Chapter Text
Chapter I
Hidden behind a family of dark grey clouds, Lady Rosamund glanced at her son who sat opposite her in the carriage. His dark black hair curled perfectly around his temple. A cluster of freckles dusted his cheeks and nose, and piercing emerald eyes glistened like jewels when he turned to look back at her. At ten years of age, he was a mirror image of her old houses’ physical traits: ebony hair, green eyes, milk-white skin.
'Mother,’ her son said, knocking her gently from her line of thought. Rosamund blinked, focusing fully on Tommas. ‘Are we nearly there?’
‘Almost, my lion,’ Rosamund replied softly. She glanced out her window, noticing the billowing breeze which made the long grass bend submissively, and the verdant trees on the edge of the fields trembled violently. She sensed it would rain soon; the air was thick and tight, and there was an invasive coldness that spread between her bones like frost over a lake. Her knees instinctively clenched when the carriage hit a dip on the road.
Ten years had passed and it was enough for her to conclude that he was the only thing in this entire world that truly mattered. The moment the midwives placed him in her arms, Rosamund had made a mental oath to protect him from anything—knights, lords, kings and queens… Seven Hells, she’d put herself before a dragon if it ensured her son’s safety and well-being.
They had travelled for over five days from Casterly Rock to King’s Landing to mark the special occasion of King Daeron II Targaryen’s nameday. He’d sent an invitation to her personally; when the letter arrived by raven, she’d spotted the crimson seal of the dragon in the clutter of other correspondence from other houses, and it had made her lightheaded. She hadn’t spoken or seen the Targaryen family for ten years. At first, she’d contemplated writing back with a lie. Unfortunately, I am not well enough to travel and cannot make it. But she’d realised it would only cause more questions, and possibly a visit from one of them to check on her health. Nevertheless, she could never deny the king. Not even her history with the Targaryen family could afford her the position to ever say no to a king.
An hour went by and the sun was setting across the hills by the time they arrived at the gates of King’s Landing, and then to the courtyard. Stationed at the doors, the guards made their way to her carriage. A few assisted with her luggage, whilst one opened the door and aided her outside, and another handed the driver a pouch of coins. Far across the courtyard, a stout man with flaming orange hair and beard stood before the doors to the castle.
'Lady Rosamund of House Lannister, and her son, Lord Tommas Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock,’ bellowed the man.
Rosamund’s gaze drifted. And her heart thundered louder in her chest.
King Daeron II Targaryen stood with a proud, gleaming smile. At his side, connected by arms, was his wife, Queen Myriah Martell; her warm brown skin shone against her soft orange silks, golden jewellery hung from her ears and nose. She looked radiant—a true Dornish queen. The couple had aged since the last time Rosamund had seen them. Wrinkles marked the edges of their eyes and mouths, but it didn’t erase their individual beauty. Especially when the two shared a look between one another; it was as though the sun and moon were uniting as one.
Prince Maekar stood to his mother’s side. Beside him was his children: Prince Daeron, Prince Aerion, Prince Aemon, the sweet young Prince Aegon, and Princesses Daella and Rhae. Their father towered over his children like a shadow. His violet eyes were clouded; stained by a look Rosamund recognised all too well: grief.
A year ago, Rosamund had received word of Lady Dyanna Dayne’s death shortly after her own husband had passed. She recalled wishing to write to Prince Maekar but stopped herself—remembering her promise.
Still, when her eyes met Maekar’s briefly, her expression dropped and her eyes pleaded as if to say, I am sorry for your loss. A second passed but it felt as though it was an hour before Maekar responded in turn, Yours, too.
She bit back a smile. Even a whole decade later, she and Maekar still shared that ability to speak to each other without words. She missed him it seemed, as a painful throb lurched in her chest.
‘Lady Rosamund,’ welcomed King Daeron loudly. He extended his arms and she walked up the steps and was wrapped in his arms. Like before, he was as soft as a bear and just as warm. The king possessed a quality that displayed instant safety. She was well content in his presence. Protected. ‘We are so happy to see you after all these years,’ he expressed after they pulled away from one another.
