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Baelor had left the feast for the very simple reason of having other commitments which, he thought, took some precedence over watching his father's subjects drink themselves into a stupor. Maekar had left even earlier, despite being the guest of honour, with Rhae hitched upon his hip and his youngest ducklings following behind — so he felt little shame in leaving the court to their festivities.
In truth, they'd enjoy it more now that he was gone. The thought was a wry one.
The correspondences on his desk had not moved, and the fire had kept burning in his absence. The inkwell and his quill lay exactly where he had left them a few hours prior, the air cold and smelling of parchment. Nothing had changed. The revelry and music and wine had not touched the high tower of the Hand, even through the open window, which was well enough for him. The silence was comfortable. He had become accustomed to it.
He was three drafts deep in a letter to Lord Redwyne when the silence broke — distantly, as if through a sheet of stagnant water, a staccato of noise. A voice — voices, he corrects himself, most likely in the courtyard. He paused for a moment, ears poised towards the window. It was silent again. He returned to his quill.
It has pleased both my father the King and the Court, Lord Redwyne, to have received your finest wine barrels this past sennight. Rest assured, there is—
"Leave me be—!"
His wrist tensed — the quill's fine point jerked, scratching unpleasantly against the parchment, and he closed his eyes. Sighed. Scrunched the letter up, and let it fall beside the others, and waited for the noise to pass. But pass it did not.
The noise remained a steady rumble — quieting with the slam of a door, and then emerging once more through what he assumed were the windows of the wing opposite his tower. It peaked, at some points, as the speaker's voice rose. Slowing and quickening and, at one point, melting into melodious, drunken tune. He didn't know how long he sat there, listening to the illegible voice go on and on, waiting with bated breath for it to pause; but the guards did not quieten it, the voice, and its energy did not abate.
There was no particular moment in which he thought to stand. He simply did it, the way one does things without thinking — like breathing, and tasting, and seeing. He stood from his desk and meandered down the Tower of the Hand with his personal guard in tow. He hoped, for some reason, that the voice had not quietened in the time it took him to do so. He strode across the courtyard, shadowed in the dark of night, and entered the North Wing unseen.
The guards usually posted by the main staircase in the North Wing were, instead, outside the Small Hall — Baelor had made the decision himself, all those weeks ago when the feast was being planned. The Realm's most important figures dined and made merry tonight; it would not do to have them unguarded in what should be the safest stronghold in Westeros. He preferred it, anyways, the privacy. No guards, no noblefolk; the visibility of the Crown Prince was important, of course, but even he could stand to disappear every so often. Once in a while a serving girl appeared, bowed, and scurried on once he'd shown her his back, but there were no distractions in his pursuit.
He realised, suddenly, that he was quite close to the royal wing — far enough from his father's quarters, but around a corner or two Maekar's apartments. The provocateur was lucky, Baelor thought, that his youngest brother had not stirred. He came to the top of the stairs and stood upon the landing, then, eyes flickering between the two hallways that greeted him.
"Please—" Someone was saying, pleading. A handmaiden, he surmised. He headed for the hallway to his left, steps silent. "My lady, you really must quieten down—"
"Whatever for?" said another, scoffing. There was a laugh — cutting, humourless, before announcing: "Nobody in this godsforsaken castle can understand us!"
Baelor had always excelled in Valyrian. He spoke it almost as well as the Common Tongue, if not equally so, but even then it took him a moment to recognise the drawl of it. It was not as strict, this dialect; not the hardened edge of High Valyrian, he realised, listening closer — "Every word I speak must first be translated, and even when I do, it is not right!" — more looping, melodious. Rhyming, almost. Clearly Low Valyrian, clearly, some words swapped or alien altogether, the cadence unfamiliar.
Though he could not place the exact language from his knowledge of it alone, he would bet a thousand gold dragons that it was Braavosi. He would bet, even, on whom spoke it. There was only one woman at court learned in such a tongue, after all, slurred as it was.
"And even when I do, it is not right. It's as if they speak in a — a secret code that I cannot possibly hope to grasp—"
The voice broke off, breathing heavy, and he felt guilt settle in his stomach. This was a private moment — but he couldn't turn back, not now. You were lucky it had been him to find you. The court was not as forgiving as he. This he knew as well as his own hand.
He could see the shadow you cast stretch out into the hallway from the alcove in which you stood — flickering back and forth with the candelight as you paced. It was a private moment, and he was stood there, listening as your voice grew thin and reedy, as your words became interspersed with sniffles.
