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One evening, she appeared at the door of Baelor's chambers with a request she herself believed to be unthinkable. That was how she saw her task back then — absolutely impossible. Absurd, foolish, the kind that shatters against a wall of misunderstanding before you can even finish the first sentence. Hopeless. And yet... despite all its absurdity, the princess saw in Baelor her only salvation. The only loophole in the cage that had been built for her since birth.
Since childhood, her fate had been predetermined and not up for discussion. She was born as Aerion's twin, and to everyone around her, this meant one thing: they were meant for each other. Tradition demanded it, her father willed it, and that was that — end of discussion. No one cared that the princess, unlike her brother and parent, didn't fit into this cruel family pattern. She grew up different — with a soul that cringed in horror at the very thought of what fate had in store for her. She considered it a vile act, a true betrayal by her own blood: to become Aerion's wife, his property, a toy in his bed, a vessel for his children. Never. Again and again she repeated this to herself, like a prayer. Never had she wished such a fate for herself — to be a thing in the hands of a man she could not love, a man she feared.
But, as is often the case with those whose opinions don't matter, she was never asked. She simply didn't exist as a person with a voice, with a right to choose. Just a piece on the board, to be moved when the time came.
And she... she wasn't strong enough to fight. That's how it seemed to her for many long years. She didn't know how to fight with a sword, how to defy her father, how to stand up for herself before her twin brother, who already looked at her as his prey.
But she proved desperate enough to endure humiliation. Broken enough to fall to her knees before her own uncle and beg him for protection. She tearfully begged this noble, kind, just man to intercede for her before the entire kingdom. Begged him to take her as his wife, just so she wouldn't have to belong to Aerion. Never in her life had she stooped to such pleas. Never had she allowed herself to be so vulnerable before anyone. She rarely turned to her uncle for help anyway — pride wouldn't allow it, and it also seemed to her that he, busy with affairs of state, wouldn't want anything to do with the sister of Aerion, whom he surely despised. Of that, the princess had no doubt.
They were completely alone in his study when she took this step. The princess had deliberately chosen a late hour, waited until the corridors were empty and only the royal guards silently patrolled the galleries for any chance intruders. She didn't need witnesses to her shame.
Her appearance surprised Baelor immensely. It showed in the barely perceptible arch of his eyebrows, in the way he froze for a moment, book in hand. But, as befitted a true crown prince, he quickly composed himself and received her almost with open arms, with true royal graciousness. He offered her a chair by the fire, poured her wine — attentively, like a good relative, as an uncle should. However, his calm, unhurried movements, this feigned serenity, only made the princess more nervous. Inside, everything was boiling and tightening with fear as she prepared for the main battle of her life — a battle with her own pride and with her own family, embodied now by the man sitting across from her.
"What brings you to my chambers at such a late hour, niece?" he inquired, casually, but his gaze swept over her appraisingly. Baelor had settled across from her, and now they both sat by the fireplace, the uneven flames licking their faces, picking out first one feature, then another from the semi-darkness. Her face — young, flawlessly beautiful, but marred by a heavy shadow lurking beneath her eyes. And his — touched by fine lines, tired after a long day, yet remarkably serene, as if he had long ago accepted everything life offered him.
"I... I was compelled to come to you, my prince," her voice wavered, and she immediately lowered her gaze, staring into the goblet of wine where her own reflection swayed as if in a murky mirror.
"Has something happened?" His tone was so gentle, almost soothing, that the princess couldn't help but wonder: how does he manage, with just his voice, to instill in her this painful sense of comfort? She wanted to talk to him. She wanted to trust him.
She pressed her lips together, fighting the humiliation she was prepared to endure, just to escape the hated marriage to Aerion. Inside, a mute fury seethed against the whole world, against this cursed kingdom, against her own family — for putting her in a position where there was no other way out but to crawl on her knees and beg for mercy.
"What I've always feared has happened," the princess blurted out on a sharp exhale, finally daring to look up. And immediately met Baelor's attentive, sympathetic gaze. He didn't rush her, showed neither surprise nor a hint of disrespect for her distress. He simply waited, allowing her to gather her thoughts. "Father wants to marry me to Aerion."
For the briefest moment, she thought she saw her uncle's face darken. Or did she? Maybe it was just a trick of the light, a fanciful shadow cast by the dancing flames?
A thick, heavy silence filled the room. Baelor seemed to be thinking intensely about something, and the princess didn't know what else to say or how to continue a conversation that could no longer be undone or avoided.
"I take it Maekar did not ask for your opinion," the prince said, drawing out his words slightly. He ran a hand over his short beard, which was already generously streaked with premature grey.
"Of course not," the bitter notes in her voice were so distinct, they felt almost tangible.
"That is his way," Baelor sighed with a strange, broken sadness, and this sigh stirred a storm of conflicting emotions in his niece's heart. She wondered feverishly if he had already guessed the true reason for her visit. "So, you do not wish to marry Aerion..." the man stared thoughtfully into the fire, propping his head on his hand.