‘It is good to see you, too, Your Grace.’ Rosamund lowered into a curtsey.
King Daeron beamed happily. Then his purple gaze shifted down to the ten-year-old boy standing inches away from Rosamund’s side. ‘And who is this strapping young lad?’ he asked, softening his voice. There was a twinkle of mirth in the king’s eyes that made Rosamund smile harder, stinging her cheeks.
Tommas bowed his head respectfully. ‘My name is Lord Tommas Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock, Your Grace. I am honoured to finally meet you.’
A flourish of pride bloomed in Rosamund’s chest. Hearing her son speak so clearly and sturdily, showing no sense of fear or embarrassment when conversing with the king of the realm, it nearly brought a tear to her eye.
King Daeron grinned from ear to ear. He glanced at his wife, who shared in his joy. Her pearly white teeth gleamed against her full reddened lips. ‘And I am honoured to meet you too, my lord,’ King Daeron expressed. ‘Come now, let us get inside where it is warm and there is delicious food to be eaten.’
Tommas followed the king inside, and the Targaryen family huddled as one; Maekar’s children, especially little Aegon buzzing with excitement over their new guests. Rosamund stayed back, not wanting to be crushed by the crowd. It wasn’t until she was the last to follow did, she realise there was another person waiting for her.
A ghost from her past she had hoped to not see again. But he was the crown prince, Hand to the king, and heir to the Iron Throne.
It was impossible that she would go the rest of her life without having to see him again.
Prince Baelor stood silent and still. His stature reminded her of a stone statue; effortlessly beautiful but isolated all the same. The way he spoke was akin to the rumble of distant thunder, and very rarely, when his emotions bested him, came the inevitable crash of lightning. Today he'd chosen stillness; like ice frosting over a still lake. Baelor remained deathly still, but not due to complicity or laziness—but reservation. He was a man who was prepared for everything; he'd memorised whole detailed maps and a thousand paged tomes within a couple of hours. He knew every one of the realm's houses, their mottos, their sigil and all of their vast histories. He was a man never satisfied with the unknowing. If he ever went missing, the first place Rosamund would look would be his private chambers where he was sat with his nose pressed into a book or at the Citadel's library. Sometimes, before life had gotten in the way, Rosamund would tease Baelor by calling him an encyclopaedia. He would always just laugh, never denying it.
Ten years had changed Baelor Targaryen for the better—much to her dismay. He'd grown in his figure; his clothes fit him tighter, or he'd might've gained muscle, it was difficult to tell with him always wearing black or dark colours. A permanent neutral expression marked his face. Even now, after so many years, she was left blank when she regarded him. A page left unwritten. A language she couldn’t quite understand. His beard had grown thicker over the decade, speckled with strands of silver-grey, and it reached the sides of his hair, too. His sun-kissed skin had matured, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes had deepened, and he stood with a slight lean on his left leg—an injury he’d received on his right knee during the First Blackfyre Rebellions. He wore a black doublet and matching trousers. The Hand of the King’s pin rested at his collarbone, its long chainmail arm stretching up towards his shoulder like a metal snake.
With his hands folded behind his back, he lowered his chin respectfully at her. And when he spoke, Rosamund wanted to curl into herself and never leave again.
'Lady Rosamund.’ He said her name so softly it could’ve been a prayer; her cheeks bloomed with heat. ‘It’s been so long.’
Her throat tightened. It has, she thought. Ten long years. Reigning in her true feelings, Rosamund straightened her spine, almost a few inches as tall as him, and forced herself to utter his name.
‘Prince Baelor.’ The two words sounded hoarse in her throat, as if she’d been screaming his name for a century.
He inched closer, hardly making a noise. Her breath hitched in her throat. Baelor’s lips pursed open, as if he were about to speak again. Instantly, Rosamund drew back and then darted inside.
