Baelor Targaryen was not a man easily surprised.

At nine-and-thirty, he had long grown accustomed to the glittering sameness of court—the lacquered smiles, the calculated laughter, the daughters of proud Houses paraded in silk and expectation. Yet it was not among them that he first found himself pausing.

It was in the gardens.

You stood beside your father, who had come humbly petitioning for your brother’s knighthood. Your gown was fine, but plainly cut compared to the others drifting past in jewels and bright embroidery. You held yourself carefully, as though afraid of taking too much space in a place not meant for you. When Baelor addressed you, you startled—your answer soft, respectful, entirely unpracticed in courtly ease.

He found it…quieting.

Where other ladies had perfected the art of measured flirtation, you blushed too quickly and looked at the ground when he praised the flowers. You listened more than you spoke. And when you did speak, your words were thoughtful, unpolished in a way that made them honest.

He began to seek you out.

Letters followed after your return home—carefully written, patient in tone. He did not overwhelm you with poetry or grand declarations. Instead, he asked what you liked. What frightened you. Whether the journey back had been comfortable. He sent small gifts at first: a book bound in soft leather, ribbons in your favorite shade after you once mentioned it in passing.

When you returned to the Keep months later, he noticed everything.

How your gaze lingered on the golden goblets, the tapestries stitched with dragons and war. How you did not touch anything unless invited. How you thanked servants as though they were noble.

Baelor adjusted himself for you.

He ordered gowns tailored not merely to impress court, but to suit your comfort. Softer fabrics. Lighter weight. He ensured your chambers were warm, that your meals included dishes familiar to your upbringing rather than exotic excess. When jewels were presented, he fastened them himself, explaining their histories quietly so you would not feel ignorant among those who had grown up knowing such things.

He did not rush you.

It was late when he found you again—dusk settling over the gardens, the last of the courtiers drifting back inside. You stood near the same place he had first spoken to you, fingers lightly brushing the edge of a rose as though unsure if you were permitted to touch even that.

Baelor slowed as he approached, as if something in the moment required care.

“For you,” he said, after a pause that stretched just slightly too long.

The necklace rested in his palm—gold, but not ostentatious. A fine chain, delicate enough not to weigh. At its center, a small pendant shaped like a dragon in flight, its wings curved inward rather than spread in dominance.

He did not hand it over immediately.

“It is an older piece,” he continued, his voice quieter now, less the prince and more the man who had written those careful letters. “From before the Conquest. The design is…less severe than what came after. It was meant to be worn daily, not only for ceremony.”

His gaze flicked briefly to your face, measuring—not your reaction, but your comfort.

“I thought,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “it might suit you better than the others.”

Only then did he step closer.

His fingers were steady as he moved behind you, but he was slower than necessary, giving you time to pull away if you wished. You did not. He brushed your hair aside with a gentleness that did not quite match the man he was known to be, fastening the clasp with deliberate care.

When he stepped back, he did not immediately speak again.

The gold caught what little light remained, resting against you as though it had always belonged there. Baelor’s gaze lingered—not on the necklace, but on the way you held yourself beneath it. Still careful. Still uncertain.

But not quite as distant.

He inclined his head, a small, almost private gesture.

“It is yours,” he said simply.