He pictured you in his head, the image vague and clouded from what had been a relatively short introduction. But he remembered. Yes, he remembered. He had been there to greet you, after all, upon your arrival from across the Narrow Sea. Orsyn Kheros was a prominent Iron Banker — a jolly man, by all accounts, generous with both his coin and his time — you were the eldest of his daughters, and it had been nothing short of an honour to accept you into court. The Crown's relationship with the Iron Bank had never been stronger.
There had been a procession from the harbour to the Red Keep, and you had brought with you gold and jewels and a gaggle of household staff and guards. He recalled the lines and curves of your face as you stepped out of your wheelhouse, steadying yourself demurely by the palm of your guard's hand. How your eyelashes had cast a shadow over your cheeks — the cloud of perfume that had blown past him as you shook hands and moved along to greet the others. A bright smile. A sure face. You were no shrinking violet, that much was plain. This image was completely at odds with the voice around the corner.
He had been otherwise engaged that day. Had barely spoken to you, in fact, as you socialised and danced and made merry, and he played his part as Hand and Heir. He remembered watching you dance with Valarr, vaguely, before he had been roped into conversation with the old Lord Baratheon.
You, in turn, did not seem particularly interested in him — this was to be expected, of course. You were a young woman tasting freedom for the first time, and he couldn't imagine there was any to be found with him.
He bowed his head, now, worrying the inside of his cheek between his teeth. He had not realised you were quite so…
"—and the rain. I cannot take another day of it!"
…dissatisfied. It was his duty, was it not, to ensure your stay was fruitful? As a prince of the realm — as the son of your host — to make certain your time in his home was pleasurable. He had not seen to it. He had not thought you would need it, in truth, though the assumption sinks like a stone, now.
"You volunteered to come, my lady," said the other voice, after a pause.
The silence stretched on.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have."
"It… it will pass. I'm sure it's only a bout of homesickness—"
"Homesickness." Another humourless laugh. "No. This is — this is mind-numbing nothingness, Thoma, because I am only allowed to sit and play with thread, or watch as these men knock each other on their behinds, or read the few impossibly stupid books they allow the ladies. I have my freedom, now, but it is hollow."
Baelor sighed. He pressed his fingers into his eyes until he saw stars, and found only one path forward that satisfied him. He gathered himself as the crying continued, and stepped forward.
"My lady."
Thoma's heart dropped.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
Thoma had not heard the footsteps, silent as they were; she had not heard the rustling of fabric, orthe rhythm of breathing, or any of those signs that would have alerted her to other forms of life in this dark, quiet hallway. She had been so pointedly focused on not focusing that she'd completely missed—!
Her heart thundered in her ears as she turned — and that same heart dropped completely at the sight of the Hand, the heir to the Iron Throne, regarding her and her lady with a small, kind smile. Up close, he was even more handsome; sun-loved skin, and a beard peppered with white and grey, and strong, well-placed features. His eyes were most alluring — one a dark, endless black, and the other a piercing indigo. He was tall and broad, dressed in the dark, opulent colours of his house: a black doublet, trimmed with intricate carmine embroidery.
Thoma felt sick.
"Your Grace," she squeaked. She could feel every ounce of Common Tongue that she'd learned slipping from her mind like smoke from a chimney. "I… I…"
"Please accept my gravest apologies," the Hand said. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation."
You hadn't moved. You stood at the window, staring across the darkness of King's Landing. Thoma doubted you were truly seeing anything — tears still ran down your cheeks, and your gaze was blank with thought. You hadn't noticed the prince. She doubted you even noticed her, really.
"The — my lady is — she has drank far too much," Thoma rushed. Her hands were trembling, and she clasped them together in an effort to stave it. "'Tis my fault — I thought a walk would sober her. I—"
He raised his hand gently. Her mouth snapped shut.
"Be at ease," he said. "I am… more than familiar, I think, with the effects of wine."
A second passed, and Baelor Breakspear stepped closer to you. There was still space between you — a healthy, respectful distance, close enough that he could speak quieter, but far enough that Thoma supposed you did not feel caged. She held her breath tightly in her chest as he did so, hoping and praying with all her might that you would see, for even a second, a modicum of sense.
"The night is long, my lady," he said. He had a gentle, soft-spoken way about him, Thoma realised — not the booming harshness she'd expected of such a man, nor his myth. They said he was a fearsome warrior, a formidable opponent. But this man sounded, against all sense, kind. "And they will merry-make yet. It would not do to spend your time here — nor be caught unawares by someone far less kind than I."
