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There was an art to a broken body that he could not bring himself to appreciate.
His worst days were over now – he was upright, he could walk and talk again, the wretched headaches mostly dulled down to a steady but invisible hurt. There were days, though, still, of betrayal. His hands wouldn't work right, his vision would spot and fade, his gait still lopsided and shuffled. His body, his armour against the world, broken and unreliable.
On those days, when his body reminded him of the injury, he wanted to hate his brother. And it did swell, an emotion in him, something terrible and dark directed towards Maekar. But he could not bring himself to truly hate him. The hatred felt amputated, unfinished.
The true resentment was aimed at his wretched nephew.
And his wife.
The former he understood – the boy had cost him the use of his body, had shamed his house, had lifted his brother's sword against him. Aerion was now far to the East, out of sight, and easy to hate from a distance.
The latter, less so.
His new wife… or could she be called new anymore, after five years of marriage? His wife had dealt with it all gracefully. Since their first meeting, those years ago after Jena’s death, he had admired her, held affection for her. She had been brilliant, even then, with a sorrow to her that felt familiar to his own, a widower herself – a young widow, in her mid-twenties, Baelor fifteen years her senior. Maybe it was her youth that had sparked something in him, maybe it was that edge of melancholy he recognised in himself, but all the same he had loved her dutifully first and personally later.
And in the later years that adoration had turned into a quiet sort of worship, so much so that he didn’t know if she herself was aware of that flame. But she had become his shining beacon that beckoned him home when he was lost, when the legacy of the house grew too heavy to bear. She was strong, steady, braving the storm that was the line of Dragons with her head held up high.
And now she was but a nursemaid, chained to Red Keep, away from home. She could have left Baelor to his own graces, the crippled prince brought low by his own brother, and stayed in Dragonstone but she had come to him and stood firm by Baelor's side in his injury. When his legs failed him, when his hands shook, when he would stand in place his memory wiped for a terrifying moment.
He was no longer fit to be a king, even less a husband. The thought ate him up inside. His whole life he had been prepared for it and now with one decision – the right decision, he still held firm – he had brought the kingdom to the brink of disarray.
All he wanted in life was more for her. To lift her above her status, to grant her access to the innards of the House and be protected by his reputation and title. Safety, stability, respectability. All that wiped away by one critical blow and the cocoon of protection he had built for them had crumbled all the way to its foundation and was now rotting in its ruins.
Insult to injury, after Baelor became stable again, the lady lost her pregnancy – one she had not told him about, but was revealed nonetheless as the blood came.
Such was the misery of their house.
Meals were difficult. For a while Baelor would eat in his chambers, hidden away so that no one could witness his wife feeding him. The affair was always silent, heavy with humiliation, though his wife treated it as if it was yet another task she would do without complaint. She would feed him first and then take her own meal in the same room, talking to him about court gossip and politics when he asked, but trying to keep the conversation light so as not to burden him. He wanted to stay on top of the politics of the realm now that the succession of the throne was at risk. He would be easy to usurp now. Their house would be easy to push into chaos of inheritance. A cunning villain could incite a rebellion – or an all-out war. It had not, after all, been that long since the last rebellion, and this time he was no longer worthy of his nickname of Hammer on the battlefield. He could scarcely lift a fork, not to speak of a sword.
"Focus on your recovery, my husband," she would say.
"How can I, when everything is at stake?" Baelor would ask.
And his wife would not say, just keep eating with downcast eyes and nonchalant spirit.
But time came that he had to rejoin the court. His wife told him that there were whispers in King’s Landing that he no longer lived and that unsettled him more than any headache or dizzy spell could. He had to stop hiding in his chambers and come out into the light – a cripple. Show himself, bring his ailment under judgement, but prove that he was alive.
Many rejoiced at his return. Some did not. Baelor took note of those who didn't.