*
The smell of oranges and pomegranates lingered in the air long after Lady Rosamund left. He stood there, another moment more, contemplating what to do next. In the last ten years, he’d anticipated her return and imagined it repeatedly in his head as to what he would do, how he would react, and what he would do to make her realise that he was hers—in every inexplicable way, he belonged to her.
He never assumed she would speak two words to him—given it was his name, and how titillating it sounded on her lips—only to then escape his presence by running away as if being within two feet of him had burned her like wildfire.
Clenching his jaw, Baelor had to figure out another way to speak with her. Perhaps she was just restless; he understood how tiresome a journey by carriage could be, and Casterly Rock was a long, long way from King’s Landing.
Eventually, he walked inside to join his family in the great hall. Standing outside, lurking like a shadow, was his brother, Maekar. His bright violet eyes scoured the scene until finally landing on Baelor.
‘There you are,’ he muttered icily. ‘It appears your reunion with Lady Rosamund went well.’
Baelor raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because from the way she just stormed into the hall, she did not look happy.’
This made the muscle in Baelor’s jaw feather and his hands clenched into fists. He hadn’t meant to make her feel this way—in fact, he’d hoped for the opposite. He had wanted her to know how he felt and how badly he’d missed her.
Even if she didn’t share his feelings.
‘I need to speak with her alone,’ he told his brother. ‘Somewhere we—’
‘Is this wise?’ Maekar’s voice sliced Baelor’s words apart, silencing him immediately. ‘She has just lost her husband, and it has been three years since Jena—’
‘Careful brother,’ Baelor’s tone shifted dangerously low, almost akin to the hiss of a snake. Instinctively, his gaze drew towards Rosamund. She sat at the table, beside his father, as his personal guest. Baelor watched, beguiled, as she tilted her head back and laughed; though he noted her smile never reached her eyes. Like him, she could control her facial expressions, astute and firm, and could mask her true emotions as swift as the click of a finger. She wore her hair up, glimmering obsidian under the lit sconces. And, as he’d expected, her gown was of mourning attire; high collar, cut shoulders like razors, and thick long skirts that cascaded down her slim figure like pitch. Still, there was a brightness in her eyes, he recognised from before. Before she was married and shipped away to Casterly Rock. Back when she was a lesser noble’s daughter from House Ryswell.
Suddenly, he was torn away from his gawking by his brother inhaling a shuddering breath. Baelor returned his gaze to Maekar, whose lips were set in a grim line.
‘What?’ Baelor demanded.
‘Give it time,’ Maekar muttered. ‘She may be your true love, but what if her husband was hers?’
Baelor’s chest tightened. Airways restricting, he could barely breathe. His nostrils flared in a desperate attempt to seek out any oxygen. No, she was always his. He knew deep down in his heart that she belonged to him. Still, he must refrain himself. Slowly, he forced himself to inhale through his mouth, though his jaw was still clenched. Baelor averted his gaze immediately when he noticed his brother look at him with genuine concern.
He would not lose himself like this. Especially not in front of his brother.
Tensing his body into pure steel, Baelor lifted his chin and stared plainly at his brother. But before he could offer a response, he watched as Maekar strode into the great hall to take his seat beside their mother. All Baelor could do was follow.
Once at the table, Baelor realised he was to sit beside Rosamund—much to her dismay written so clearly on her face, though she was smart to hide it whenever King Daeron’s eyes drew towards her.
‘Lord Tommas wished to sit beside Aegon,’ his father told him as Baelor moved behind their chairs towards his own. ‘You won’t mind sitting beside Lady Rosamund, do you, son? You two can have a chance to speak again like before. You were always good friends.’
Baelor detected a slither of tease in his father’s tone. And when he glanced in the direction of his parents, he spotted a quick exchange of glances between his father and mother; their lips curled in pleasing grins.
The sleeve of his doublet grazed gently against Rosamund’s arm as he sat down next to her, coaxing an ice-cold chill to slither up his spine. An inch away from him, he felt her shift in her seat—as though she’d felt that same coldness, too.