For a moment, you did not react; your gaze remained out the window, searching for something you would not find. Candlelight illuminated the silvery tracks curving over your cheeks — you looked, briefly, like the haunting spectre of a ghostly castle, cursed to melancholy for eternity, dressed in your silks and jewels and tears.
Then, your face turned. You regarded the Targaryen prince with such blatant disconsideration, it turned her stomach. She couldn't predict what you would do — all she knew was that you were unfalteringly stubborn, a terror when drunk, and stewed in your own self-pity until it ruined you.
"I am most sick," you said slowly, pointedly, "of having to curb my tongue."
There were no allusions of respect to be found; even though the prince did not understand the Braavosi tongue, he could most definitely understand the bitterness in your voice. 'Twas a language which had no need for translation.
Gods, this was how her life ended. Thoma, daughter of Thoran and Kya, six-and-twenty years of age — she would die in a foreign land for a misdeed that wasn't her own, head lopped off and paraded upon a spike for the offense of her charge. She would die unmarried, and unbedded, and with nothing to show for it except her steadily accumulating collection of jewellery—
"I understand," said the prince.
Things, somehow, had gotten worse. Thoma felt the soul leave her body. She had forgotten. Oh, she had forgotten. Of course he could understand Braavosi — it was a form of Low Valyrian. Different in many ways from the High form the Targaryens spoke, but similar in all the ways that mattered, and this mattered.
"The Keep is strict in its ruling. It can be… stifling, for those unaccustomed."
You stared, confused.
The prince stared back.
"You…" you paused a moment, "…understand me?"
"I can understand enough," the man said, smiling tightly. "Can you understand me?"
"Enough." A glint of curiosity flickered to life in your eye. "You speak like you are… writing documents. So official."
A soft huff of a laugh escaped the prince. "Yes, I suppose you are right."
It was quiet once more. You searched the prince's face a second longer, but your gaze returned to the window, sullen again. The prince was not deterred. His hand lifted again — this time proffered to you, a proposal tender and delicate in its nature.
"Come," Baelor Breakspear said. His voice was soft, cooing, almost, as if soothing a frightened mare — his eyes were on her lady, wholly focused, as if to look away would be the greatest disrespect he could do unto her. "Let us walk together, my lady."
Your bottom lip trembled, and Thoma's stomach twisted. Please, she thought. Please, just take his hand, and save us the gallows. "I am tired of walking. I do nothing but walk."
"I understand," he said steadily, gently. "And it saddens me to hear it. Come, my lady, and let us talk."
His hand remained outstretched for a beat of silence that seemed to last forever.
Finally, though — to Thoma's heart's relief — you sniffed, and turned away from the window. Your pretty velvet sleeves smeared the tears from your cheeks, but Baelor did not look bothered by it.
(Though, he did not look particularly bothered by anything, Thoma thought, wholly bewildered. Not the cursing, nor the tears, nor the insolence. But she would not look a gift horse in its mouth.)
Baelor accepted your hand in his, and did so with a certain lingering that made Thoma shuffle uncertainly. He had not looked away from you for a single moment, and did not, even as he moved your hand to settle into the crook of his arm. That smile — small, forgiving — had not abated. Thoma suddenly felt an interloper.
Slowly, the prince led you from the window, from that little nook with the table and chairs, and back into the hallway. They were so far from the Great Hall that she could no longer hear the music, or the cheering, or the drunken yells; but even in the silence, even as she followed along close behind, she could not make sense of the stream of low murmurs passed along the little space between you.
You spent the next few days somewhere between complete embarrassment and total stubbornness. The first was not an emotion you were very accustomed to, but there was no other way to feel after being regaled with tales of your drunkenness.
(This is why you drank in your quarters. Alone, preferably.)
Neema had scolded you something terrible — you, and Thoma, too. The one time she takes an attendant with her, and the attendant isn't paying attention! Fools, the both of you! You'd felt so horrid that you gifted the girl the longest string of Volantian pearls from your collection, which seemed — from the bright grin she'd given at the sight of them — payment enough.
Besides, if there was to be a punishment, it would be yours alone.
The letter you wrote was not the best showcase of prose — wine-sick as you were — and you finished it feeling distinctly like a child being scolded, mouth twisted unpleasantly. You tossed and turned and agonised over it for longer than you would admit, thinking of the words you'd used and the sentiment you'd portrayed, the embarrassment that flared to life in your stomach at your humility. Your penmanship remained immaculate, though, which was one small note of pride.
