Chapter Text
Baelor could not stop fidgeting. So much of royal life was standing there and waiting for others to enter or standing outside and waiting to be announced. He had spent his entire life doing just this, but today his body would not obey his will.
It was beautiful outside. Blue and hard white sunlight shone through the tall windows of the throne room and cast patterns on the red marble floors. He focused on that. He counted the lamp fixtures and then the bones in the dragon skulls. When he turned his head to begin counting the swords of the iron throne, his father caught his eye.
King Daeron raised a brow, a not unkind query on his face. It was indeed his father who had taught him the counting trick. Baelor was caught.
The small council was assembled at the table below the dais, speaking amongst themselves. His mother was talking with Rhaegel nearby, and Maekar and Aerys were having some inane argument. Other than them and some Kingsguard, the hall was empty.
“I thought you said they had arrived?” King Daeron asked. Seven bless his father.
“Most certainly, Your Grace, yes,” Lord Butterwell, the Hand, said quickly. “Just taking it all in, I’m sure.”
Baelor began twisting his signet rings. He felt his mother’s gaze boring into him.
The great doors creaked open, and every single one of them snapped to attention. Baelor clasped his hands behind his back, squeezing and squeezing his fingers.
“The honorable Lord Mason Dondarrion!” The herald announced. “His sons, Manfred, Burton, and Roland. And his daughters, the Ladies Jena and Serafina Dondarrion, of Blackhaven!”
Jena. That was the name he had heard half a thousand times in the last month. Of all the daughters of the marchers they so desperately needed to appease, she had been deemed best above all. Gentle mannered, they said, fair, gifted at needlework. It was agonizingly little to go off of.
He was to marry this lady on the morrow.
Baelor picked her out instantly. The young woman was on her father’s arm, and she was not looking at him. It was this one detail that made the maelstrom in his head stop for just a moment. Jena Dondarrion’s eyes were on the king, and it was not until she curtsied that they finally settled on Baelor. What lady would have such mastery over herself to defer to the king even when being met by her future husband?
Other little details stood out to him before the full picture. Her hair was a dark, coppery red. Her gown was immaculate, purple silk and myrish lace. She had lovely hands; elegant, long fingers. Fine cheekbones and a strong jaw. Her eyes were the color of steel, though, and just as hard. Baelor knew without her needing to say a word that she was not just some pretty court flower.
The king was speaking, and then Lord Dondarrion was responding, and then —
“My son and heir, Prince Baelor Targaryen of Dragonstone,” his father held out a hand in gesture. Baelor instantly broke out of his trance.
“My lord, it is an honor to welcome you and your family to King’s Landing,” he said as he stepped forward to shake the man’s hand. Dondarrion was a large man with a stern carriage. Baelor let himself turn his attention fully to his future wife. “Lady Jena. It is my most sincere pleasure to meet you.”
This would be his wife, his queen, the mother of his children. This stranger he was starving to know.
Jena curtsied again, more shallow this time. Up close, her eyes were bluer. “And mine, Your Grace. I have never seen so many dragon skulls.”
There was a ripple of laughter. Obviously, she had never seen any dragon skulls. It was a charming jest, and she said it with calm surety.
“Well, I hope they do not prove to be a disappointment after such a long journey,” he said.
Jena offered him the slightest of smiles. “I shall have to take a closer look.”
Baelor had expected shyness. She was apprehensive, that was plain, but it was not exactly shyness. There was a restraint to her, though he liked that she did not bat her lashes and beam.
“You may inspect them at your leisure, my lady,” Baelor said.
The introductions resumed. Baelor shook hands and bowed. The Dondarrion brood was a mix of utter stoicism and charming flustering. The youngest, Serafina, turned bright red when he gave her a smile. All the while, his attention was on Lady Jena as she met the rest of the royal family.
Just like that, it was over. The Dondarrions were shepherded away to settle into the castle. Jena sent the quickest look back at him over her shoulder, but her eyes snapped forward the instant she found him watching.
As soon as the doors closed, the small council began congratulating each other on a successful arrangement. For Baelor, it went in through one ear and out the other. Wedding plans, dowries, tax levies.
“Baelor?” His mother’s voice cleaved through it all. Myriah Martell had stepped closer, eyes full of question. He knew how she disapproved of this union with a marcher family.
“I am well,” Baelor assured her. “She is… Yes, I am well.”
With that, he swept from the hall.
~~
She had not expected him to be pretty, not so soft spoken, but Jena knew that first impressions could prove deceiving.
“Oh, he is dashing and tall and everything a prince should be! Just everything!” Serafina was practically jumping for joy in the parlor of the sprawling suite of rooms their family had been given. At 11, Sera had utmost faith in the world.
“He must be, Carrot, he is the heir to the Iron Throne.” Jena’s embroidery hoop shook in her hands. She tried to steady her wrists.
