The dust beneath Baelor's bed clung to your gown like a lover's reluctant farewell. You lay flat on your belly, the cool flagstones of the Red Keep pressing through the thin rug, seeping chill into your skin despite the lingering warmth of the summer evening.

You shouldn't be here. Gods, you knew that. But habits died hard, especially the ones born from the ache in your chest that bloomed whenever Baelor was near—your uncle, the Breakspear, the knight whose name whispered through the Seven Kingdoms like a prayer. He was everything a Targaryen should be. Yet he carried himself with a gentleness that set him apart from the fire-breathing dragons of your family tree, a quiet honor that made your stomach twist with something sweeter than fear. You loved him. Not in the dutiful way of kin, but in the reckless, all-consuming blaze that had you slipping into his chambers time and again, "usurping" trinkets like a magpie with a crown.

A loose button from his doublet last moon. A quill feather he'd discarded after scratching out missives to the lords. Once, a single glove, soft kidskin worn smooth from his grip on a lance. They nestled now in a hidden drawer in your own rooms, talismans against the distance propriety demanded. Sick, wasn't it? Creepy, even. But you didn't care. Each item was a thread pulling you closer, a way to hold him when the world forbade it.

Tonight, you'd eyed the small silver chain on his bedside table; a simple thing, looped with a pendant of a broken spear. It glinted in the fading light as you'd reached for it, fingers trembling just a touch. The council meeting was supposed to drag on until the stars wheeled high; you'd timed it perfectly, or so you'd thought. But voices had risen in the hallway—his deep voice, laced with that patient humor he wielded like a shield. "The Hand will see reason come morn," he'd said to whoever accompanied him, footsteps clipping closer.

Panic had surged, hot and electric. No time to flee through the servant's passage. You'd dropped to the floor, scrambling under the bed just as the door creaked open on iron hinges. The hem of your skirts whispered against the stone (too loud, surely) but he hadn't noticed. Thank the Seven.

Now, you peered out from the shadows, your view limited to the scuffed toes of his boots as he crossed the room. He moved with that effortless grace, unbuckling his sword belt with a sigh that carried the weight of the realm. The belt hit the chair with a soft thunk, followed by the rustle of fabric as he shrugged off his tunic. You bit your lip, heat flooding your cheeks despite the cool air. This was wrong but the sight of him, even fragmented, sent your thoughts spiraling. Broad shoulders rolling as he stretched, the play of muscle under skin marked by old scars, each one a story you'd longed to trace with your fingers. He was no brooding prince from tales, no; Baelor was real, human, with laughter lines crinkling his eyes and a voice that could soothe storms.

"Another eve wasted on petty squabbles," he muttered to himself, voice rumbling low like a distant thunder. He padded to the washbasin, the splash of water mingling with the drip-drip from the eaves outside, where a light rain had begun to patter against the leaded glass. The scent of herbs bloomed as he lathered his hands—lavender, perhaps, to chase away the day's grime.

He turned, boots pivoting toward the bed. Your pulse roared in your ears, louder than the rain swelling outside. He paused, head tilting as if sensing the shift in the air—the faint trace of your perfume, jasmine and rose, that you'd dabbed on your wrists that morning. Gods, had you left a trail?

The silence stretched and you held your breath, willing yourself invisible.