May it please Your Grace,
In the course of my life, I have committed a litany of sins; none have shamed me more than the overindulgence you bore unfortunate witness to not one day passed. In truth, I have never been able to hold my own where wine is concerned — though, admittedly, this knowledge should have been exerted over my actions, rather than conceded after the fact.
In my dereliction of duty, I imposed upon Your Grace's good humour, and exploited his benevolent temperament; in doing so, I have humiliated not only myself, but my staff, and my noble house, the virtue of which I was tasked to represent.
I have thought of no small number of ways in which I may atone. Among these — primarily, I believe — is the most simple, and perhaps the most humbling, though I am pusillanimous in nature, and can only bear to say it through pen and parchment—
Oh, gods, you hoped Thoma had been embellishing the night's events. Tears, yelling, stomping about like a child whose favourite toy had been taken; luckily, it seemed the prince had stumbled upon you during a brief moment of quiet. But the things you had apparently said to him — the fact that he had been able to understand your slurred speech, the foreign dialect — gods forbid. You had winced something terrible at that: you knew your own tongue, and you knew it would not treat him kindly.
And Prince Baelor had seemed kind. Both upon your first meeting — stood dutifully at his King father's side, silver pin glimmering upon his chest and a smile upon his face — and, apparently, in the face of your drunkenness. He had offered you his arm, Thoma said; talked quietly and gently as he led you slowly back to your quarters, taking a path you'd never before noticed. By the time he'd reached your door, your eyes were blinking sleepily, your weight leaning haphazardly into the Heir.
He did not stumble, nor did he struggle. According to Thoma, of course. Whether the thought had heat rising to your cheeks or not was your business entirely.
On the third day of your self-imposed isolation — and two days after your letter had been sent — two attendants knocked upon your door. Between them they held a heavy wooden trunk, which they hauled inside and placed before your fireplace. When you inquired after who'd sent the box, puzzled, you were met with a quick, clean answer:
"Prince Baelor, m'lady," grunted one attendant, legs shaking as he lowered it to the ground.
Something between horror and curiosity grasped you in its hands. You could see Thoma shrink from the corner of your eye — could feel Neema's piercing stare on your cheek. "The — the prince? Did he say whatever for?"
"Nay, m'lady, only to deliver it straight to you."
Their job done, they bowed and left your apartments with great haste, leaving you staring at the very normal-looking trunk.
The melodramatic part of you imagined a hissing viper, maw bared and fangs aimed for your throat, payment for your disrespect. The more realistic side of you thought of a completely empty box, save for a single letter — a demand for you to leave Westeros and return home. You stared and stared and stared, and worried a hole in the floor of your apartments, and stared some more for good measure.
Eventually you decided you must open it. Zelma offered to do so — with great hesitance — but you sighed, and refused.
"'Twas my wrongdoing," you admitted begrudgingly. "I shall be the one to open it."
With bated breath, you undid the leather clasp upon the trunk, ears flexed to catch any hissing or movement. None came, and so, with no small amount of relief, you lifted the lid. It fell back against the floor with a resounding thud.
"Oh," said Zelma, sounding thoroughly disappointed. "'Tis only—"
"Books," you finished. Your brow furrowed, though you couldn't deny you were pleased. "Just books."
Just books, indeed. No wonder the attendants had had such trouble carrying it; the trunk was full to the brim with them. Big, small, thick, thin — old books, new books, some outfitted with plain vellum, and others dyed. Atop the pile sat a piece of folded parchment, and you sat back to read it as Thoma and Zelma picked through the pile with great interest.
Dear lady,
I was heartened to receive your letter, though I admit I felt some disappointment with your absence.
I shall not bore you with lines of superfluous palaver; it is clear to me that you have seen the error of your ways, though I must warn you that the Red Keep is rife with lords less forgiving than I.
Still — I understand that which plagues you, and do not begrudge you your anger. Thus, I have compiled a number of books from my personal collection for your enjoyment; despite my position, I cannot fully dissuade Maester Symmon from his self-imposed undertaking in the library. Luckily, he has no authority over my own belongings.
I do hope my gift may ease your troubles. Should it please you, and should you have anything to say about my recommendations, my door is always open to you.
Yours,
B.
You read it thrice before you set it down. Neema snatched it up in your wake, eyes trailing hurriedly over the parchment.
"Yours," she echoed. Her gaze lifted, and met your eyes above the letter. "The crown prince has referred to himself as yours."
Despite yourself, you smiled.