“It is just like the songs, just like it. And we are here, in the real Red Keep!” Serafina threw herself down on the settee so hard she bounced. “You will be the most beautiful bride there ever was. I bet they’ll write a song about you.”
Down the hall, the sounds of Manfred and Burton terrorizing Roland reached their peak. Her brothers came running into the parlor.
“Roland stole a real blade from home,” Burton accused. “Jena, tell him he can’t keep it.”
“It’s mine! Master Bale gave it to me!” Roland’s hands were thrust out, reaching for the damned thing, but Manfred had his palm on the boy’s forehead.
Jena sighed and set her hoop down.
“Why were you going through your brother’s things in the first place?” All three of them started yelling. “Ay! We have just gotten to court. Settle down.”
They did. Good to know she still held some power over them. Jena stood with her hands on her hips and approached.
“Let me see this damned thing.” She held out an expectant palm, and Manfred handed it over with a scoff. “This is a letter opener. Stop abusing Roland, Manfred.”
It was always Manfred starting the quarrels. Burton was just a happy henchman. Jena was the eldest child, but Manfred was her father’s heir, and he could not have cared less about acting the part.
“I’m not abusing him!” He cried. “This is a matter of safety.”
“Safety my arse. Go get out your energy elsewhere if you must. Here you go, Roland.”
Burton gave her a horribly mischievous smile. “I see power has gone to your head, Your Grace.”
“Oh! Is that how it is?” Jena managed to grapple him under her arm and grind her fist into his hair until he was cackling and struggling to get away.
This was the scene their father walked into. The stress faded somewhat from his features, even as Jena leapt back from Burton and clasped her hands in front like a proper lady.
“Daddy, isn’t the prince so handsome?” Serafina went skipping up to him. “And gallant and wise and-“
“You’re too young to marry him,” Burton interrupted.
Yelling resumed, the four of them careening down the hall trying to catch one another. Someone thudded into a wall and Jena shook her head.
“Good to see they are not too frightened of King’s Landing,” she said in excuse.
Her father nodded. His mind seemed elsewhere. “I have just finished meeting with the small council. Everything is in order for tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Horrible, awful, nerve-wracking—
“Very good, Father.”
“You conducted yourself well. You need only do tomorrow what you did today.” He stroked a hand down her arm, most likely meant to be reassuring, but she fought a flinch. Jena found anyone’s touch an intrusion these days. She could not stand pity. “Do you… find him suitable?”
“He is the heir to the Iron Throne,” Jena said.
“That is not what I meant.”
She looked briefly behind, but none of her siblings were lurking. She fumbled with her fingers a bit. “I think so, yes. I suppose I will find out.”
“I have heard he is kind.”
Jena nodded and managed a smile, but they both knew the truth. It would not matter if he were a sadist or a lunatic or a halfwit. Baelor Targaryen would still be her husband.
~~
Sleep eluded Baelor at the very best of times. He had been this way since boyhood. He could often be found drilling fighting stances in the yard or searching for secret passages. Most nights, though, brought him to the library.
Over the years, his father had offered to have additional bookshelves dragged to his room so he did not need to skulk about in the small hours. Baelor would not have that. The Red Keep’s library had the solemnity of a sept, a feeling like being cradled in some great womb. He knew this place almost as well as the Master of Books.
Tonight, he had selected a distracting tale on Valyrian medicine. It was dense enough that even Aerys might have found it tedious, but Baelor had a keen interest in this sort of thing. He felt no hint of fatigue as his eyes scanned the pages.
The front door creaked open a slip. Baelor was seated at a back table, his view obstructed by the shelves. The orange glow of a candle lit the darkness beyond. The footsteps were so delicate they were hardly whispers. He watched the light move until it rounded the shelf directly in front of his table. Brynden, perhaps?
Jena Dondarrion had her back to him as she scanned the titles. Her long, thick hair was unbound, and she was dressed in a trailing robe that covered her nightgown. The sight of her was so strange, so immediate, that for a moment Baelor had no clue what to say. Here he was, wracked with angst about their nuptials, and she had just appeared.
“You are interested in astronomy?” he asked, referring to the shelves before her.
Jena jumped, letting out an endearing little squeak as she whipped toward him. Her expression went wide with horror before she schooled it and dropped into a hasty curtsy.
“Your Grace.” Both of her hands clutched at her candle. “My deepest apologies, I did not expect anyone. I did not see you.”
“Mine is the greater offense. I did not mean to startle you.” Baelor wound up his scroll and stood. She seemed rooted to the floor, perfectly still as he approached. “Were you looking for something? I know this place well.”
“We should not be alone,” she said.
“I won’t tell.”
