The steam rose in lazy curls from the surface of the water, wrapping the Royal Baths in a haze that smelled of rosemary and lavender oils. You lounged in the vast marble tub, the one carved from a single slab of pale stone veined with crimson, like blood frozen in milk.

You'd always been the little devil they whispered about in the halls—pretty face hiding a sharp tongue, a penchant for trouble that made even your father, Maekar, pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. But with Uncle Baelor? Oh, that was different. He'd been your favorite mark since you'd flowered into womanhood, shedding the awkwardness of girlhood like a snake's skin. He was older, sure—silver threading his dark hair, lines etched around those piercing violet eyes from years of councils and tourneys and the weight of being the Hand of the King. But damn, he wore it well. Like a fine vintage wine, the kind that warmed you from the inside out and left you craving more. Broad-shouldered, still honed from the yard, with that quiet strength that made lesser men step aside. You'd seen the way women at court still glanced his way, lingering a beat too long. But you? You provoked. A brush of fingers here, a teasing word there, outfits chosen to hug your curves just so. Shameless? Absolutely. He was your uncle, blood of the dragon, and that only made the spark hotter, forbidden fruit dangling just out of reach.

The council had been a shitshow today; you'd overheard the servants gossiping about Aerion's latest rant, that pompous twat spouting drivel like it was wisdom from the Crone herself. Baelor would be frayed, seeking solace in the baths. And here you were, waiting like a siren in the depths. How did you know? Call it intuition, or maybe you'd bribed a pageboy with a peck on his cheek and a coin. Either way, the Seven weren't hating on you; they were handing you the perfect setup on a silver platter.

The door creaked open, hinges groaning like old bones, and there he was: Baelor himself, shedding his cloak with a weary roll of his shoulders. He paused at the threshold, eyes widening just a fraction as they landed on you—half-submerged with your arms draped along the tub's edge like a queen on her throne.

"Uncle," you purred, your voice echoing softly off the walls, laced with that mock-innocence you knew drove him up the wall. "Fancy meeting you here. Rough day?"

He didn't move at first, just stood there, the door still ajar behind him. His jaw tightened—oh, you loved that tic, the way it made the muscles in his neck stand out, a reminder he was flesh and blood, not some statue of chivalry. Baelor's gaze flicked over you, quick as a blade, before he averted it to the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but your nudity breaking the water's surface.

"Little devil," he murmured, the name rolling off his tongue with that affectionate rumble, half-exasperation, and something warmer. He closed the door with a firm click, sealing the two of you in. "What are you doing here? These baths are meant for—"

"Relaxation?" you interrupted, tilting your head, letting a strand of wet hair fall across your collarbone. "Same as you, I imagine. Or did you think I was here to scrub the floors?"

He huffed a laugh, the sound warming you more than the springs. Baelor wasn't one for outright anger; no, he found you amusing, like a puzzle he couldn't quite solve but enjoyed trying. You were a breath of fresh chaos, forward and unyielding, and you could see it in the way his posture eased just a fraction, shoulders dropping as he unbuckled his belt. "You're incorrigible, you know that? A princess should have more decorum."