Still, he drew the line at appearing briefly at public dinners but otherwise dining with no one but his immediate family. He no longer had to be fed, but he was still on liquids, and his hand always shook as he ate. His sons, now also staying in Red Keep with him, said nothing – perhaps out of shame, perhaps from the example of their stepmother who would not draw attention to Baelor's slow meals but instead kept up conversation with the boys or ate in an enviably easy silence.
Eventually he became well enough to return to solid foods, but it was not without its challenges.
They were dining in a private chamber without his sons and his hands were shaking. He felt the tremor in them and prayed that none of the servants would notice. His wife was a lost cause – she had probably noticed before he did.
He waited as the servants served his food and gestured for his wife to begin eating. Baelor looked down at the cutlery. He grabbed his fork, holding it tight. He did the same for the knife, and then sat there squeezing them like an idiot. His wife glanced at him but said nothing, just kept eating in silence as if there was nothing interesting to see. The servants were avoiding his gaze also, their eyes downcast. None of them wanted to address the ailing prince's weakness.
His cheeks heated up. Stiffly, he lifted his fork and drove it into the deer steak. It was rare, as he liked it, but this posed an issue: as he brought his knife to the meat, the tissue would not yield under the blade. He shifted, embarrassed, and tried again.
The meat resisted him, and he was growing more frustrated as the seconds ticked by. His fingers felt... wooden.
He cursed and threw his utensils on the table. Everyone in the room froze for a split second.
Except for his wife. She looked right through him with her ever-patient eyes, and then stood up smoothly.
"Leave us," came the soft command but it cut the room like butter, and the servants immediately scuttled out of the way, disappearing from sight. The guards lingered for a moment longer, until his wife fixed them with a long stare, and they left as well. The only thing left was the everpresent draft of the private chamber and its dreary draperies.
With the room deserted, save for the two of them, Baelor could only watch, boiling with rage, as his wife walked over and settled over his shoulder.
"Let me," she said.
"Good wife," Baelor began, but quieted as she put her hands on his shoulders, almost like a caress.
"No one is here," she said, "so swallow your pride this one time, dear husband."
Then she leaned over and took his knife and fork.
His face heating with embarrassment, he watched as his wife cut his dinner into neat, small pieces – pierced the meat so that it bled juice, the root vegetables yielding to the blade. It was as if his pride was cut up with the damn vegetables. His manhood, his ability, all of it severed into chewable bits, ready to be digested by a greedy, miserable mouth.
"There," she said finally, and let go of the utensils, setting them on the table for him to reach. She even took the pitcher and poured him water – always, always water, the maesters claiming wine would do him ill. "We shall continue."
She took to leave, when Baelor snatched the end of her sleeve.
"Why do you do this to me, woman?" he growled. "Would you not rather see me dead?"
That was the wrong thing to say.
Her eyes flashed with a fury that froze him to the spot.
"How dare you," she said, her voice low and vicious. "How dare you suggest such a thing? Have I not taken care of you? Have I not toiled and spent countless days and nights at your beck and call? You would wish to make all that naught with your death? My work, the work of the maesters?" Her voice wavered but it was not from fear – it was merely her anger that shook her. "Have I not lost enough?"
Baelor lowered his gaze. The reminder of their most recent loss still ached, the blood in his wife's sheets and her agonized cries as she fully realised what had happened. He himself, struggling against nausea and the headache, trying to comfort her even as his words slurred with the sparkling lights in his eyes.
"I mean only," he said, chastened, "that it must be unsightly. Revolting."
"What is?"
"Me." The words bore teeth and bit down his jugular. "Crippled. Lame. Unable to cut my own fucking stew."
"I have wiped your arse for you and cleaned up your sick," his wife countered dryly. "This is hardly unsightly."
"That is what I mean," Baelor said, pressing his hands against the table so they would stop their trembling. "I have been brought so low in your eyes. I am a child. An old man. How can you still, after all this, call me husband?"