Jena studied him for a moment, and then the library as a whole. When she saw that no one was coming to accuse them of impropriety, she nodded. “I am looking for a dictionary on the language of flowers.”
“I can find it,” he said. She followed after him with her candle. “What do you need it for?”
“A gift for my sister, Your Grace. She is fluent in flowers, so I thought I would pick meaningful ones.”
“Baelor. You must call me Baelor.” He stopped before the botany shelves. As he scanned the titles, he was acutely aware of her attention on his profile. He wondered what she saw in him.
“Of course,” Jena said. “Baelor.”
“Ah. I knew it was here.” He pulled on the spine and handed it over, but even then neither of them moved. The full weight of her gaze was so intent it made him oddly nervous. “I must say… The Red Keep can be dangerous at night for a lone lady.”
“I apologize.”
“No, no, I… I want to know why you came all this way. You could have asked for this to be brought for you in the morning.”
He could see a million things flash across her face, in the way her mouth opened and closed, in the way her eyes darted down and back up.
All she said was, “I could not sleep, Your— Baelor. Baelor.”
“Neither could I.” But he was following his constant routine, and she had gone out into the vast unknown. A hidden spirit of adventure? “Your sister is lucky to have your thoughtfulness.”
“She is young. She will find returning to Blackhaven without me difficult. I have been a mother to her,” Jena said. Something dimmed in her eyes, but she quickly shook it away. “No matter. I am sure we both need our rest to brave tomorrow.”
“She must love you fiercely.”
Jena adjusted her grip on the book and candle as they began toward the door. “She does, though she has her moments.”
“I know that well. My little brother Maekar used to bite me.”
That earned a small, startled laugh from her. The sound was surprisingly pleasing to his ear. At the doorway, they stopped. Baelor offered to escort her back, but he knew she would not accept.
“We should not be seen together, I think.” She looked shy again, like she didn’t quite know how to leave. Her fingers tightened and shifted mindlessly on her book.
“You may be right. At least you know now where to find the books, and me should I ever go missing,” Baelor told her. Another smile from her, and something delicate in her eyes. She had lovely, interesting eyes. “Rest well, Jena.”
“Thank you, Baelor.”
The door closed behind her, and Baelor stood there staring at the spot where she’d stood for a long while.
~~
Jena looked up at the Mother, beautiful and cold and on high.
“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” the High Septon said. He had a low, nasal voice that rang out through the packed Sept of Baelor as sure as a bell. The air beneath the dome felt close and heavy, but perhaps she was just warm. Warm and trying not to shake.
The worst part was that her groom looked so very handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, with windswept dark hair, and the finest princely garb. The light from the stained glass windows cast him in the colors of the rainbow as he took the Dondarrion cloak from her shoulders and passed it off to her father. Baelor’s hands did not shake as he wrapped his own cloak around her. Was it her imagination that he gave her shoulder the slightest squeeze of assurance?
“My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of this man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” As the Septon spoke, Baelor took her hands in his. He was warm, too. He only looked at her, no one else. The Septon tied a ribbon around their connected palms. “Let it be known that Prince Baelor of House Targaryen and Lady Jena of House Dondarrion are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon each other and say these words—”
Jena and Baelor spoke as one. For just that moment, she let herself think they were alone, that they were not being watched by both of their families and hundreds of others.
“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” they said to each other. The next line was also spoken in unison, with their own respective pronouns. “I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”
Baelor nodded. She became acutely aware of how close he stood. “With this kiss, I pledge my love.”
He bent his head and kissed her softly, his lips steady and careful against hers. It lasted only a moment, proper enough for the sept, but when he drew back his thumb brushed once against the side of her hand where their fingers still touched. Jena’s stomach turned over itself.
“We did well,” Baelor murmured. We. Jena was completely taken aback by his gentleness.
As though someone had flung open a door, the roar of approval from the gathered crowd returned all at once. In the front pews, her father had a proud smile on his face, and Serafina was clapping so hard her hands blurred in the air. Rose petals rained from the hands of gathered lords and ladies. As soon as the Septon untied their ribbon, Jena took her new husband’s arm to walk down the aisle.
She was overwhelmed by sights and sounds and smells, but she managed to brave it all with a smile. King Daeron kissed her cheek, and Prince Rhaegel gave her an overly enthusiastic embrace. Outside, it seemed that all of King’s Landing and then some had gathered. Thousands and thousands of people stood below the steps of the sept, screaming wildly as she raised her hand to wave.
Jena only realized she was cutting off Baelor’s circulation when he bent down to whisper, “You may loosen your grip. I do not plan to run away from my wife.”
Mortified, she loosened her fingers at once. “Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said, smiling for the crowd though his voice stayed low for her alone.
“I have never seen so many people. They do not even know me and they are… crying.” The words spilled from her lips before she could correct them. Jena knew she should just be smiling and waving and probably not speaking.
