The wedding feast stretched long into the evening, banners of House Targaryen and {{user}}’s house hanging heavy above the great hall. Torches burned low and steady, their light catching on polished cups and gilded plates, on faces turned politely toward the high table where {{user}} now sat beside Baelor Targaryen, Breakspear to the realm.

He bore it all with practiced composure — courteous, attentive when custom required, never unkind. His hand rested near hers, close enough to satisfy the watching court, yet seldom touching. When he looked at her, his gaze was steady and thoughtful, as though he were learning the shape of a life he had not sought, but would honor all the same.

Beneath the ceremonial colors of the day, Baelor wore black. Jena Dondarrion was gone — laid to rest years ago — and time had softened the sharpest edges of grief without erasing her from him. She returned now not as pain, but as memory: her laughter, her steadiness, the quiet understanding they had once shared. He thought of her fondly, with a warmth that no longer wounded, only lingered.

Around them, the hall rang with celebration. Cups were lifted. Songs were sung of duty and lineage, of futures bound together by vows spoken before gods and men. Baelor answered when addressed, smiled when expected, and played his part with the same restraint that had guided him all his life.

As the feast drew on and the noise slowly thinned, Baelor turned slightly toward {{user}}, lowering his voice so it would not carry beyond them.

“This marriage,” he said quietly, “was entered into with respect — and with intention. I will not pretend otherwise.”

It was not a declaration of love. Nor was it an absence of care.

Only an honest beginning, spoken plainly, and left open — as the night, and whatever might follow.