He dared not look at her. There was a fear within him, of what he would find. Would there be more anger? Perhaps disappointment? Resentment – mirroring his own? Or the worst of the worst: would there be pity?
There was a long silence, and then the shuffle of fabric as his wife kneeled next to his seat. She took his hand, brought it to her lips, kissed the calloused palm, not even noting the tremor.
"This is marriage, my love," she said then, her tone resolute.
"Hardly what you were expected to withstand."
"Perhaps," she said. Her words so cool and lacking any accusation, he could not help but look.
She was gazing up at him with her dark eyes, and he was struck again by her beauty – saw the maturity in it, the crow's feet and worry lines, the serious set of her plush lips. And above all, in her eyes, there was devotion.
More than what he knew what to do with.
"You could leave," he offered.
"I do not think so."
"Find a new husband. Maybe he'll gift you with another child."
"You're still perfectly capable."
A look shared between them, a glint in her eye like when they were still new.
"Had I died," Baelor said then, much quieter, "you would not carry such burdens."
"Had you died," his wife said, "I would have drowned myself in sorrow." She held his hand tightly. "I would have died from it, dear husband."
The admittance hung above them like a stormcloud, the misery of such a fate dawning on them both. It was useless to dwell on what could have happened, as the loss would have been manyfold had Baelor not lived, he knew, but…
"I do not want to live like this." Baelor swallowed thickly, his eyes were hot with emotion. "I hate it."
"But you must," she said. "You must live. I will not let you wander into the dark before your time has come. And I will take care of you until that day, or until my dying breath." Her thumb caressed the back of his hand.
"Why?" Baelor asked.
His wife looked him in the eye, her eyes as piercing as ever.
"You know why."
There were no tender words between them. This was enough.
He could not comprehend. How come the gods could both grant him such mockery and mercy? Mockery in living such a half life, half death. Mercy, in his wife.
"My dearest," she continued, "you have been good to me all these years. Forgive me for getting angry – I am merely distressed at the thought that you would..." She trailed off, and Baelor did not ask her to elaborate. "It was unfair of me to bring up the child."
Baelor felt something stuck in his throat. He cupped his wife's cheek, caressed the soft skin with his thumb.
"All is forgiven," he said, his voice raspy. "I do not blame you for getting frustrated by a man like myself. You have endured much. I only wish to ease your burden."
His wife leaned into the touch, closed her eyes for a brief moment.
"I will do it. Withstand it. I will wipe you and clean you, I will feed you and cut up your food, I will bathe you and clothe you, I will do all that is in my power for you to get better. It is only another task." She looked at him and all he could see was worship. "Task I bear as my burden with joy and honor."
Baelor searched her eyes, sinking into their dark depths.
"And if I never get better?" he asked quietly.
She held his gaze with a fearlessness that shook him to the core. "All is not lost, my love. You have two strong sons who will support you. Your brothers..." She faltered there for a moment. "Your brothers love you. As does your king father. They only wish you well. As do I. If you never get better, so be it. We simply brave that storm together."
It was as easy as a wind tearing leaves from a tree – Baelor's fingers caressed down her cheek and then tipped up her chin, and he leaned down to press a kiss on his dear wife's lips.
She tasted of wine.
The corner of his mouth tugged up despite himself.
They had not lain together since Baelor's injury. There had been too much pain and shame for it first, then came the miscarriage and a firm order from the midwife to avoid sleeping together until the bleeding ended, and ever since the physical drift between them had only grown. His wife had been too grief-struck and exhausted to muster up interest. Baelor had not been in the mood for similar reasons.
But with the air cleared between them after today's dinner, when they settled into bed, Baelor felt the stirrings of desire as he watched his wife undress. The expanse of bare skin, the tresses of her dark hair falling down her shoulders, the curve of her breast and buttocks – it was as tantalizing as it had been on their wedding night. He watched from the bed as she changed to a night gown, a simple white linen dress that covered her to the calf. It looked more alluring than any lowcut lavish gown suddenly, if only because Baelor knew no one else could witness his wife in this state of dress. This intimacy was his alone.
