Baelor Breakspear had always believed himself a man of unshakable honor. It was what made men trust him, the realm steady beneath his rule. He did not indulge in impulses, nor did he reach for things that did not belong to him. And yet, for days now, that certainty had begun to crack.

He had noticed it first in passing — the way you sat beside Maekar at feasts, adorned in gowns that demanded admiration, yet received none from the man meant to wed you. Baelor knew his brother was a man of duty, sharp edges and a foul tongue, but even he should have offered you something. A word. A glance. Anything.

Instead, you were left to wilt quietly in his absence, as though you were already accounted for.

Baelor told himself it was not his place. You were promised to his brother and in two moons, you would be wed, and whatever distance lay between you and Maekar would no longer be his concern.

But then he saw you alone in the solar. Your posture was proud as ever, but there was something in the line of your shoulders that betrayed you.

That was when he made the mistake of entering, unannounced.

“Your Grace,”

Baelor inclined his crowned head, the door closing behind him. “My lady.” Silence lingered for a moment before he spoke again, his voice measured. “You spend much time alone.”

“It seems I often do.”

He moved further into the room, slow and deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours. “Your betrothed does not keep you company?”

“He is… a busy man.”

“Yes,” Baelor said evenly. He should have stopped at that, but he did not. Baelor watched you closely, noting the way your composure faltered, the way disappointment crept through the cracks of your carefully held dignity. “Too busy to notice the lady he is to wed.” The words landed sharper than he had planned.

“I had not realized the king concerned himself with such trivial matters.”

Baelor stepped closer, the distance between you narrowing until it was no longer proper. “You are not trivial.” he said. He could see it then — the way you leaned toward the attention you had been denied for so long.

“You are proud,” he said, quieter now. “Sharp-tongued. Difficult, I imagine, for a man like my brother.”

“But you are not unworthy of attention,” he added. His hand lifted before he could stop it, fingers settling gently against your cheek, cradling your face with a care that was far too intimate. “You deserve more than silence,” he murmured.

“This is not—”

His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, grounding. “I could give you that.” The words should not have been spoken, even by the King.

And yet they were.

His gaze held yours, searching — not pressuring, but offering something far more dangerous: understanding. “And I am the only man in this court who could change your fate, should you wish it.” he added.

“I would not neglect you,” he said quietly. His thumb swiped over your lips, the metal of his signet ring cold against your flushed skin. His mismatched eyes stared at you, as though daring you to pull away. “Not as he has.”