Through the feast, Baelor remained completely silent. Although he had every opportunity to speak with her, he could never find the words nor the courage to start. Every time he opened his mouth, the words seemed to disappear like morning mist, and his bones hardened, paralysing him so he was unable to move.
It wasn’t until Maekar’s children slowly began leaving the table to follow their septas to their bedchambers did Baelor finally turn to look at Rosamund. She was lent back in her chair, her gaze fixed on her son, who was giggling and chattering away with Prince Aegon.
‘They seem like a good pair,’ Baelor finally forced the words out. They were rough at the edges, and he was worried spit had fired from his mouth. Thankfully, Rosamund showed no inclination of noticing his strain and curtly nodded her head—still refusing to reply. ‘He looks like you,’ he added, this time his voice dropped an octave, softening the impact of his words immensely. ‘Same eyes, freckles… Same smile.’ Baelor’s gaze lingered on Rosamund’s lips for half a second longer than he should’ve.
Rosamund’s jaw feathered hard, and she swallowed the remains of her drink in one large gulp. Then, she shot up from her seat and turned towards the king.
‘I’m afraid I grow rather tired, Your Grace,’ she murmured. ‘May I take leave to my chambers with my son?’
Baelor watched as his father nodded his head. ‘Of course, my lady. We shall see you both in the morn.’
Rosamund curtseyed, bowing her head greatly. With the swish of her black skirts, she slipped between her chair and the king’s—whether it was on purpose that she moved further from Baelor, he couldn’t tell—and rushed to her child’s side.
‘Come now, my lion,’ she beckoned to the young lord, placing her hand softly on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Time for bed.’
Tommas Lannister turned to face the Targaryen family, though his focus was predominately on the king and queen.
‘Goodnight, Your Grace,’ he bowed his head at King Daeron. ‘And goodnight, Queen Myriah, Prince Maekar, Prince Aegon…’ and on and on the list of titles and names went, and each name earned a respectable bow. When the young lord’s gaze landed on Baelor, for the first time in a very, very long time, he was almost nervous. ‘Goodnight Prince Baelor Breakspear.’
A wrinkle creased between Baelor’s eyebrows. His eyes shot up to Rosamund, who was as equally mystified by her son. Just the look on her face made his lips twitch into a smile, and for once, he refused to hide it—especially when she finally looked at him and then lingered on his lips. There, he thought. Got you.
He watched her meticulously as she attempted to hide her surprise at being caught. She swallowed. Blinking flustered. It took exactly five seconds before her face finally transformed into one of simple politeness.
‘My son likes history,’ she voiced, ‘specifically the section detailing Queen Daenys’ tourney where you earned your renowned title.’ It was clear she found it painful to speak to him, each word sounded strained, almost strangled in knots, and she refused to meet his eyes again. Still, Baelor enjoyed hearing her voice, particularly when it was directed at him.
Baelor glanced at the young lord, flashing a smile at him, and instantly, Tommas’ eyes widened into pennies.
‘Goodnight, Lord Tommas,’ Baelor uttered softly.
Rosamund’s hand on her son’s shoulder tightened, not painfully, but a desperate attempt to manage her son without causing a scene. ‘Come,’ she whispered, and then looked to Baelor’s family—again, refusing to meet his eyes. ‘Goodnight, Your Graces.’ She curtseyed one last time before trailing through the hall towards the door with her son trailing at her feet.
Baelor kept his eyes fixed on Rosamund until she disappeared into the hallway, then he released a deep, long exhale of breath.
This was going to take longer than he thought.
Just as he was about to get up from the table to relieve himself for bed, his mother’s sweet voice resounded beside him.
‘She plans to stay for winter.’ Queen Myriah stood above him, one hand placed on the back of his chair, the other rested on his shoulder tenderly. ‘Six months.’ Her honey-brown eyes widened honestly, and one finely-shaped eyebrow rose significantly. ‘Six months to rectify your mistakes.’ Then, like sun-rays cascading through gossamer curtains in the early morning of dawn, Queen Myriah glided across the hall, arm in arm with his father.