She glanced at him over her shoulder, and as their eyes met Baelor felt a zap of energy down his spine, as if a touch of magic. She turned around and approached the bed, barefoot on the cold stone floor. He watched her, as she came to a stop in front of him.
"Tonight?" she asked – no innuendo or seduction needed, just a confirmation of what she already knew. Baelor looked up at her, felt himself stir at the sight of her, ready for him and wanting.
"Come here," he beckoned her.
His wife didn't smile, she rarely did these days, but there was that glint in her eye again that held promises of good things to come. She hoisted her gown up to her thigh and sat astride his lap. His hands, for once still, found their way to her bare thighs. He squeezed the flesh between his fingers, enjoyed the give of the fat and the softness of her skin. Her arms wound around his shoulders and he was ready when she leaned in to steal a kiss from his lips. Her dark hair fell around them like a veil, and as Baelor lost himself to another kiss, he snuck his hands further up her thighs, finding the bunched up hem and venturing further underneath until he felt the pouch of her stomach under his fingers.
"Very close," she murmured against his lips, a tease, and Baelor huffed.
"I have not lost my touch, I hope," he said. He meant it in jest, but suddenly he felt nerves get the best of him. What if he had lost his touch? These days his hands were numb and shaky more often than not, his body uninterested and distant. Would he be able to please his wife anymore? Had he lost the privilege to her pleasure?
"You're thinking too much," she cut through his ruminations. She grabbed his wrist, shifted her weight so she would not crush him and then moved his hand between her legs.
She was wet already, wetness clinging to the hair below, and they both sighed as she brought his fingers to her lips. For a moment they simply reacquainted with each other – Baelor's fingers glided through the slick hair and her outer lips, his wife muttering his name as her free hand cupped the back of his neck. It took no time for him to find her clit (practised as he was in the body of his wife), and with stiff movements he began to stroke her. Sliding his fingers around the bundle of nerves, squeezing slightly to make her groan, and then going back to rub at the spot that made her thighs tremble. She leaned in, changed the angle slightly so that he was stroking her clit directly, and in doing so she leaned closer, letting out little moans right close to his ear. He shivered, affected by his wife's reaction, pleased to have her in his arms like this, feel her under his touch. His undershirt was becoming stiflingly hot as arousal sparked within – it was a feeling now almost unfamiliar, it had been so long since his body responded like this, and he felt like a young man again, overeager and inexperienced as he had been with Jena.
He circled her clit once more and then slipped further to touch the rim of her entrance, dipping his fingertips inside her, and she let out a most delicious gasp that made his cheeks heat up. Carefully, he slipped in his middle finger, felt how her walls squeezed around him, and then pulled it out slowly. He repeated this two, three times, and then slipped in a second finger. His wife spread her legs wider, rocking her hips to meet his touch. The palm of his hand ground against her clit, just the way he knew she liked. She shivered, rubbing against his hand and inserting his fingers deeper inside her, her hand still clutching his wrist like a lifeline.
His hand was starting to become numb, he noted with some irritation, and he pressed harder against his wife's clit, fingered her faster as her moans climbed in pitch, pressing hard against that spongy spot within her, and then she was coming all over his hand, shaking as she sought purchase from him, nuzzling against his beard as she sobbed from pleasure. Soon she took hold of his wrist again, removing his hand, and he wiped his damp hand on her nightgown, earning a little pinch to his side from his actions.
She slouched against him, putting her full weight on him, and he wound his arms around her waist. He pressed a kiss to her dark hair and held her close, reveling in her sweet scent and warm touch. For a moment they simply existed there, her catching her breath and Baelor rubbing his hands up and down her lower back.
Then her hips shifted and she ground down just a smidge. Baelor smiled and answered to the movement, grinding his hips against hers, the fabric of his undershirt becoming damp from her arousal, and it didn't take long for her to claw the offending garment out of the way so she could touch his manhood directly.