In the firelight, the princess suddenly thought he looked endlessly tired, almost exhausted. The fire cast deep shadows, accentuating his age, but this in no way diminished his stateliness and attractiveness. On the contrary, it made his appearance more substantial, more reliable. He spent his days burdened with the cares of the realm, deciding the fates of people, and now, even in this rare free hour, she was troubling him with her problems. She felt immeasurably ashamed.
"Forgive me for complaining to you," she mumbled, again burying her nose in the goblet and taking a small sip to moisten her suddenly dry throat.
"There is no need to apologize. You are my blood," he spoke softly and turned towards her. "My niece. You may come to me at any time," he assured her, and in this promise, there was a strength that brooked no argument.
She had forgotten the last time she had heard such gentle words addressed to her. Suddenly, a warm, bright image of her deceased mother surfaced before her eyes, etched into her memory forever. If Dyanna Dayne were alive, she thought, Maekar would hardly dare to marry her off to Aerion. Her mother would hardly have allowed this atrocity to happen. But her mother was gone, and now her only hope was this tired man sitting across from her.
"Maekar can be blind," Baelor suddenly said, not waiting for the princess's reply. His voice sounded hollow, as if he were speaking not so much to her as to himself, to the thoughts that had long been troubling him. He didn't need her gratitude, wasn't seeking acknowledgment. Rather, he considered it his duty — the duty of an elder, an uncle, a man — to remind her that family should have strong, trusting relationships. That very principle which Maekar had diligently and, it seemed, irrevocably neglected. "He does not see in Aerion what everyone else sees."
These words did not come easily to Baelor. They seemed wrong to him, even cruel — to speak so of his own nephew, his brother's son. Yet, they were truthful, and he had always valued truth above awkwardness. He acknowledged — and had done so for a long time — that Maekar's son had turned out to be a slippery, cruel type. The kind who loves to feed his ego by humiliating others. Baelor could not close his eyes to this. His knightly nature, raised on a code of honor and dignity, invariably bristled every time he witnessed his nephew's disgraceful behavior. Too often he had caught Aerion's gaze on him — appraising, insolent, as if he were sizing up how he might humiliate him, Baelor, too, but hadn't dared yet. He was out of his league. But his sister, on the other hand...
"Father remains deaf to my pleas to call off the betrothal, and I..." the princess shook her head in despair, and the movement was so abrupt that several fair strands escaped her long braid and fell across her face. She set the goblet on the floor, beside the chair leg, and now her hands, freed from their burden, helplessly clenched into fists. "I don't know what to do." The words tumbled out on their own, almost beyond her control; she said whatever came to mind, just to avoid silence, just to fill this oppressive quiet. "Aerion... I don't interest him," a bitter smile touched her lips but vanished instantly, "but that doesn't mean I'm safe. It doesn't mean that on the marriage bed he..." She faltered, swallowed hard, avoiding Baelor's gaze, staring somewhere towards the fireplace where a log was dying in a heap of embers. "...He won't violate me or cause me pain. It doesn't mean that."
Baelor listened. And — more importantly — he heard. Heard that crack in her voice, like the splitting of thin ice underfoot. Heard the tremor she so desperately tried to suppress, and the genuine fear breaking through every word. His heart involuntarily tightened at the sight of this unfortunate girl, whom Maekar, her own father, had personally condemned to such a miserable fate. Baelor had never been particularly close to his niece — the age difference, his constant busyness, her position at court — all of this created distance. But sometimes, in rare moments, they did share valuable instances: when he advised her on something, gave counsel, or simply tried to help by his mere presence, a gesture, an offhand word. He knew: the princess was far more sensitive than she allowed herself to show. It showed in her eyes — too expressive, too deep for the mask of indifference she sometimes wore. And in the way her fair eyebrows twitched nervously if something saddened or troubled her. Like now.
"I..." She sobbed, rising abruptly from the chair. The movement was impulsive, awkward — the hem of her dress caught the edge of a nearby small table, and the goblet gave a pitiful clink but didn't fall. The princess swallowed the pathetic tremor in her voice, trying to hold onto the remnants of her dignity. And the next moment, she collapsed onto her knees before her uncle.
It happened so suddenly that Baelor didn't even have time to move. Her fingers clutched the lapels of his doublet, gripping the sturdy fabric with the strength of a drowning person grasping at a straw. She pressed her face against his knee — her face hot, wet with tears. And he froze for a moment, feeling his entire body tense with surprise. He hadn't expected this. Never. That the proud princess, the king's daughter, would be like this — on her knees, in tears, clinging to him with a death grip.
"I beg you, my prince... Uncle... Baelor," his name fell from her lips with a particular, hitherto unheard timbre. In it, despair, supplication, and something else he couldn't immediately name were mixed. "Better you take me as your wife. Save me. Protect me." The words fell rapidly, incoherently; she was almost choking on them. "I will perish in a marriage to Aerion. Either he will kill me, or I will take my own life..."