“Someday they will tell their children that they saw the future queen, standing radiant before the Sept of Baelor.”
Jena felt her cheeks heat. Was she blushing? She did not think she had ever blushed in her life.
The bells overhead pealed as they began down the broad marble steps, petals drifting around them in red and pink clouds. Baelor pressed closer to her as they moved through the narrow alley the King’s Guard had made with their bodies for them to reach a royal carriage. The prince helped her up the steps and shut the door behind them. A moment later they were moving.
The sudden respite from heat and noise felt unnatural. She watched Baelor loosen his collar, leaning back and letting out a small sigh. Jena sat very straight and tried to remember her posture. What should she say? What was the proper thing to discuss with a newlywed husband? A prince? This was only the second time they had ever been alone. She always knew what to say, but now words escaped her when she needed them most.
“Neither of us fainted,” Baelor broke the silence. “Which puts us ahead of several royal couples in history.”
“I believe we have winter to thank for that.”
“Spring soon, if the maesters are to be believed. We can go to Summerhall, then. Counter-intuitive, I know, but it’s nicest in the transitory seasons.”
“We passed by Summerhall on the journey here,” Jena said. “It’s very near to Blackhaven, but I have never seen it.”
“No? It has a magnificent library and a lovely pond filled with birds. The willow trees are enormous.”
“You speak of it fondly.”
“I have only fond memories of it,” he said. “King’s Landing and Dragonstone are heavier places, I find.”
“That is unfortunate for a prince.” Perhaps that sounded aggressive. Jena wanted to pinch herself.
“I appreciate this city as a sort of whetstone for the mind and body, but yes, I do enjoy quiet.” Baelor was fiddling with the rings on his hands, studying her thoughtfully. “My mother has oft accused me of overworking myself.”
Jena folded her hands more tightly in her lap. “My father says much the same, though he usually means worrying rather than work.”
“You hide it well,” he said. It was exactly the kind of praise she yearned to hear, that her efforts were not in vain. “What about when you are not worrying?”
“Pardon?”
“What do you like to do?”
Jena faltered again. She knew this was a test. She could ride and dance and speak several languages, but those were duties more than enjoyments. Reading was too manly, but he liked to read.
Then again, the last thing she had expected Baelor Targaryen to be was earnest. He seemed incredibly earnest, and his authority was quiet and confident instead of brash. It was worse that he was earnest. Jena would have known exactly what to say to a lesser man.
“I like to paint,” she forced herself to say. It was a shred, but a true shred. It was not the most royal of activities. Would he like that? That was her entire job in life now: to be what he liked.
“What do you paint?” The question came immediately. The full weight of his attention was a heavy thing, and she liked his eyes. Kind eyes, a bit strange with their mismatched colors.
“Mostly people when they tolerate sitting for me,” she said. “Sometimes landscapes, though I find them tedious unless some abstraction is allowed.”
“A rare talent. Court has a habit of stealing hobbies, but I hope that you continue. Is that what you’re making for your sister? A painting of flowers?”
He remembered that bare detail from last night. “No, I embroider as well. I thought she might like something tactile.”
“I suspect you are more of an artist than you let on. Do you have a similar interest in music and theatre?”
“To watch, certainly.” Jena dared return the questioning. “And you, my prince? Besides overworking yourself?”
His mouth tugged on one side. “Sparring, reading. Walking when I can escape notice. Corralling the small council.”
“Are they often unpleasant?”
“Less often than I, according to my father,” Baelor said. “But you must not tell them I said so.”
Despite herself, Jena laughed. It would be unwise to do any more than like him, but she was glad that she had even that.
~~
Baelor’s wedding afternoon was a carnival of delights. Massive pies that spouted birds, mummers plays, jousting, singers, endless trays of food, dancing. It seemed never-ending.
It certainly did not help that his mother was only borderline courteous to his new bride, and she had apparently had some atrocious fight with Maekar the prior night. His youngest brother was sullen and brooding, snapping at staff. He had a split lip, which Rhaegel had whispered was the queen’s doing, but Baelor could not fathom that. He had never once quarreled with his mother in earnest. She was opinionated, yes, but never cruel. If she had struck Maekar, he must have done something egregious. It pained him to see such strain, but he dared not get into the mire of details. This was not a day for him to play his classic role of diplomat.
Baelor’s attention remained caught between his family and bride the entire day. Jena was composed at his side, charming and thoughtful to the hundreds of guests who wanted to meet her. He noticed that she barely drank and possessed an effortless gift for steering small talk. When they took the floor to dance, she was a great partner. Nothing she did was ever careless.
Jena was by all means the perfect royal bride. The more time he spent with her, the more he saw why she had been selected above all other marcher ladies. He was at once grateful that she seemed to instinctively understand court and desperate to know what made her tick. People were never so truly immaculate.
