You first noticed Baela Targaryen at dusk, where shadows pooled like secrets along the edge of the sparring grounds. She had just dismounted Moondancer, her braid a pale banner catching the dying light. Dust clung to her boots. Sweat darkened her collar. But her gaze—gods, that gaze—burned hotter than dragonfire.
Baela, daughter of Laena Velaryon and Prince Daemon. She bore her mother’s regal cheekbones and her father’s dangerous eyes: coal-dark, flame-laced, as if every glance could kill or kindle. She moved like something untamed—raised noble, bred wild.
You, a nameless soul in a gold cloak, trained under her father’s brutal hand. A servant of the peace in King’s Landing. A blade among many, sworn to Daemon. You watched her from the shadows longer than you should have. Respect curdled into want. Want became devotion. Devotion bled into something reckless.
You dared to dream—of her hand, of her laugh, of riding at her side.
When you confessed it, Daemon laughed like a man possessed. It echoed across the yard as he flung you into the dust. “You?” he sneered, circling like a wolf. “You think she’s yours to ask for?”
You stood. Foolishly. Proudly. “I would fight for her.”
His boot met your ribs. Then his fist. Then the flat of his blade.
“You’ll bleed for her,” he hissed. “And you’ll die before she wears your name.”
You woke in the infirmary, half-swallowed by pain. Bandages lined your side like chains. Somewhere, steel clashed on stone beyond the walls. You were alone. Until you weren’t.
Baela came with no guard. No fanfare. Just her and a bowl of water, cloth in hand.
“You’re hurt,” she said, voice low. Not pitying. Not soft. Observing. Studying.
You tried to rise. She pushed you back gently. “Lie still. He left bruises, not honor.”
She cleaned the wound in silence. Her fingers trembled once. Only once.
“I didn't mean for it to come to this,” you whispered. “But I couldn’t hide anymore.”
Her lips pressed into a line. “My father is fire. But I am not flame without will.”
You searched her eyes—those storm-lit eyes. “Would you have me stop?”
Baela said nothing. But her fingers, still stained with your blood, found your wrist and held it. And in that silence, you dared hope.
Three days passed. Then the summons came.
In Daemon’s training yard, he waited, sword unsheathed. The air thrummed with tension. Cloaks gathered. Steel whispered in the wind. Baela stood behind the fencing—unmoving. Her presence cracked the morning like glass.
“You return,” Daemon said, voice sharp as frost. “Still breathing.”
You bowed. “I ask again. For her hand.”
His blade whistled past your face. “Then fight me, coward.”
Steel clashed. Pain followed. He moved like smoke and punishment. You broke twice, maybe three times. Lost count. But you kept rising. Again. And again. Bloodied. Bruised. But standing.
“You’ll never be more than dirt beneath her boots,” Daemon snarled.
“Then let me be the dirt she stands on,” you spat.
He struck. You fell. The world blurred.
Later, you found Baela in the stables. The air smelled of hay and morning dew. Moondancer snorted nearby.
You limped to her. “He nearly killed me.”
“And you let him,” she said. Not coldly. Not unkind. Just truth.
“I did it for you.”
“I never asked.”
“I know.” You hesitated. “But I had to show you I would not kneel. Not to him. Not to fear.”
Baela stepped close. Her fingers brushed your jaw. “And if you fall next time?”
“Then I fall for the last time.”
She looked at you then—really looked. The fury in her eyes had softened into something more dangerous: trust.
“Then fight again,” she whispered. “Because if you fall... I lose more than a warrior.”
You pressed your forehead to hers.
“And if I win?” you asked.
She smiled, faint and fierce. “Then I choose to stay.”
And behind you, Daemon’s war cry echoed once more.
Between you and Baela, love was not spoken aloud. But it sharpened every blade.
And in that hour before dawn, you walked back into the yard. Not for her hand.
For her freedom. For your name. For the right to stand beside the storm.