the prince and the man scrambling for control.
In the end, the prince won, forcing Baelor to nod in silent acceptance.
For not the first time, Alys felt a pang of sorrow in her chest. The prince always seemed to win.
“You are an honorable man,” she said. “Loyal to your family and your duties. Loyalties I cannot share with you.”
“Is that your only objection?” he asked, coolly.
“Do I need another?”
He did not answer, but she could see the tension in his jaw as he usual effortless composer slipped just a crack.
She turned their hands so she was now holding his, returning the gesture he had given her. He could step away if he wished, but she needed him to hear her.
“I do care for you,” she promised. “As a man, I have yet to meet your equal. But you are not just a man. You are the crown and the crown is you, a crown you know me to despise. It’s one thing to speak my resentment as a prisoner, it’s another to speak them as a queen. And if all that wasn’t enough, I’m actually quite a selfish creature. If you were to be my husband, I would ask you to love me above all else. Not your family, not the realm, but me. I would have you choose me, just as I would choose you. Could I ask that of you, truly, and not have you hate me for it?”
She kept her eyes open, watching his expression for any hint of understanding.
Baelor gave away nothing, which meant he could only be feeling everything. Worst still, he was the one to avert his gaze first, focusing instead on their entwined hands.
A part of her to demand he look at her; to allow, just this once, the man to feel and speak as he will, to let her see him fully as he was. Another part of her knew she had just forfeited the right.
He let out a long breath, his head slowly nodding.
“You are a wise woman,” he said, the timbre of his voice the embodiment of control.
“Not really,” she said, ruefully. “I just know my own nature.”
“I think you underestimate how rare a thing that is.”
He dropped her hands, finally meeting her eye once more. His heart had been tucked back away, but thankfully, he did not retreat into his courtly mask. She could still recognize her friend, even if she suspected the man beneath still had wounds to attend to.
“If utter devotion is all you require in a husband, you may find him sooner than you believe,” he said.
“Oh that is hardly the only requirement,” she said, allowing some humor back into her voice. “I would like him to be tall.”
“Tall?” Baelor repeated, his eyebrow raised.
“Oh yes,” she insisted. “And handsome, as all men should try to be. A home in Lys. Although, I’d be willing to settle for a small castle in the Reach. He should make me laugh. Enjoy dancing. A learned man is preferable, but only if he is capable of accepting when he is wrong. I would not have a man think himself more clever than me. Someone who travels and who would take me with him. Eager for life. Borderline hedonistic. A man with flexible honor. If he is to be devoted to me, he cannot be true to all his oaths.”
“Is that all?”
“For now,” she teased. “In the meantime, I have resolved to grow fins.”
To her delight a true smile finally cracked through his carefully constructed facade. “You should not give up all hope.”
“And you should not say things you do not mean.”
He glanced away, a silent admittance. He was too good a man to force her hand, but she had seen enough to understand he would not let her go so easily.
“Your grace!”
They both looked up to see a young pageboy at the end of the dock being expertly blocked by both the gold cloak and Kingsguard.
“Your grace,” he repeated, out of breath. “The Queen asks you to join her in her solar. There is the matter of the tourney preparations.”
Baelor let out a long sigh. “I shall be there in a moment. Let the boy return to his duties.”
The knights let go of the boy, allowing him to scamper off back towards the palace.
Alys tried not to think about what the boy might say to the Queen about where Baelor had been found and who he had been with. She also did not want to speculate on who would be in the room to over hear and where their imaginations might go. It was too early in the day for such things.
“Shall we walk back together?” Baelor offered. “I believe breakfast is still being served in the dining hall.”
She glanced over to find him already offering his arm.
The Red Keep was not her home. If the Gods were good, one day she would find deliverance. Until then, she could accept Prince Baelor as her keeper. In truth, there was no man better.
“I would be honored, your grace.”