"Do not speak so," he interrupted, and his voice, usually steady and calm, now sounded strained, hollow. His warm hands covered her fingers, still clenching the fabric of his clothes. The princess raised her head, looked up at his somber face — and in that look there was so much hope and fear simultaneously that it took Baelor's breath away. "You... Are you certain this is what you want?" he asked slowly, as if giving her a chance to reconsider. "Are you sure there is no one else you see as your husband? Perhaps some lord's son..."
"No!" she interrupted with such vehemence that it even surprised him. In that short exclamation was so much pain, so much disappointment in the whole world, that he understood: she had thought about this. Of course, she had. She probably wished such a person existed. That somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, there was a young, handsome lord with an open heart and honest intentions. That she could know love, affection, that very devotion whispered about in maidens' chambers and sung by minstrels. But there was none. She found sincerity in no one, the sincerity she craved — only empty glances, calculating smiles, and cold indifference. "I am certain," she breathed out, again burying her face in his knees, and her voice sounded muffled but firm. "Only you can save me. I will be a good wife, I will obey you, just don't give me to him."
The next moment, she felt Baelor's hands carefully but insistently lift her chin. She allowed it — she could not help but allow it — and met his gaze, his mismatched eyes. In them swam something that made the tears, which had already left wet trails on her cheeks, flow anew. Baelor studied her face, looked at her as if seeing her for the first time — and perhaps he was. For the first time, he saw her not as his niece, not as Aerion's sister, but as a living, desperate girl, ready to do anything to be saved.
"Then... let it be as you wish," he said at last, and his words sounded like both a sentence and a blessing simultaneously. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead — briefly, but firmly, as if sealing an unbreakable pact with this gesture.
The princess froze, not believing it. Astonishment opened her eyes wider than fear had just moments before. She hadn't thought he would make a decision so swiftly. She had assumed he would need time — days, perhaps weeks — to think it over, weigh it, consult with the king, or simply grow accustomed to the idea. But to simply, looking into her eyes, say "yes"... Something warm suddenly spread through her body, radiating from somewhere in her chest in a pleasant, previously unknown wave. Relief? No, it was too early for relief. But hope — yes, that was it.
"I will save you from Aerion," Baelor confirmed, as if reading her doubts. But then his face darkened, and he pressed his lips together regretfully. "But do you understand that the marriage will be incomplete?" He looked at her with that particular, bitter tenderness with which one looks at something beautiful but unattainable. He understood: such a young, beautiful girl had surely dreamed of love, of passion, of being desired and loved. And he... he could not give her that. Could offer nothing but protection and an honorable name. And this thought wounded him more than he was willing to admit.
"I understand," she replied, and her voice, though hoarse from tears, sounded firm. She looked at him, enchanted — at his face illuminated by the firelight, at his unusual eyes in which the same flames danced as in the real fire. In this moment, he seemed to her not just an uncle, not just a crown prince — he seemed a savior, a knight from old legends, stepped from the pages of dusty folios. "I am ready for this," she added, pouring into these words all the certainty she was capable of at that moment. At this moment — when she was on her knees, when she tearfully begged him, when she felt his hands on her face and received the cherished "yes" — she was truly ready for anything.
Baelor slowly nodded, accepting her answer. Something strange flickered in his gaze — whether approval, or sadness, or a shadow of doubt that he immediately banished. After all, the decision was made. And there was no turning back now.
"Then get up," he said softly, offering her his hand to help her rise from her knees. "We have much to discuss. And..." he hesitated, choosing his words, "prepare yourself that this path will not be easy. But I have given you my word — and I will keep it."
The princess, leaning on his hand, rose, still feeling the tremor in her knees. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, trying to compose herself. Before her stood the man who had just changed her entire destiny. And, looking at him now, for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to believe: perhaps everything truly would be alright.
The wedding ceremony concluded — decorous, solemn, with the requisite vows before the seven, with the septon's blessing and the curious stares of strangers. The wedding feast died down, with all its congratulations, strained smiles, and toasts that the princess barely heard, because inside her everything sang and rejoiced: it was done. The idea of marrying Aerion was finished forever, that clinging, soul-chilling fear that had haunted her for so many moons was forgotten forever. She was saved. Baelor had kept his word.
Now he, as befitting a husband, entered her chambers on this first wedding night.
Her handmaiden was just combing the princess's long fair hair, adjusting the thin fabric of her nightgown — almost weightless, embroidered at the collar with tiny seed pearls — when she froze, seeing the crown prince in the doorway. The comb trembled in her hand, but she quickly recovered, sank into a deep curtsy, and, obeying Baelor's brief nod, silently slipped out the door, leaving the newlywed spouses alone.
The princess — bathed, fragrant with the aromatic oil the servants had diligently rubbed into her skin, though she herself knew perfectly well all these preparations were for nothing, since Baelor would not touch her — remained sitting on the edge of the bed. Her fingers clenched into fists of their own accord, gripping the cool silk of the bedspread. She dared not lie down, dared not even turn her head, only listened.
