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Ashford was gloomier than you had anticipated, but you kept your complaint to yourself—after all, your husband Prince Baelor had spoken against you joining him on his journey, but you had scarcely been able to stand the idea of being separated for too long. For a few days before the departure, you had even expected him to use his rank as prince and Hand of the King to order you to stay behind in King’s Landing, but with a last sigh and a word of wise advice, he had allowed you to come.
The Targaryens were not in favor with the people of the realm, you knew, and in the end the presence of a lady would perhaps soothe some of the tensions—now, that hope had vanished, and you could see how heavily it weighed on your husband’s mind. The line of his shoulders was tense, and there was a frown on his handsome face, much like when he was pondering an unsolvable problem.
Maekar had been insufferable since you’d arrived, which was expected from your brother-by-law, but for once you could hardly blame him as his sons had been missing, and now you wished they hadn’t joined this journey altogether.
Night had fallen over the castle for a few hours now, but your husband still seemed far from finding rest. Baelor was pacing the length of his guest chambers, absently twirling his rings and sighing from time to time, sounding weary and preoccupied.
As Hand of the King he had often pondered difficult matters into the darkest hours of the night, however for some reason this particular one clung to him. He loathed to admit it out loud, unwilling to admit the failures of his own blood, but his nephew Prince Aerion had crossed a line no honorable man should have.
While he understood the dangers of representing the death of a dragon for common amusement, he could not condone the wanton violence Aerion had unleashed on the puppeteers. Now good men might lose their life for it, and he lamented the waste of honorable spirits and proficient swords.
Sensing his unease and internal torment, you had spent the last hour watching him like a hawk, your eyes following his pacing from the best, where you were nestled, comfortably resting in the hearth’s warmth and the numerous pelts provided. There was no adequate word to say how much he appreciated your silent presence, which was more grounding than any other outlet might have been—some men took to wine to soothe their spirits, all he needed was for you to rest your eyes on him, and allow him to exhaust his thoughts until he had reached an acceptable conclusion.
“Come to bed, my love,” you gently called after a sigh too many, and on instinct, his legs moving without his conscious mind, he started taking a few steps towards the bed. “Surely night will bring you clarity.”
Baelor sighed, twirling one of his rings around his finger, feeling the smooth edges of its stone. “I wish I had your certainty,” he replied. “However I don’t think sleep will come easily tonight.”
At that you sat up, leaning back against the pillows—you made the most enticing sight, your skin glowing in the low light of the candle at your bedside, your natural beauty coming through despite the late hours and obvious worry etched on your face.
“Are you truly so worried about this trial?” you inquired, reaching out to him, and he gladly came, obeying your silent call. “I am sure Maekar and Aerion will be fine, they always are. Nothing can cut such harsh characters,” you added with barely concealed contempt.
Standing over you, he allowed you to take one of his hands in yours, sighing contentedly when you pressed a reverent kiss to the back of it, then soothed his knuckles with the softness of your palm.
“That is not what troubles me, my love,” he said, his chin dipping forward in weariness.
“What is it, then?”
For a moment he allowed himself to get lost in your eyes and soft touch, wondering whether the decision he feared he would make on the morrow was the right one—but how could he call himself a man of honor and stand idly as his nephew abused his power and his rank to reign terror over common people. He dared not speak any of this aloud, for fear of worrying you more than was necessary.
“Ser Duncan was right, in coming to the defense of these folks,” he conceded, shaking his head. “I only regret that Aegon called for him, otherwise an honorable man might not be headed for his death.”
This gave you pause—you looked up at your husband beneath your lashes, and he wanted to smile at how your gaze never bore anything but love when it was placed upon him. Better men than him had dreamed of a wife such as you, and so little had been granted their wish, and he could only hope to be deserving of this blessing.
“This world is rarely kind to honorable men,” you said regretfully, taking his hand to the side of your face, resting your cheek against it before he turned his palm and you buried your face in it, cradling his wrist like his touch alone was more precious than any earthly matter.
“Because it is so, does not mean it causes me no trouble,” Baelor admitted, and it prompted you to rise to your knees on the edge of the mattress. “I am afraid Ser Duncan will not find seven knights to his cause.”
Without a word, you reached for his rings and pulled them off, one by one, setting them aside on the bedside table. They made a sharp clinking sound in the otherwise quiet room, and when your hands came for his belt, he did not stop you, and soon his calf-length doublet was set aside at the foot of the bed.
“No more of this. Tomorrow shall come whether or not you agonize over it. Come to bed,” you murmured again, your hands spreading warmth at his chest, pressing your palms into the firm muscle of his shoulders before looping your wrists at the back of his neck.
The tips of your fingers dug into the tension there and Baelor let go of a breath he did not know he was holding, his shoulders dropping slightly. There was no need for a verbal answer, as you knew the language of his body well enough—you waited patiently for him to divest himself of the rest of his clothing, toeing off his boots and dropping his trousers and breeches. Rising higher on your knees, you pressed kisses to his face, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes that faded into the sharpness of his cheekbones whenever he winced, the corner of his mouth hidden by the neat edge of his graying beard.