Baelor slumped back in his chair, fingers fiddling with his rings. His shoulders sagged at the reminder: six months to win the heart of the woman his own heart has belonged to for over two decades. The woman who should be the realm’s future queen. The woman he should’ve married, shared a life with, had children with.
The woman he should’ve never let go.
*
A crescent moon shone an incandescent milky-white colour through the gossamer curtains. From her balcony, Rosamund could hear the buzz of the city at night. The faint smell of smoke lingered in the air, and salt-air from Blackwater Bay stung her eyes.
She wrapped her satin shawl around herself tighter as a chill swept past her. It would get colder very soon; and she was then reminded that she’d promised King Daeron she would stay in Kings Landing for winter. Six whole months.
Rosamund emitted a long sigh.
She hadn’t considered Tommas’ education, his first year of training with the other young boys by Ser Brynnan Mullynn, and countless occasions she needed to attend or suffer the agonising glower of late husband’s parents.
The sound of faint snoring captured Rosamund’s attention; she turned silently on her feet and peeped her head through the curtains to see her son sleeping soundly in his bed. She smiled at the sight.
Until a sudden gust of wind erupted from outside. The curtains flew horizontally. An abrupt smell of smoke and roasted meat filled the air.
Rosamund spun on her heel—and one of the largest dragons she had ever seen was hovering opposite her balcony stone rail with Baelor Targaryen sitting in its saddle. He regarded her with a levelled intense glare, though there wasn’t a slither of threat to it; it was as if he were as furious to see her as she was in equal measure.
‘What in the Seven Hells are you doing?’ Rosamund whisper-yelled, careful not to awaken Tommas.
The dragon—Vermithor, she recalled the name—reared his head, piercing golden eyes fixed intensely on her. She’d never felt so small in all her life until now. Vermithor’s size almost eclipsed half of the palace.
‘Come ride with me,’ Baelor shouted back, thankfully from the distance between them, his voice was softened by the billowing winds. Then, Vermithor’s wind extended towards her, the ragged bronze tips, like torn sails, kissed the rails edge.
Rosamund’s eyes narrowed, anger boiled deep in her stomach. She glared at the dragon’s stretched wing and tried to imagine herself actually walking across the wing. A loud huff exploded out of her.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ she hissed. ‘You know that is not customary, and entirely impertinent—or have you forgotten only married couples or those who share the same blood, the blood of the dragon, are allowed to ride together?’
And I am not married to you, Rosamund wanted to spit out. You made that abundantly clear ten years ago.
Baelor’s eyes darkened for a moment, as though he had heard her internal dialogue, and he dropped his gaze for a moment, jaw clicking. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But tonight, I do not care for customs or court etiquette.’ He finally met her gaze again and something in Rosamund shattered. ‘I must speak with you.’
‘Then speak.’ Her voice lashed through the air like a whip. She crossed her arms, patiently—but not really—waiting for his answer.
Baelor narrowed his eyes. His lips set into a thin line. Rosamund’s gaze shifted to his chest, he still wore his regal attire, and she swore he wasn’t breathing. Or he’d accomplished the art of staying deathly still, like a snake coiled and ready to attack. He was a dragon after all. Then, with a quick breath out the nose, he pulled himself from the saddle.
Rosamund took a few steps back as he carefully strolled across Vermithor’s wing, making sure to stand only on the hardened bone and not the delicate flaps. One of the dragon’s sharp claws settled on the stone rail, allowing Baelor to use it as a focal point. When he reached her, he stepped off the rail and stayed a good distance from her. Behind him, the dragon finally withdrew his wing and flew off.
‘Will you listen?’ His voice sounded tired—no, exhausted. As if the last five years had plagued his dreams causing him to never sleep properly throughout the night. Part of her liked the idea of him suffering with the consequences of his own actions. She was gladdened if he’d spent five years in unbearable agony, just like her.