She listened as behind her, Baelor unfastened the clasps on his heavy ceremonial doublet, as he untied the lacing on his sleeves, as he set down on the table the Hand's pin — that elegant brooch he wore with dignity but without visible eagerness. There was no haste, no nervousness in these sounds. Measured, calm, almost soothing. She barely breathed, listening intently, and noted with surprise how her own heart, which moments before had been ready to leap from her chest, gradually calmed. With him, it was... quiet. Without anxiety, without abrupt movements, without that oppressive, predatory energy that always emanated from Aerion. Alarmingly, but she liked it.
Footsteps approached, paused on the other side of the massive canopied bed. She felt the mattress give under his weight, heard the rustle of the heavy blanket, the compression of the pillows. He lay down. Simply lay down beside her — on the other side of this wide bed, which now seemed to her a boundless sea.
Baelor need not have come. He could have pleaded fatigue, urgent business, anything — she would have understood, she was prepared for that. But he came. He did it not for her sake, she knew — but for propriety's sake. So that rumors that the marriage had not been consummated would not spread through the castle, reach Aerion's ears, give him cause to doubt the legitimacy of their union. Baelor thought steps ahead; he had always been able to see into the future. And now he was ensuring her safety in the most reliable way — through the semblance of a real marriage.
Glancing at the fragile girlish figure, clothed in the lightest fabric that barely concealed the outlines of her body, Baelor involuntarily remembered another night, another woman. Jenna Dondarrion. His first wife. It seemed so long ago... in another life, with another person. He had never imagined that fate would grant him a second marriage. And not to just anyone, but to his own niece, and not for love, but by the call of duty and compassion. A noble goal — to save her from Aerion's cruelty. But in saving her from one trap, he, without wishing it, had lured her into another. Into a trap where there was still no place for love, only duty, honor, and respect.
"Go to sleep," he said quietly, breaking the silence, and the princess started, as if awakening from a deep stupor.
She glanced back over her shoulder — her eyes large, dark in the semi-darkness, something swimming in them that he couldn't decipher. Surprise? Gratitude? Fear? But she obediently nodded and, releasing the bedpost, slipped under the blanket, pulling it up almost to her nose. She curled up like a child hiding from nightmares.
Baelor found this touchingly childlike, but he hid his smile, turning onto his other side. He wished her goodnight — dryly, evenly, as one wishes it to casual acquaintances. Closed his eyes and tried to sleep, pushing away thoughts of how unnatural all of this was.
Morning greeted them with gray light seeping through the heavy curtains, and with an awkwardness that hung in the air like a dense veil. Their first meal together passed in almost complete silence. Both averted their gazes; both felt that something about this whole morning scene was wrong. Too quiet, too ceremonious, too much like a theater where each plays a role without knowing the lines. There was no life here — only pretense.
"Thank you again for everything you've done for me," the princess finally uttered, fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth, not knowing what else to say. The words felt flat, empty, but she could find no others.
"You have already said that," Baelor responded without a hint of reproach, simply stating a fact. He set down his empty cup and rose. "Try to feel at ease. I will not restrict you in anything."
At ease? Free? She followed him with her eyes to the door and stared at the carved panels that closed behind him for a long time. A strange word — freedom. What did it even mean? She had never known that feeling, though she had dreamed of it ever since she was a little girl who hated the lessons of her tedious septa but obediently attended them. For as long as she could remember, she had always done as she was told. Sometimes, very rarely, she dared to stand up for her opinion, but these attempts shattered against a deaf wall named Aerion. Her brother tolerated no defiance, her father did not listen, her mother... her mother had been gone too soon.
With her other brothers, it was easier. Daeron, perpetually drunk and carefree, but kind in his own way, would sometimes put an arm around her shoulders and say, "Keep your chin up, little sister." Egg, still just a boy, looked at her with adoration and confided his little secrets to her. They reminded her that she was, after all, loved. But even with them, she did not feel free. Always — a sister, a cousin, a niece, a princess, and now a wife. But never just — a woman.
Before her marriage to Baelor, she had crossed paths with him rarely, only at obligatory family gatherings. Now their meetings had become more frequent, but she would not call them constant. She was shown the attention befitting the second wife of the crown prince: servants bowed a little lower, tailors brought new fabrics, the kitchen sent its finest dishes. She was no longer troubled by the perpetually dissatisfied Maekar, who had not dared to defy his elder brother's will. Even Aerion seemed to have withdrawn — apparently deciding that his sister was now under the protection of the valiant Baelor, and that tangling with his uncle was more trouble than it was worth.
But her husband's chambers remained empty. He appeared rarely, always busy, always with papers or in council. They encountered each other in the corridors, exchanged a few perfunctory phrases, and parted ways. Sometimes he would stop by to wish her goodnight — briefly, from the threshold, and then go to his own rooms. Everything was proper, decent, and endlessly lonely.