Though he loathed to lose your warmth even for a second, he curled his hands around your arms and unhooked them from around his neck to lift his shirts off his shoulders—when the fabric had passed over his face, a small smile pulled at his lips—you had done much the same, discarding your nightgown. Although the simple pleasure of admiring your body would be enough to soothe him, from the planes of your skin to the curves of your breasts, belly and hips, he yearned to feel your touch and lose himself in your embrace.
One hand to your face, cradling your jaw every so carefully, he slanted his mouth over yours in a slow, practiced dance. His lips were warm, if slightly chapped, but ever so familiar. There was a comfort to the way he kissed you, reverently, with unwavering wonder, as though each night he was rediscovering the pleasure of being in your arms, and never grew tired of it.
The drag of his carefully trimmed beard was delicious against the sensitive skin of your face, and you surrendered to him fully, leaning back into his strong hand resting at the small of your back.
Baelor groaned when you went limp in his grasp, allowing him to tip you back onto the mattress, your knees falling apart with the practice of a thousand nights, welcoming his body into yours as though their natural state was to be one.
“Baelor,” you sighed, the sound of his name on your lips sweeter than any other.
“My love,” he answered, as he always did, refusing to let any of your calls or declarations go unanswered.
Rocking your body into his, you settled into the soft wave of your mounting arousal. On the road, finding the comfort necessary for a moment of intimacy was harder, but it made it all the more precious. It had been a short while since you had felt him inside of you and you longed for it, much as it seemed he did. His length was a hard line of heat at your core, sliding expertly over your core with each roll of his hips, and a plea was on your lips before you could form the thought, but it was not needed.
Never had you ever needed to beg—whatever you desired was yours, if it was in his power to grant it.
Mouth over yours, his tongue curling with yours as though words and promises could pass from his mind to yours in this way, he reached between your bodies and took hold of himself. Ever so careful not to hurt you, he parted your folds, nudging the head of his manhood into the slight dip that led into your body.
“Baelor,” you called again, melting into him, and he sighed your name just as reverently.
Gently but firmly, he breached you in one smooth thrust that felt like coming home after battle. Baelor groaned aloud, burying it into the crook of your neck—he marvelled at how the first push into you always made his mind spin, the heat of your body going to his head like no wine ever could. It was made even more so by the way you arched into him, your hips rolling to meet his, your hands tightening at his shoulders.
It made him want to declare his love in languages he did not know, to profess endless vows, both earthly and divine. Out there, he was the Prince of Dragonstone, the Hand of the King—in your arms, he could be a simple man, praying at the altar of your love.
The drag of his length against your walls was a relentless wave and your pleasure, a mounting tide. Each thrust was more intense than the last and soon the two of you were caught in a whirlpool, unable to escape the furious chase towards release. Baelor knew the tells of your face and your body, how you curled your knees at his waist, how you grew wetter around his length, clenching on the downstroke.
Although you found breath at his very skin, your hands roamed across his body—along the expanse of his back, across his broad shoulders and down his arms, then up again to tangle at the short hair at his nape. His senses thrummed whenever you would trail down his beard, feeling the corners of his mouth through his beard, pressing humming kisses to his lips. A sound like a sob falling from your lips was his undoing, and he could only watch as you broke apart in his arms, shattering into breathless moans—never did your eyes leave his as long as they could stay open, and even when they fluttered shut and your head lolled back onto the sheets, he kept looking down at you.
Baelor’s own pleasure was found in strong pulses, the tension at the base of his spine releasing with breathtaking force, and your body welcomed it, still shivering, your peak coursing through you longer, leaving you sated and in bliss, your arms stretched above your head.
Baelor hummed his own delight in the divot between your breasts, stretching the moment for as long as he could, then kissed the soft skin inside of your arm, before slowly entangling you and laying down on the sheets. With a soft sound you followed him, curling your limbs along his side, your thigh hooked over his, your head resting at his breast.
A sudden dread curling at the pit of your stomach and you sighed. Baelor waited for you to speak, but he already knew the warning that was coming. He curled his arm around you, the tips of his fingers tracing a line from your shoulders blades to your spine.
“I beseech you, my love, please be careful on the morrow,” you murmured. “At the trial.”
Baelor sighed amusedly, at how perceptive you were once again proving yourself to be, and how well you knew him and his mind, oftentimes better than he knew himself. “Come back to me unscathed, shall you?” you whispered at his heart beating steadily under your cheek.
“I shall,” he vowed.
“Some days I wish honor did not matter to you as it does, so that you would be kept safe, but who would you be without it?” you mused aloud, tracing a mindless pattern on the graying hair at his chest.
“A man undeserving of his heritage,” he answered, pressing a reverent kiss to the crown of your hair, and as usual, you answered, your soft lips whispering a prayer against his skin.