‘Depends,’ she muttered, and she ignored the urge to reprimand herself for acting so brattish. She was nine and twenty years old and here she was acting like a child before the heir to the Iron Throne.
Baelor’s lips twitched at her demanding behaviour, and his violet and brown eyes slightly lit up. ‘You haven’t changed,’ he stated.
‘There’s no need, I remain perfect as I was then.’
A low snort escaped him. It caused Rosamund’s throat to constrict, drying up like one of the many deserts in Dorne. It had been so long since she’d heard his laughter. Thin and short, but very much needed. The sound warmed her chest.
It was then she realised he was staring at her—and she was staring back. Gawking at him like a child at a sweetshop. Immediately, she averted her gaze to the stone floor.
‘I see you haven’t changed, though,’ she blurted out, desperate to move on.
‘Truthfully?’ he questioned, and his expression soured like it pained him. ‘I had hoped that in the past ten years I have changed. Or else I fear I am not the experienced ruler I plan to be.’
Rosamund clenched her jaw, wishing she could not respond. Not attempt to expand on this riveting conversation. Her regret for not shutting the balcony curtains and going to sleep increased by the syllable.
‘You’ve aged,’ she said, her tone was slightly shaky, but it wasn’t due to nerves, only the fact she had no idea what she wanted to say to him. There weren’t enough words in all the realm’s languages that could exhibit how Rosamund truly felt and what she craved to tell him. ‘Not badly,’ she quickly added. ‘Strong, even. A true king in the making.’
Internally, she howled at herself with the ferocity of a rabid animal.
Baelor’s lips parted slightly, though no words escaped him. She watched in silence as his hands came to settle in front of him; idly fiddling with his many rings. One stood out in particular and it was enough to evoke her to finally snap out of her observation. She blinked and turned her body to face him sideways. As though the very action was a display of her shielding herself from him.
Except, Baelor seemed to notice her reaction and why. Slowly, his violet and brown orbs drifted lower to his hand—to the onyx-banded ring which rested on his middle finger.
‘I still wear it,’ he murmured.
‘Baelor,’ Rosamund spoke his name accompanied with a grating sigh. ‘We don’t need to speak—’
‘There’s not been a day in the last ten years where I have not worn this.’
‘Enough,’ urged Rosamund, shaking her head.
‘When I look at it, my mind wanders—as it always does—and I am consumed by the thought of you,’ he expressed sombrely. Then, his eyes landed on her face and she couldn’t move. Like he possessed an invisible chain, and every time he stared at her, the chain wrapped tighter and tighter around her body. ‘I tried to write but you never responded. I would’ve visited but I didn’t want to cause you further to upset. I’ve…’ he sucked in a sharp intake of breath, shutting his eyes and curling his fists at his sides. ‘I’ve missed you.’ He opened his eyes and took one large step forward. 'Desperately.'
Rosamund trembled, and she couldn’t exactly blame it on the chilly air.
He took another step. Two more and he’d be a hair’s breadth away from her. Rosamund’s feet were fastened to the stone floor.
‘Ten years have gone by and I have only ever thought of you.’ There was a frailty to his voice she’d never heard before. It unnerved her. ‘Where I have done nothing but dream of you.’ He grew bolder in his steps, taking two at a time.
Rosamund stepped backwards, until her back hit against the wall. A gasp lurched out of her when her palms met the cool stone. She tried to fix her posture when a rush of heat surrounded her, confining her to him. His chest brushed against hers. Satin against leather. Lady against dragon.
Rosamund raised her gaze: violet and dark brown eyes ascended onto her.
‘Every single day, I have prayed that you'd return to me,' Baelor whispered. His lips grazed her temple, and his coarse beard tickled her skin. He then dropped his chin, eyes invading her face; trailing across each individual eye, her long and thin nose. His gaze lingered when they settled on her lips. Pupils expanding like giant black voids. 'Now you're here…' Baelor dropped his chin, and his breathing laboured as he leaned forward, wetting his lips.