By the time Baelor took his mother to dance, he had almost forgotten about his own family’s melodramas. She looked like she was putting on a smile only for his sake.
“Won’t you tell me what’s happened?” he finally asked.
Myriah sighed. “I should not bother you with it today. You have enough on your plate.”
“Mother.”
“Alright. I’m sending your brother to Dorne. Aerys, too,” she said bluntly. “That boy was disgracefully disrespectful to me, to his heritage, and to poor Rhaegel. I won’t get into the details but… Dorne will do him good, I’m sure.”
Baelor processed all of this for a long moment. When he looked to the high table, Maekar was watching them, fire in his eyes.
“You struck him?” was all he asked.
“I wish I had not. It is only this wedding…” his mother trailed off, and then shook her head with a smile. One of her cool hands came up to pat his cheek. “My son is married. You seem happy with your bride.”
“I only wish you were happy with her, too,” Baelor said.
“For you, I suppose I shall try to be.”
It was certainly a start. He returned to Jena, who was exactly as he’d left her. Lord Butterwell was talking her ear off about grain subsidies, and she was listening as if it were perfectly interesting. She seemed very good at pretending.
The sun had long set, and even the youngest children had been carted off to bed. Baelor knew what was expected of them now. He could not say that he did not desire her, in that simple way any beautiful woman might catch his attention. Women had been pursuing him since before his voice dropped. Baelor was no stranger to carnal delights, but he had always continued only to a point. He had vowed young to sire no bastards. Even now, his father’s half-siblings were sauntering around the great hall.
Desire was a simple thing, but this, tonight, was not.
Their drunkest guests knew the hour. Cries of, “To bed!” rose up from the back benches. Jena’s face hardly changed, but her shoulders rose up.
Baelor leaned in to whisper. “Their worst threat is noise. I suggest we get the humiliation through with.”
She was very pale, but she nodded. Baelor sent his father a pointed look down the table.
“I believe we have reached that time of the evening!” The king called, and the entire hall erupted in cheers and lewd jokes and the first verses of filthy songs.
The dais was stormed and swarmed, and before Baelor knew it, he was being half-dragged, half-carried by a group of terrifically drunk women. His cousin Elaena wrestled off his surcoat and young Shiera Seastar claimed his boot before they’d even exited the great hall. Ladies he knew to be proper, strangers he’d never said hello to. Baelor did his best to laugh and go along with it, trying to catch a glimpse of Jena through the sea of bodies propelling them towards Maegor’s Holdfast.
“Gentle with my bride!” he called, and hoots went up.
“You’d better not be too gentle!” one of his mother’s ladies shouted at him.
He hoped his brothers were doing their best to protect Jena from the worst of the assaults. He saw Lord Butterwell — who really should not be participating — tear off her garters, and a knight undo the fastening of her bodice. He could not catch sight of her face immediately, but when he did, all of his laughter died. Jena was utterly rigid, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments. She was unyielding, but pleading all the same.
Baelor pushed off the hands reaching for his breeches and stood his ground on the bridge covering the moat into Maegor’s. Someone was trying to tug off her skirts. He shoved backwards against the onslaught, pretending to smile, reached out a hand, and grabbed Jena to his bare chest. The sudden move jarred the crowd. They only continued to shout unsavory comments.
Jena’s head was held high, but her cheeks were flaming and he could feel her trembling. Baelor wrapped an arm firmly around her waist so no one could pull her back into the throng. He knew he had to play this off as something other than anger.
“You have had your sport!” Baelor said, but kept his features schooled into amusement. He knew she would not like it, but he swept Jena off her feet and into his arms. “I will finish this properly, in the manner befitting a future queen!”
Seven bless them, it was enough of an excuse. Their enthusiastic crowd followed them all the way to his chambers, screaming and singing all the while. The doors of his solar burst open under the weight of bodies, and one kindly knight took pity and stopped the fools from storming inside. As soon as the doors were shut and locked, he set Jena down.
She was trying not to shake, but her teeth were chattering faintly. They could still hear their guests yelling outside.
“Come with me,” he said gently. “You need water.”
Jena just nodded, perhaps not trusting herself to speak. Baelor wished he knew how to offer better comfort. They had to consummate this marriage tonight, but he would not bed a terrified woman.
The hearth had been lit in his room, and the noise outside was softer. He guided her to a chair and poured her a glass. Watched her drink all of it in several long gulps. When she put it down and wiped her lips, she finally met his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Jena said slowly. For what, he could not fathom. Her entire outer dress had been removed, and her stockings. All that was left was her shift, corset, and petticoats. Baelor had only managed to keep his pants. He sank into the seat beside her. “I am well. We may continue.”
“No.”