He was not hard, despite everything.
"Oh," she said. It wasn't disappointment, he didn't think so, just surprise at his lack of reaction.
He cleared his throat. "These days," he said, "I sometimes find it difficult to..." He trailed off, not knowing how to explain.
"Because of the injury?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, squeezing her waist. "I believe so."
"I see." She sounded contemplative. "I will have my way with you, husband."
Baelor smiled.
"Will you?"
She leaned back so she could look him in the eye properly. She worried her plush lip, and Baelor wished nothing more than to kiss the deep red of the indent of her teeth.
"Let's see what I can do," she said and then to Baelor's disappointment shuffled back. He didn't have long to feel so, as she settled between his legs and threw her dark tresses over her shoulder, licking her lips. She spit in her hand and then took his limp cock in her hand, fondling him between her fingers. He sighed, his eyes roving across her features, enjoying the hungry expression. She parted her lips, lowering her head to his cock, and gave the head a shy lick.
Baelor grunted as arousal spiked right through him. She looked up at him, licked his cock again, slowly, swirling her tongue over his tip like he'd taught her. She had learned so quickly everything that made him melt from pleasure, and five years of experience were now on display.
His wife then took him in her mouth, mouthed the tip and licked with her tongue as she swallowed his limp cock deeper. Baelor sighed, pressing his clean hand in her hair and fisting the sheets with the other. His fingers slid through the dark locks, the hair soft under his touch, and then he grabbed it, pulled at it just a bit – the way she tended to like. His wife moaned around his cock, and almost as if as a reward she began bobbing her head.
Her movements were slow, deliberate, her tongue wicked. Baelor sunk into the feeling of her mouth around him, the wet heat of it, and closed his eyes. The sounds of her sucking on him were obscene and arousing, her moaning under her breath with some theatricality to make him feel even better. Her hand slid underneath to fondle his testicles, squeezing lightly and caressing them as she continued sucking his cock. He shuddered, the muscles of his legs flexing as he tried not to buck his hips, out of habit. His cock stayed soft, but he had no time to be disappointed as pleasure built and built somewhere within his core.
"That's it," he praised her, his fingers twitching in her hair. "Just like that."
She hummed in reply, the vibration of it pushing him closer towards the edge, and he wondered if he could even come like this. But his wife kept working him, fondling his stones, sucking on his cock with abandon, and all of it crescendoed towards completion, until something inside him seemed to snap.
With a shout he spent himself in his wife's mouth. She grunted, swallowed thickly, and surfaced again, her lips glistening with spit and his cum. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and climbed over him again, framing his face in her hands, and kissed him deeply.
He could taste himself in her mouth. He did not mind.
They kissed for a long time, lips claimed with ferocious need, hands roaming over bare skin. At some point his wife lost her nightgown; he didn't care to keep his undershirt on any longer than that. Her bare tits pressed against his chest and he took great pleasure in cupping them in his hands, swallowing up her moans as he played with her nipples.
He was still soft but the buzz of the earlier orgasm still had his limbs loose, his head divinely free of pain and distraction, and he could enjoy her touch unencumbered. Her rich scent wrapped around him, the taste of her on his tongue, the smoothness of her skin under his hands – it was as if he was waking up from a long slumber to find reality sweeter than any dream. For the first time since his injury, he felt truly connected to her. It wasn't just their tumble in the dark; not just the intimacy of the moment, of feeling her against him; but also her words earlier in the day, her devotion now plain to see. And if he thought back on it, it was painfully obvious, her sacrifice and loyalty, over these long months she had taken care of him and asked for nothing in return. Baelor didn't know how he could ever repay the life debt he owed this woman.
He would have to keep living to find out, he supposed.
He put his hands to her hips and pushed slightly to the side. She understood his meaning and rolled over, landing on the bed on her back, looking up at his mismatched eyes with a question in her eyes.