She could recall what Baelor's lips felt and tasted like—Dornish dates and wine. Sometimes there was notes of mint-leaf tea, or depending on her mood, he would sometimes taste like familiarity and freedom. Enticing and dangerous.
Which was why Rosamund raised her hand and pressed her palm to Baelor's chest. Hard. It coaxed him to stop and pause.
'Don't,' she uttered, barely a whisper. Tears stung her eyes, and when she tried to swallow the knot of nerves in her throat, it felt more like a tangle of nails instead.
Baelor inhaled deeply. A guttural, low noise emitted from his chest where she touched him. Under her palm, he vibrated softly; reminding Rosamund of Vermithor. It dawned upon her that it wasn't just the renowned prince of the realm and heir to the Iron Throne who stood inches away from her but the blood of the dragon. His blood sang fire. She'd never witnessed the full extent of a Targaryen's anger, but she could only imagine how terrifying it would be. Even without their dragons, they were just as ruthless.
And still, she forced herself to be resilient by continuing to push Baelor away. Her mouth snapped open, a gasp slipped, when his own hand eclipsed over hers. If anyone saw them, it would appear as two secret lovers in the midst of a passionate embrace: her touching his chest, feeling his heart thunder against her palm like a war drum, and him desperate to join in her sensual capture of his entire soul.
It would've been a truthful observation ten years ago, but now they weren't lovers.
‘Rosamund.’ There was a guttural roughness to Baelor's voice, like he’d discovered a new religion in the shape of her name.
Something that was gnarled and blackened with anger snapped inside of Rosamund. Her tears disappeared as bitterness took its place. Her throat cleared, sending words, like shooting knives, straight at him.
‘You could’ve had me,’ she growled. Her hand twisted out of his hold and transformed into one solitary finger, jabbing him sharply in the chest. ‘All you had to do was say yes, but you chose duty over your heart.’
A feather in his jaw clenched in tandem with his stagnant breathing. 'I had to marry her to secure a political alliance between our houses. I would've ensured you were mine in all but name. You would've—'
'Been your whore?' When Baelor's face paled, she scoffed. 'Thrown away my title, my family, my reputation and dignity to become your mistress? To give you bastards? Shut off from court, and preyed on by other lords hungry for a taste of the tainted dragon's harlot? To be sniggered and laughed at by other ladies? Is that the sort of life you deemed appropriate for me? For someone you said you loved?'
The last slam of her index finger impacting his chest made Baelor finally flinch back. He took multiple, long strides out of her assaulting reach. He breathed erratically, chest pounding as though he had been caught out at sea and was drowning. His eyes were welded to the ground, jaw hardening as though he were grating something between his teeth, and his light-brown skin colour had paled into a greyish-white.
'I never intended for you to suffer from any harm,' his voice wobbled, and it struck Rosamund like an arrowhead burrowing in her side. She'd never seen him act like this before; like the ice over the lake had cracked. An empty shell. Slowly but surely, he raised his chin and his gaze landed on her once more. A vacant expression etched across his face. 'And I never stopped loving you.'
Rosamund's chest deflated. She was worn out, utterly exhausted and needing bed. She turned to the balcony door, grasping the handle but not opening it just yet. Then, she looked over her shoulder.
'Go back to your wife, Baelor,' she told him, her voice was stronger than before.
She shut the balcony door, purposefully not looking through the glass. As she made her way to her bed, she heard the billowing gush of wind outside and then, a lot later, caught the faint sound of a dragon's roar. It took all her remaining energy to not rush out of bed and return to the balcony. Just to see him once more before she made herself a new promise: to never let her emotions overcome her again. But she was afraid of what she'd do if she did look, because if she caught a glimpse of Baelor’s dark figure behind the gossamer curtains, she was afraid of what she’d do.
And what promises she’d break.