Her eyes shot back up to him in horror. “Have I misstepped?”
“Of course, not. Jena, I do not wish this to be unpleasant for either of us. Let us sit a moment and catch our breath.” Baelor placed his hand very lightly over hers, and she did not flinch away. Her breathing had evened, and she seemed now more embarrassed by her reaction to the crowd. “I know there are many things expected of us, but we are alone right now. Do not perform for my sake.”
She looked so genuinely confused by that statement that it took him aback. It was a real expression, too. Entirely bare and unpolished. There might have been some anger to it, and alarm. Baelor had the sudden urge to skip forward in time, to the version of himself who might be able to read every little change in her. He could see her thinking, but could only guess at what she was thinking. And then her eyes tracked down his chest, as if just realizing he was half naked.
“I am only nervous,” Jena finally admitted. Something seemed to settle in her. “... And I did not expect you to be so kind. I would not mind… I am glad you are you.”
Those words were another sweet blow, tainted by self-consciousness.
“I know we do not know each other,” Baelor said with a small smile. “But I am glad you are you, too.”
He waited for her to break the silence, watching as her fingers tightened and then relaxed on her skirts.
“Shall we… begin, then?” Her voice was quiet and deliberately measured.
“Are you sure? We will go slowly.”
Jena nodded as she intertwined her hand in his, as they had been joined at the sept hours ago. She stood and pulled him up with her. “Yes.”
It was an agreement. A surrender of trust he had just barely earned. Baelor knew that she was doing this out of duty, not love. Of course, neither of them could feel any love yet. But he hoped that she wanted him as he wanted her. He did not think he could go through with it tonight if she was stiff and dissociating. No, he would not.
“I will guide you,” he promised. “And you must tell me if you do not like or want something.”
Jena’s breath hitched, but she nodded again. “I understand. I want… I want this, Baelor. I do not wish to delay.”
The words were tentative, earnest, and cut just enough through his restraint. Baelor settled a hand on her back and gently guided her toward the bed, but he did not settle them down yet. He nudged one finger under her chin, met her gaze fully, and bent toward her, watching for even the faintest sign of hesitation. Her eyes were on his lips.
Baelor kissed her.
He began as chaste as he had in the sept, but he guided her hands to rest on his chest, and felt how her fingers brushed across his bare skin. Then he tilted her jaw so she slotted better against him, and licked across her mouth. When she gasped a little, he swept in, and her breath hitched and her sternum pressed closer to his. Jena was a quick study. When he did something, she repeated it. Ingrained it.
Baelor disconnected just enough to search her face again. Her skin was flushed, eyes heavy with surprise and arousal. He could see the tremor in her, the mixture of apprehension and excitement. Eagerness wrapped tightly in caution, but a readiness to meet him halfway. Such fragile intimacy.
“Do not be afraid,” Baelor told her. “Just follow me.”
~~
Jena let her husband, the prince, lay her down on his massive four poster bed. She did not know what to think, but that she could not really think at all. Not with his lips moving against hers like that. This was not what her septa warned her about. Not this warm sensation washing through her, the flutters in her stomach.
He is beautiful. Beautiful and mine. Those were her thoughts. Such dangerous, silly thoughts. But how could she disprove herself enough for caution when he was so close? He was only half undressed, but he looked like a statue. Every line of him held loveliness.
She did not know what she was doing, which she usually hated, but she liked whatever he was doing to her, so she just did it right back. Baelor must know how this was meant to go. He stroked the bare skin of her arm, then down her side, stopping at the slope of her hip. She let herself feel the muscles of his abdomen, how they tensed under her gentle touch. Baelor smiled faintly against her mouth.
He rolled her so they were both on their sides, one leg between hers, and moved to kiss down her neck. He was using the vantage point to begin untying the back of her corset. Jena could not help arching into him, into the feeling of his lips. The more she touched him back, the more pleased he seemed.
“Good,” he said, muffled in her skin, when she squeezed his arms just because she could. The word sent an unexpected bolt of sensation through her, pooling somewhere below her gut.
Jena helped him slide off her corset and petticoat, leaving her only in a thin shift. She had expected to feel horribly shy under his attention, but she didn’t. She could not have described what it was that she felt. Not as he reached out a tentative hand and ran it softly down from her collarbone to breast, brushing gently across a peaked nipple.
“You are beautiful,” he told her.
“So are you.”
The words came without thought, but his features widened in surprise. Then he pulled her back down against him into a more passionate kiss. Jena had never been touched in such a way, had never imagined this was a way that people were allowed to touch, had never imagined the feeling to be so sweet. She felt almost drunk on it.
Baelor was pleased with her, too. It was difficult to school her ragged breathing when he was breathing just the same. Looking at her with that same flushed, faint astonishment.
“Still alright?” he asked against her. She nodded. “I need you to use your words.”