"Let me," Baelor said, swiping a lock of hair behind her ear. "I want to look at you."
"Are you getting tired?" she asked, a light frown to her lovely brow. "We can sleep."
He shook his head and pressed a soft kiss between her brows to smooth over the worried divot.
"I have lost enough to sleep," he said, regret colouring his words, but he would not let his wife soothe him before he dipped down to kiss her deeply. Her breath hitched, and she gently cradled the back of his head, her touch careful as if still wary of the damage.
He pulled back, ignoring his wife's needy gasp, and then moved down to kiss down her jawline, each press of lips reverent as if worship. Her fingers moved softly through the short strands of his hair, skimming the raised scar at the back of his head.
"Husband," she sighed.
"My name," he murmured against her skin, nuzzling against her neck.
"Baelor," she said his name in a precious tone, like it felt good to say, and he shivered at the sound of it.
He just wanted to be a man loved by her. He just wanted her, wanted to be well enough to be worthy, wanted to give her everything in his power. He had thought all he had to offer was a title and safety, and while he held the former there was no guarantee of the latter. He could not promise children, could not promise to grow old with her. All he had was this love for her, so abundant he didn't know what to do with it, other than fervently press it into her skin.
He kissed down the column of her neck and then the dip between her clavicles. His wife inhaled sharply as he nipped the bone with his teeth, eager to leave some mark, and then continued down. His hands roamed her sides, digging into the flesh, and as his mouth got to her breast, she let out the most delicious moan as his lips closed around her nipple. He laved at it with his tongue, bit down lightly just to tease, all the while bringing up his hand to squeeze the other between his fingers. He switched sides, gave similar attention to the other breast and sucked a mark under it, noting in delight as it bloomed dark on her skin.
There he stopped, as something sharp twinged behind his eyes and he gasped. He fell his head on her stomach as he tried to catch his breath, the pain intense and then gone as fast as it had come.
"Baelor?" Her voice was blessedly quiet, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Are you alright?"
"Yes," he rasped, "yes. I am alright."
There was a beat of silence and then her hands came to his face, cradling him as she pulled him up. He shifted with her touch, crawled into her arms, his face tucked in her neck.
"I think that's as far as we can go," he chuckled miserably.
"That's alright." Her voice was light, her fingers gentle in his hair. "I'll get your mouth on me some other time."
He inhaled her scent in his lungs and burrowed closer. She held him, and he simply closed his eyes, giving in to the comfort.
"Yet another duty I've fallen short of," he murmured. "I am sorry, sweet wife."
"This changes nothing," she said.
"If I can't give you another—"
"You already have two sons," she interrupted him firmly. "Look. I will not deny that I wish for a child, but it's not... this can be just fun. Even if we never have one, your line is secure."
Baelor opened his eyes. He did not see much, in the dim light and pressed against her.
"I wish for a little one with you as well," he said quietly.
"Then I better stop swallowing your spend, I guess."
He laughed out loud at that.
They lay there, naked and sweaty, for a while. He basked in her warmth, in her affection. He must have dozed off at some point, but he blinked himself awake still in her arms. She was humming under her breath, drawing shapes on his bare back.
"Dear husband," she said then.
"I am listening."
"I do not wish to be another source of guilt for you."
Baelor frowned and made to move, but she held him down in her embrace.
"I am no martyr. I care for you because it's the right thing to do." She inhaled deeply, as if gathering courage, and then let out a shuddering breath. Her voice was thick as she said, "My love for you is stronger than duty, Baelor. Do not think yourself shamed by my affection."
Stunned, Baelor raised his head to meet her eyes. There was a bright sheen to them, and he brought his hand to her cheek, to wipe away a tear as it fell.
"My beloved," he said, feeling devotion swell in him like a tide. "I could never be ashamed to be loved by someone like you."
She smiled, and it was as bright as dawn.