One day, on one of those gray days, she wandered into the library. The old, dusty library. It smelled of time, of dry pages, and of oblivion. The princess sat down on the floor by the fireplace and, unnoticed by anyone, leafed through the pages of an old folio. Ballads about knights with wonderful illustrations, faded but still beautiful. She became engrossed, not noticing how the sun outside the windows had sunk toward sunset.
Baelor caught her unawares.
He entered quietly, probably also looking for a book, and froze in the doorway at the sight: his young wife sat on the floor, legs tucked under her, in a simple dress, disheveled, with dust on her sleeve, and was tracing her finger along the lines with such delight that she did not even hear his footsteps.
He recognized the book. He had read it himself once, in his youth, before his first marriage. A forgotten ballad about love and fidelity, about deeds of valor and sacrifice.
And then, at that moment, in the library bathed in pre-sunset gold, Baelor did not hesitate to lower himself beside her onto that dusty floor. She started, looked up frightened, anxiety darting in her eyes — had she broken some rule, done something wrong? But he only asked gently:
"Do you like it?"
She did not find an answer immediately, then timidly nodded and, seeing that he was not leaving and was not angry, ventured to show him the illustration she liked. And a conversation began.
They talked about the ballad, about the heroes, about how the author had probably never held a sword himself, because he had described the battle not at all as it really was. She objected: but this isn't a fencing manual, it's a tale about feelings. He smiled at this naivety, but deep down agreed. Then she reminded him of plot details he had forgotten, and within a few minutes, they were both arguing about the main character's motives — passionately, enthusiastically, like old friends.
At that moment, both felt something that had not been between them before: understanding. Shared interests. The ability to hear each other. Baelor looked at her and saw not just Maekar's daughter, not just a wife by duty, but a well-read, sensitive woman capable of thinking broadly and unconventionally. No, he had never doubted her intelligence before — but now he was convinced of it with renewed force. And this discovery pleased him immensely, warmed him with something he had not yet named.
And the princess, at that same moment, felt a quiet, deep gratitude. For his staying. For sitting down beside her on that cold floor, amidst the dusty shelves with their heavy tomes, and simply talking. Not lecturing, not judging, not hurrying away. Conversing with her as an equal. It had been a long, very long time since she had had such a whole, genuine conversation. As if something in her chest had thawed, as if a tiny sprout of hope was reaching toward the light.
They talked until dark, until a servant came to summon Baelor to supper with some lords. He left, promising to continue sometime, and she remained sitting on the floor, clutching the old book to her chest, and for the first time in a long while, she smiled not because she had to, but because warmth was spreading inside her.
Conversations began to come easier to them. What had initially required effort and overcoming awkwardness now flowed naturally, like a mountain stream that had found its course. Baelor, without realizing it, began subconsciously seeking her attention. He caught himself during council meetings thinking not about the masters' reports, but about what he would say to her at dinner that evening. What was she reading today? Was she lonely in her chambers?
Small but significant gifts began appearing in her rooms. At first, they were flowers — simple wildflowers that grew outside the castle walls, but the maid brought them with an expression as if they were precious gems: "From His Highness, my lady." Then a book — the very one they had talked about in the library, but in a beautiful binding, with clean pages replacing the lost ones. Then earrings with delicate pearls, which he thought suited the color of her locks perfectly.
And she felt it — something had changed. Something had shifted in that block of ice that had lain between them. But neither of them understood — what exactly. Neither dared to name that feeling, afraid of scaring it away.
They began sharing meals more often. At first, it was dinners, then breakfasts, and then lunches as well, if affairs permitted. Baelor tried to make it a habit — to come to her, sit across from her, watch her eat, watch her wrinkle her nose if a dish was too salty, watch her smile when dessert was brought. And he came always. Even if mountains of parchment towered in his study, even if lords awaited an audience, even if he was dropping from exhaustion.
He didn't tell her this — that he set aside his affairs for her. But she found out. By chance. And this discovery made her heart race in a quick, almost frightened rhythm, and her soul both freeze and sing at once. He set aside his affairs for her. Affairs of state, which he lived for, which he breathed. This undoubtedly meant something. But what?
Baelor found his niece's company increasingly pleasant. At first, she had been silent, timid, afraid of saying an extra word — the years of living near Aerion had taken their toll. But gradually, sensing his genuine interest and complete absence of judgment, she began to open up. Like a flower that had long grown in the shade and finally reached for the warm sun, she unfurled the petals of her soul. Their conversations gained momentum, becoming longer, more intimate. They no longer noticed how time flew, discussing tournaments and knightly customs, laughing at little Egg's pranks — he had managed to release a frog into Maekar's chambers. Remembering how Daeron, at one of the feasts, had told some visiting lord to go to hell — so loudly and directly that the entire hall fell silent, and the lord retreated faster than the wind. They even talked about Valarr's progress in fencing.
And sometimes Baelor told stories from his youth. About campaigns, about his first major battle, about how he once nearly drowned saving a drowning boy. The princess listened, holding her breath, absorbing every word. She wanted to know more about him. To understand him deeper. To see him better. Each story revealed a new facet of this man — noble, strong, but at the same time so vulnerable inside.
