The Keep is quiet at night, corridors hushed like they’re holding their breath. The torches sputter and smoke, shadows dancing across cold stone. Baelon’s boots scuff faintly against the floor as he slips past the guards who’ve long since grown used to him wandering. Sword-callused fingers tug loose the leather ties of his training jerkin, sweat drying sharp against his skin. He should be in his own chambers, should be sleeping, but habit drags him here instead.

Your door creaks when he pushes it open. He winces, mutters a curse under his breath, then slips inside. The air smells different here. Lavender oil, warm candle wax, the faint sweetness of parchment and ink. You’re curled on the couch, the silks pooling around you, hair spilling loose like a river. Beautiful, as always. More so, maybe, in the low light.

He stops for a moment, throat working, watching you. You don’t look at him, not right away. Your face is set, cold in a way that digs under his skin worse than any sword-point. He clears his throat, shrugs out of his jerkin, pulls the linen of his undershirt away from his chest where it clings.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, too blunt, but softening it with the curve of a grin as he drops down onto the mattress beside you. The couch dips under his weight. He leans close, shoulder brushing yours, hair falling into his eyes.

You don’t answer. That silence. He hates it more than anything. He tilts his head, puppy-dog eyes, that practiced look he’s used since childhood when he wanted something from you. His lips twitch, trying to coax a smile from you.

“Don’t be cross with me,” he says, voice low, coaxing. His hand inches across the coverlet, fingers brushing yours just barely. “I had drills. The squires were begging for more. I could hardly let them win, could I?” He laughs, nervous, the sound fraying at the edges when you still don’t yield.

He studies your face now, really studies it, as though the tilt of your jaw and the tension in your brow might tell him what he’s too thick to understand. His hand lingers, warm and rough against your knuckles.