Another swoop in her gut. “Yes.”
Jena reached out to cup his face in one hand because she wanted to, and he gave her another kiss.
“You have been told what the marital act entails?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been told it should feel good for you, too?” Baelor’s hand had traced lower on her thigh, rubbing soft circles. She was finding it very difficult to concentrate.
“No, they said it would hurt. But that it might get better.” Her voice sounded strange and breathy in her ears. “If I was lucky.”
He pressed a kiss to the meat of her palm, still cupping his cheek. “I will make sure it does not hurt. I’m going to touch you here.”
All Jena could say was, “Yes.”
He stayed close, examining her reaction while his fingers slid through the wetness between her thighs. It was strange and foreign but not unwelcome. It was exactly where the ache was.
His eyes went wide and he paused, smiling in bewilderment. “Were you waxed?”
Jena immediately felt heat rush to her face.
“The— the castle maids. They bathed me earlier. They said—”
“Seven save them,” he murmured, and pressed another kiss to her jaw. “Was all of the court preparing you as though for ritual sacrifice?”
“They seemed to think you would care,” she said. She brushed a hand across her face as if to brush away the pinkness, but he gently moved it back to his shoulder.
“Do not hide from me now. I most certainly do not care. Come however you prefer.” Baelor kissed her again, tongue meeting hers, and began to resume his ministrations. When Jena gasped into his mouth, startled from the sensations, he smiled. “There now. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she sighed out. It was very good, like warm little bolts of lightning.
“You like that word.” He began to dip a finger inside her, holding her gently still when she squirmed. “Relax, I’ve got you.”
Somehow, she did relax, like all she needed was his direction. She had never been able to master herself so well before. She matched Baelor’s deep, even breathing until she let out the most odd, embarrassing noise as he slid in a second finger, still touching that spot at the apex of her thighs. Jena buried her face in his shoulder, mortified.
“I’m sorry, I don’t—”
He muffled her words with a kiss. “Don’t apologize. I like the sounds you make.”
Just those words drew another moan from her. Baelor’s pupils were blown wide. He seemed to get pleasure just from watching her reactions. His touches below kept the same slow, steady pace. Jena liked something about that lack of urgency. Like he could lie here all night and just watch her fall further apart. What in seven hells was happening to her?
“I feel—” she cut herself off, biting her lip and squeezing her eyes shut. There was a strange, overwhelming sensation building. She panted roughly.
“I know, I can feel you,” Baelor said, breath hot against her. “It’s alright, just follow it. Just like that.”
The feelings crested all at once, all consuming. He mouthed kisses into her neck and muttered praises, and she gripped his back for purchase. Baelor kept touching her through it, until she was shaking and nearly pushing him away because the feeling had grown too sharp.
Jena remained clinging to him, breathing hard, unable to look at him. Baelor brushed fingers through her hair and pushed her head back against the pillow.
“Gods,” she breathed. “I am lucky after all.”
He brushed his nose against hers, hands still trailing hot and gentle down her sides. “Your education was lacking.”
“I know there’s more,” Jena said. And she found herself desperately wanting more.
Baelor let out a breath that was half laugh, but there was some strain to it. Maybe he felt that same feeling building in himself. Maybe he was not as confident as he seemed. His eyes were dark with want. Want for her.
“Yes,” he said.
~~
Baelor was nearly spellbound with desire.
“But slowly,” he told her.
Slowly, he almost wanted to scoff at himself. He was so hard it was painful, as if all of the blood usually in his head had rushed down. But he would be as patient as a septon.
There was something about watching her discovery that he found incredibly erotic. That he had such power, and held such careful trust in his hands. Jena was so responsive. After a day of rigid duty, he had never imagined his bride would meet him with so much openness.
“Can I take this off?” Baelor asked, pushing at the shift that had bunched up at her waist.
“Please.”
The word sent a jolt straight to his groin, even better than ‘yes’. And her voice as she said it, lower and grittier than it had ever been during the day. He pulled the garment over her head and tossed it to the side.
Baelor allowed himself a moment to take her in. He wanted to explore every dip and curve. He wanted to chase the blush that spread down to her shoulders and breasts with his tongue. He wanted to squeeze the flesh at her hips and lick the skin between her thighs. He wanted to pull her hair.
He did absolutely none of these things. She was watching him watch her, dazed but with a hint of wariness creeping back into her gaze.
“You’re perfect,” he said, and kissed her, and she moaned into his mouth. Gods, he wasn’t even touching her. Was it really his words that elicited such a reaction? “Still with me?”
He already knew the answer from the way she clung to him. But still, she said, “Yes.”
He did tell her to use her words. Oh, seven hells, he could not finish in his pants. He tried to imagine something unpleasant to calm down, but he didn’t have it in himself.
