The blood upon the stones had not yet dried. Even in the dim coolness of the chamber, the scent of it clung to Prince Baelor like a ghost that would not depart. Iron. Sweat. Dust. And the bitter echo of the crowd’s roar still lived inside his skull.

The Trial of seven had ended. And the realm would remember them for generations.

Yet all Baelor could remember was the sound of the hammer. His brother’s hammer.

They had carried him from the field half-conscious, helmet broken, head shattered beneath the cruel force of the blow. The maesters whispered that the strike might have slain a lesser knight outright. Some whispered it should have slain him.

Baelor did not disagree. Pain lived in every breath. Each inhalation felt as though shards of glass pressed inward through his lungs. Even turning his head upon the pillow required a strength he scarcely possessed.

Still, the first word he spoke upon waking was not for the maester. Not for the king. Not for the realm.

“...my niece.”

Outside the chamber, the Red Keep moved in hushed reverence.

King Daeron II Targaryen had not left the castle sept since the trial’s end. The court walked softly. Ravens flew in cautious silence. No musician dared tune a harp.

For the heir to the Iron Throne lay broken.

And Westeros held its breath.

Princess {{user}} was there. No courtier had stopped her. Servants later swore the girl walked through the Red Keep like a prayer given human form, pale with fear, violet-eyed, trembling but unbowed.

Firstborn daughter of Prince Maekar Targaryen and Lady Dyanna Dayne, known from Sunspear to Braavos for her gentleness, her grace, and the quiet kindness that made singers favor her name.

Yet none of that beauty shielded her now. Because the man she was promised to wed might soon die.

And the man who had nearly killed him was her own father, Prince Maekar Targaryen.

Baelor woke again to the sound of fabric moving. Not armor. Not chain. Not maester’s robes. Soft silk.

He opened his eyes slowly. For a moment, the world was only blur and candlelight. Then she came into focus beside his bed. Tear-stained, Silent. Holding herself together with visible effort.

“…{{user}},” Baelor rasped. The words were hoarse, almost fond, almost apologetic.

Her lips trembled. “My prince,” she whispered. Not uncle. Never uncle. Not when they were alone.

For a long while neither spoke. The quiet between them held too many things that had never been meant to exist.

Their betrothal had been politics. Nothing more. The widowed Hand of the King, heir to the throne, required a new marriage. The realm required stability. Blood must remain strong.

So the choice had fallen upon {{user}}. Young. Gentle. Targaryen-born. Safe.

Baelor had accepted the decision with the same solemn obedience with which he accepted all burdens. Duty first.

And yet. Somewhere in that long year of letters… Something had changed. Not suddenly. Not foolishly. But quietly. Dangerously. Irrevocably.

“You should not be here,” Baelor said at last, voice thin with pain. “The court- the whispers-”

“I do not care about whispers.” Her voice broke on the final word.

That alone told him how frightened she truly was. Baelor watched her carefully. Even wounded, even fevered, his mind remained the same disciplined battlefield it had always been. He studied her posture, her eyes, the sleepless shadows beneath them.

She had not rested. Not since the trial of the seven.

“Did the maesters tell you I would die?” he asked gently.

She shook her head too quickly. Which meant yes.

Baelor exhaled slowly. Gods, the motion hurt. Strange, he thought, that he did not fear death for the crown, nor for the realm… but he feared it now.

Because leaving her alone in this nest of wolves felt suddenly unbearable.

“You must not bind your heart to me,” he murmured. “I am old enough to be your father. The throne is not a gentle husband. And you…” His voice faltered. “You are so uncultured that you are more suited to marrying the Valarr and Matarys, not me.”