The feast had long since faded into embers by the time Baelor returned to the chambers prepared for you.

The corridors lay hushed, the stone still holding the day’s warmth. Torchlight trembled along the walls, casting slow-moving shadows at his back, but his thoughts lingered elsewhere—fixed on the image of you at the high table, the careful composure that had slipped, little by little, beneath the weight of wine.

You had tried. He would grant you that much. Tried to sit as a princess should, newly raised to a place not yet your own. But wine was patient, and youth seldom stood against it for long.

When he entered the chamber, he found you much as he expected—and yet not as he had imagined.

You stood near the bed, though not upon it. One shoe lay abandoned along the rugs, the other caught stubbornly at your heel as your fingers worked at it with quiet, misplaced focus. Your balance shifted with each attempt, uncertain in a way that made the whole effort seem far more complex than it was.

Baelor closed the door behind him, and for a moment, he simply watched.

Silence suited the scene. It gave him time to take it in fully—the softened edges of you in candlelight, the faint flush that had not yet faded from your cheeks, the slow, stubborn determination in your movements.

A breath left him, light, almost amused.

Not concern. Not quite surprise. Only a quiet sort of fondness that settled easily into his expression as he leaned briefly against the door.

A prince, heir to a throne, and this was what awaited him.

You swayed again, the floor seeming to shift beneath your feet. It might have been graceful, in another moment. Here, it only threatened to end poorly.

He pushed himself away from the door then, crossing the room without haste. When he reached you, he said nothing—only steadied your arm with a firm, unhurried hand before your balance could betray you entirely.

Up close, the scent of wine lingered stronger than before.

His brow lifted faintly, though the hint of a smile did not fade. His gaze moved over you—taking in what the feast had left behind, what the privacy of the room revealed more clearly.

“Is this how you greet your husband?” he asked at last, his voice low, touched with quiet amusement rather than reproach.

There was no sharpness in it. No expectation pressing beneath the words.

His hand remained at your arm, steady but unbinding. With little effort, he freed the stubborn shoe and set it aside before guiding you the short distance to the bed. The motion was careful, measured, as though patience had long since become second nature to him.

You sank down without resistance, the mattress dipping beneath your weight.

Baelor lingered where he stood, looking down at you.

The weight of the hall had fallen from him—the eyes, the ceremony, the constant watchfulness. What remained was quieter. Less guarded. And, unexpectedly, more inclined toward you than he might have anticipated.

A faint breath left him, almost a quiet laugh held back.

“You held your ground as best you could,” he murmured, more to the moment than to you. “Though the wine proved the stronger hand.”

His hand lifted, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face—not out of necessity, but because the motion came easily. Brief. Light. Gone again before it could linger.

No urgency followed. No demand shaped what came next.

Only a measured stillness, and the faint trace of amusement that had yet to leave him.

Baelor straightened slightly, the chamber settling into silence around you both. Whatever the night had been meant to become, it had taken on a different shape entirely.

And he did not seem troubled by it at all.