And then Baelor left.
News had reached King's Landing of a great tourney in one of the southern lordships. The presence of someone from the royal house was necessary — a tribute to vassals, a political gesture, strengthening ties. Usually Daeron himself went to such events, but the king had fallen ill, and the choice fell on Baelor. Preparations were brief, and soon the crown prince, clad in his traveling cloak, stood in the inner courtyard giving final orders.
She watched him from the window of her chambers, hiding behind the curtain so he wouldn't see. Her heart ached with an inexplicable longing. Just for a couple of weeks, he had told her the night before. Just for a couple of weeks. But why then was there such emptiness inside?
The first few days she tried to occupy herself with books, walks, talking with Egg. But the chambers seemed empty, though the furniture stood in its places and the fireplace dutifully warmed the room. Evenings had to be spent with herself, and the silence pressed on her ears, reminding her how easily and freely conversations had flowed when he was near. She caught herself listening for footsteps in the corridor, starting when the door creaked, and each time exhaling in disappointment upon seeing a maid or a messenger.
And then Aerion came.
She hadn't expected him. After the wedding, her brother had kept his distance, as if forgetting her existence. And now, when she was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, trying to read but her thoughts far away to the south where her husband was probably competing in the tourney or feasting with lords — the door burst open without a knock.
Aerion entered like a master walking into his own pantry. Arrogant, self-assured, with that same crooked smirk that always sent a chill down her spine. He knew Baelor was gone. Knew she was alone. Knew — and hastened to make his move. A treacherous, cruel move, designed to wound, to hurt, to remind her: you're not going anywhere, little sister, even under our valiant uncle's wing.
"Bored, are you?" he asked, without greeting, without asking permission to enter. He simply stepped over the threshold and stopped in the middle of the room, hands on his hips. "I hear our valiant uncle has left you all alone. How careless of him."
She stood up, feeling her knees tremble but trying not to show fear. The book fell from her hands, thudding softly against the carpet.
Aerion wanted to lay his hands on her, to show her that she could still belong to him. He was angry that she had been taken from him, though no feelings had ever existed between them nor ever could. But the very fact that he hadn't gotten what was rightfully his... Infuriated him.
But he was a coward. That's why he only dared to make this move now, knowing his uncle was away.
She couldn't resist him — she tried. But her strength was no match for his, and when Aerion had already thrown her onto the bed where just a couple of weeks ago she and Baelor had slept together for the first time after their wedding night, she was already praying to all the gods, mentally calling for her husband's help.
But help came from where no one expected it.
Daeron, driven by a restless dragon dream, always drunk but now sober as a judge, burst into his sister's chambers, pulling his younger brother away. A fight nearly broke out between them, but Aerion retreated, understanding his plans were ruined.
Daeron, without touching his sister, firmly told her for the first time in a long while that he would write to Baelor and tell him what had happened.
The princess protested, didn't want to disturb her husband, but Daeron was unwavering this time.
That very night, a raven flew from King's Landing south to the tourney fields, where Baelor, unaware of what had happened, was raising a cup in honor of yet another victor. The message was only a few lines long: "Aerion came to her. She is safe, but she needs you. Return."
And in the princess's chambers, left alone, she sat by the fire, arms wrapped around herself, staring into the flames. For the first time in a long while, she felt not just fear. She felt anger. And in that anger was something new, something that made her stronger. She would no longer be a victim. She would wait for Baelor and tell him everything. Everything she had understood during these days of loneliness.
She loved him not as a savior and not as an uncle. As the man she wanted by her side always. And if Aerion thought he could intimidate her — he was mistaken.
Baelor arrived as if carried by the wind. Not even the wind — a hurricane that burst into her quiet harbor, shattering all barriers in its path. He came racing back in the early morning, when the sun had barely tinged the horizon with pale gold and night-lights still burned in the corridors. The horse beneath him, as they later whispered in the stables, nearly foundered — he had ridden it mercilessly, driven it all night without rest, just to be faster, just to make it in time, just to see her, to assure himself that she was alright. And now he stood in the doorway of her bedchamber, breathing heavily, covered in road dust that had settled like a gray film on his dark cloak and boots, his face gray with sleeplessness and worry, the wrinkles she only noticed in his rare moments of fatigue standing out more sharply than usual.
She had only just opened her eyes — and he was already there. He filled the entire space of her chambers, drove out the morning silence, the cold, the loneliness. The girl raised herself on her elbows, blinking sleepily, not believing her eyes. And he was already kneeling before her bed — right on the stone floor, heedless of comfort and of the fact that he himself was dropping from exhaustion. He knelt and looked up at her, and in his eyes swam such regret, such torment, that it took her breath away.
"Forgive me," he breathed out, and his voice, always so confident, so firm, now trembled. "Forgive me for leaving you. For not taking you with me. For being such a blind man, such a fool..."