Baelor kissed her slowly as he undid the laces of his breeches. He took his sweet time until her breath was hitching again, and her fingers were curling into his biceps. By the time he kicked his final garments to the floor, her eyes were glazed again.
It was his turn to be taken in, naked as the day he was born. Her mouth dropped open a bit. Of all the things Jena could have said, he did not expect, “You look like a painting.”
Baelor blinked, caught off guard. It touched something deep and unexpected, some secret fear that she would find him too Dornish, as the rest of court often seemed to. But no, she said he was beautiful, and like a painting. Those were not the standard fare of compliments to give a man. They meant something more.
He leaned forward, letting her words sink in as he kissed her again and pressed her back until she was lying down. He settled atop her gently, resting between her thighs.
Baelor reached between them to touch her again as he had before. Jena jolted a bit, still oversensitive. He took it slow, watching as her expression turned into something open and broken, staring up at him. A sudden, traitorous thought, a bit of an experiment, came to his lips before he could stop it. He whispered against her, “Good girl.”
Her eyes went wide and her entire body shivered, and he began to press into her. It was agony to keep his hips from canting forward. His entire body tensed as he rocked further inside of the unbearably sweet heat between her legs. Baelor kept touching her to ease the burn and glanced kisses across her cheeks.
He froze for a heartbeat, just to feel her, to memorize the small shivers and tremors racing through her. Every gasp at the flick of his fingers. Baelor drew back and pressed in, letting the blaze of desire between them pull him forward without overtaking his reason.
Jena’s head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering closed, mouth open. “Oh.”
“You like that, huh?” Baelor said, mouthing open kisses across her lips. “Does that feel good?”
“Yes.” She nodded desperately, panting. She was making the most gorgeous sounds. “Yes, you feel good.”
A moan tore from his own chest. “Fuck.”
Baelor slowed just enough to watch her, the rise and fall of her chest. Her fingers tangled in his hair.
“Look at me,” he told her, voice rough with need. Her lashes lifted, eyes shining, and he saw how completely she had abandoned herself to the feelings, to him. It made his restraint almost unbearable. He pressed in again, letting her adjust to the rhythm, teasing the edge of her pleasure without sending her over yet, whispering her name with each stroke. “Do you feel it coming again?”
Baelor settled a hand on her lower abdomen with just enough pressure.
She whimpered. “Mhm.”
“Words.” He must have lost his mind, but he couldn't care. He could feel the tantalizing beginning of his release, just past his reach. Jena shook her head. “I know you can do it.”
“Yes, yes, yes, I feel it, yes,” she babbled into his mouth. “Please, Baelor. Please.”
His own speech was nearly incoherent, forehead pressed roughly to hers. “Yeah. Just like that, come on, just like—”
He came with a muffled cry at the first rippling clench of her around him. His entire mind went blank, his body taut as he gasped into her skin, her moans still breathy and sweet in his ear. He had never finished so hard in his life. When they both stilled, his heart was pounding.
Baelor allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, to catch his runaway mind. He was actually stunned, like someone had struck him and knocked away his air. He knew himself to be an indulgent lover, but this? This was something new. Jena had surprised him in ways he could never have imagined.
He remained pressed against her as the aftershocks ebbed. Her hands were still in his hair, tentative now, trembling slightly.
“I’ve got you,” he told her, finding his voice. He raised just enough to meet her gaze. Shyness and alarm swam in her eyes. They were still strangers in so many ways. Jena seemed actually speechless now, but he could not blame her.
Slowly, Baelor peeled himself off of her. She hissed sharply as he pulled out. The sight of the mess he had left between her legs was almost enough to make him hard again, but he shook away the thought. He should get her a towel, or have someone draw a bath, but for the moment his legs were too weak to stand.
He rolled onto his own pillow, still panting slightly. She did not move toward him, but her eyes kept flickering over and then away. Her brow was furrowed.
“Are you well?” he asked, and dared to reach a hand out for her. Gods, he prayed she was.
Jena nodded faintly, then blushed anew as she caught herself. Still following his directions. Holy Father above have mercy. When she spoke, her voice was very matter-of-fact. “I don’t know what just happened. Is that how it’s supposed to happen?”
Baelor couldn’t help his smile. “I think that was a good deal better than standard fare, but… yes. You enjoyed it?”
“Did I—” she cut herself off with a little laugh, then clamped down on a smile. It made her whole face soften. “Yes, Your Grace— Baelor.”
It was so charming he pressed another chaste kiss to her lips. She seemed a bit embarrassed, a bit self-conscious as she pulled the covers up over them both. But not, he thought, embarrassed by her enjoyment of his direction. He wasn’t sure she was even fully aware of what she’d done.
“Won’t you lie with me?” Baelor asked, extending an arm.
She obeyed.