She didn't let him finish. She sat up in bed, throwing off the blanket, and reached for him herself, cupping his face in her hands. His cheeks were prickly— he hadn't even tidied himself, had rushed here as he was — his skin was cold from the road, but it was him. Alive. Real. Here, with her. Their foreheads touched, and this gesture — so simple, so intimate — said more than any words could.
"You came back," was all she could utter, and in that whisper was everything: relief, and joy, and the fear that this was only a dream. "You came back to me."
"You called."
Their fingers intertwined of their own accord, as if seeking each other blindly. Her slender, trembling fingers with their cold tips — and his strong, calloused ones, used to gripping a sword, but now just as uncertain, as if for the first time in his life he didn't know what to do with that strength. And then she leaned forward, sliding off the bed and straight into his arms, and he received her, pressed her to his chest so tightly, as if afraid she would disappear, dissolve, turn into morning mist the moment he loosened his grip.
In that embrace, everything was felt. His pain at having failed to protect her. Her fear, which still chilled her blood. Forgiveness, which needed no words. Devotion, which had become a new foundation for them both. And love — the very love that had grown between them all this time, which they had both been afraid to name, but which had taken root so deeply that it could no longer be uprooted.
She buried her face in his neck, inhaling the scent of the road, of sweat, of horse — the scent of life, his scent. And she felt his heart beating — fast, fast, restlessly. Matching her own.
"I thought," she whispered into the curve of his neck, her voice breaking, "I was afraid he would come again, and... that you weren't here, that you were far away, that..."
"Shh," he stroked her back, her hair, her shoulders, as if trying to erase the fear itself with a single touch. "I'm here. I won't leave you again. Never. Do you hear me? Never."
They sat like that for a long time — in each other's arms by her bed, on the cold floor that they seemed not to feel at all. Like two trees whose roots had grown together into a single trunk, no longer fearing any storm. A maid who had glanced through the door with morning instructions quietly closed it and left, carrying away a knowing smile. The castle already knew: the prince had returned. Which meant everything would be alright. It could not be otherwise.
Later, he finally rose, helped her up, and they sat on the edge of the bed — side by side, touching with shoulders, with hips, as if they could no longer bear even the slightest distance. And they talked. About what had happened in his absence. About Aerion's audacity, about how he had burst in uninvited, how he had grabbed her wrist, how he had looked at her with those empty, cruel eyes. About how Daeron had arrived just in time — the drunkard and rake, but in that moment, a true knight. Baelor listened in silence, and with each word, his face grew darker, grimmer, the muscles working beneath his skin, and in his eyes kindled that cold, dangerous fire she had seen only once — when he had defended her from his nephew's insults at that ill-fated reception, before the wedding.
"He will regret this," Baelor said quietly when she had finished. His voice was even, but in that calmness was such strength, such resolve, that it sent shivers down her spine. "I promise you: he will regret all of this. I will not let him near you again."
"Don't," she placed her hand on his arm, and he froze. "Not now. You've only just returned. You're tired. Just... stay with me."
He looked at her with a long, intent gaze, and something in his face softened, relaxed. He nodded.
"Very well."
She still didn't tell him about her feelings. The words stuck in her throat, seemed too loud, too frightening. What if he wasn't ready? What if she scared away the special connection that had formed between them after this incident? Because now, in this room, on this morning, there was something more between them than mere sympathy. Something they both dared not name, but which they clearly felt — with every cell, with every breath.
When he finally left for his own chambers — to rest from the journey, to change, to freshen up — she sat on the bed for a long time, clutching the pillow he had just been leaning into. She pressed it to her chest, inhaled the faint, already fading scent — and smiled. Smiled as she had never smiled in her life. The sun rose higher and higher, flooding the room with gold, and it seemed to her that the world had never been so bright.
And Baelor, entering his chambers, did not call for his servants. Did not undress. Sank into an armchair by the cold fireplace, closed his eyes, and allowed himself, for a moment, to forget about duty, about politics, about revenge, about Aerion, about what lay ahead. Allowed himself to think only of her. Of her eyes — huge, full of tears and hope when she looked at him. Of her hands in his — slender, fragile, and so tender. Of how easy and right it felt to sit beside her, to hold her, to feel her breath on his neck, to hear her whisper his name.
He hadn't said it either. But he knew: everything had changed. Everything that had come before — his lonely life, his duty, his weariness — all of it had receded into the background. Something new had emerged, something paramount. And nothing would ever be the same again.
That evening, they dined together again — as they had done before his departure, as had become their habit over the past weeks. But now, in their glances, in chance touches, in the way he brushed aside a stray lock at her temple and she did not pull away but only smiled faintly and leaned ever so slightly into his palm — in all of this, that very "something" was evident. The something that made the air around them thicker, and the silence more eloquent than any words. The servants attending at table exchanged glances and lowered their eyes, feeling they were present at something intimate, not meant for others' gaze.
They spoke of trifles — of books, of the weather, of how Egg had once again found adventure and scraped his knee. But in these trifles was so much meaning, so much warmth, that it seemed they were speaking of the most important things in the world.
And when, having wished her goodnight, he had already taken hold of the door handle, she suddenly called out to him:
"Baelor."
He turned. She stood in the middle of the room, slender and luminous in the flickering candlelight, in a simple housedress, her hair loose, falling over her shoulders. The flames danced on her face, in her eyes, and she looked at him in a way that made his heart skip a beat, then beat faster, faster, ready to leap from his chest. In that gaze was everything they had not said to each other that morning, that day, that evening. Everything that had been building for weeks and now was bursting forth.
"Stay," a nearly inaudible request fell from her lips. Quiet, timid, but in this silence, broken only by the crackling of logs in the fire and the distant sounds of the night castle, it rang out deafeningly. She looked at him and waited. Feared and hoped.
And he stayed. Of course he stayed.
Baelor froze for a moment, his hand still on the door handle, and something flickered in his eyes — surprise? doubt? a struggle with himself? — but it lasted only an instant. Then he released the handle, stepped away from the door, back toward her. In a few wide strides he crossed the distance between them, entered her personal space, and needed no permission, because she allowed it. Because her eyes, her open soul cried out for it without a single sound.
She met him with an embrace. Her arms rose of their own accord, touched his shoulders, and she felt beneath her fingers the dense fabric of his doublet, the warmth of his body, the tension of his muscles. His arms — at first hesitantly, as if giving her a chance to retreat — settled on her waist. Paused for a moment, asking permission. And, receiving no refusal, encircled her, holding her close, firmly and securely. Now there was no distance between them. Not an inch. Only the thin fabric of her dress and his clothing, only two wildly beating hearts.
She tilted her head back, looking up at him. Their faces were so close she could feel his breath on her lips — warm, slightly uneven. In his eyes — those strange, mismatched eyes she loved so much — a whole storm was brewing. Doubt and resolve. Tenderness and hunger. Question and answer simultaneously.
And, gods, how she desired him.
This feeling had surged suddenly, though it had been growing in her for a long time, day by day, glance by glance, touch by touch. It flooded her entire being, robbed her of will, swept away the last remnants of fear and shame. She wanted him.
"Baelor..." she breathed out, and in that whisper was both plea and command.
He understood.
For a moment — the longest in her life — he looked into her eyes, as if seeking one last confirmation, one last sign that she wouldn't change her mind, wouldn't regret it, wouldn't recoil. And, finding it, he leaned in.
Their lips met.
At first it was almost weightless — a tentative, cautious touch, as if he was afraid of frightening her, afraid she would disappear. But she didn't disappear. On the contrary — she pressed closer, molded herself against him, and her hands, which had been on his shoulders, slid higher, encircled his neck, her fingers threading through the short hair at the nape.
And he surrendered.
The kiss deepened, grew hotter, more insistent. His hands, which had been still on her waist, began to move — one slid up her back, pressing her even closer, the other came to rest at the back of her head, his fingers stroking her soft hair, caressing. She responded with the same passion, the same desperation that had been building in her all these weeks, all these endless days of waiting and unspoken feelings.
She tasted him — wine and slightly salty skin. She felt his beard tickling her chin. She felt his heart beating strongly — matching her own. She felt alive. Truly alive for the first time in a very, very long time.
They pulled apart only when their lungs demanded air. Breathing heavily, they pressed their foreheads together, gazing into each other's eyes. In his gaze, there were no more doubts — only wonder, tenderness, and something primal, dark, that made her insides clench in a sweet spasm.
"I love you," he said hoarsely, and these words, which she had waited for so long, which she had feared, which she had not dared to believe, sounded like the most beautiful confession in the world. "I love you. Have for a long time. Was afraid to say it. Afraid of scaring you away. Afraid that you..."
She didn't let him finish. She silenced him with a kiss — greedy, grateful, happy.
She breathed against his lips: "I love you too. So much..."
He lifted her in his arms — easily, as if she weighed nothing — and she laughed, tilting back her head, feeling drunk without a single drop of wine. He carried her to the bed, and in that short journey was all the happiness in the world. He laid her on the cool sheets carefully, gently, as if she were a precious jewel, and lay down beside her, drawing her close, shielding her from the world with his own body.
"I never thought," he whispered, looking down at her, "that fate would grant me such a gift. That I... that we..."
"Don't think," she touched his lips with her fingers, stopping him. "Just be with me. Just love me. Nothing else matters."
He smiled — that rare, warm smile that belonged only to her — and bent down for another kiss. And she drowned in his embrace, in his lips, in his hands, and felt: finally, she was home. Finally, everything had fallen into place.
The night outside rustled with wind, the candles burned low, dripping wax onto the candlesticks, and they loved each other — slowly, tenderly, passionately, rediscovering both themselves and each other. And there was no more fear, no more loneliness, no more Aerion, no more duty. There were only the two of them. Only their love, which had finally found its voice. Only this moment, stretching into eternity.