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Dragonstone was rarely kind in the mornings, but today felt particularly grim.
A storm raged outside the window—massive waves crashed against the fortress foundations, and the wind howled through the shutters like a wounded dragon.
You woke to that familiar, dull ache in your lower abdomen. Before you even opened your eyes, you felt the warm dampness you knew all too well. You cursed under your breath, sitting up abruptly in bed.
“What is it, my love?” Baelor’s voice was low and rough with sleep.
He lay beside you, propped up on one elbow. His dark hair was disheveled, and a shadow of concern had already appeared on his face. You noticed he was nearly ready to leave—he wore a black doublet embroidered with the silver three-headed dragon. An important council with the lords of the Narrow Sea had been scheduled for that morning.
“Baelor, I—” you began, hurriedly checking the sheet. The red stain on the pale silk was small, but to you it felt enormous in that moment. “I’m sorry, the bedding… I need to call the servants, I have to change…”
Your hands trembled slightly as you tried to cover the stain with the hem of your nightgown. The pain intensified, making you curl in on yourself.
Baelor did not recoil in disgust. Quite the opposite. He moved closer and placed a large, warm hand on your back, just above your lower spine.
“Leave it,” he said gently but firmly. “The bedding is only cloth. The lords can wait.”
“But the council… You said it was crucial for the safety of the bay,” you murmured, burying your face in your hands as another cramp cut through you.
Baelor smiled faintly. He walked to the door, opened it a crack, and whispered something to the guard outside. You only caught a few words:
“Send them away. The Princess isn’t well—I’m staying with her. No one is to disturb us.”
He returned to the bed, removing his heavy sword belt and tossing it onto a chair.
“Today, the safety of the bay must yield to the safety of my wife,” he declared, sitting beside you. “Now stop worrying about those stains. I’ll help you freshen up, and you can change into something more comfortable. I can see how much pain you’re in.”
Baelor helped you stand, supporting you with a strong arm as another cramp forced a sharp breath from your lips. With remarkable gentleness he helped you out of the stained gown and wash yourself with warm water from a basin he had brought from beside the hearth. There was not a hint of desire in the gesture—only pure, almost reverent care.
“Put this on, dearest,” he murmured, handing you his own linen shirt. It was several sizes too big for you and smelled like him—smoke, sandalwood, and that distinct masculine warmth. “It’s soft and won’t press on your stomach.”
Once you had settled safely back onto the fresh bedding—which Baelor had changed himself despite your protests that “a prince should not be making beds”—he crossed the room to a heavy oak chest in the corner. From it he took a small silver box lined with velvet.
“What’s that?” you asked quietly, watching as he placed a small copper kettle over the fire.
“My little secret,” he said with a smile, not turning around. “When I was younger, the maesters at the Citadel and the herbalists in the Reach taught me that steel isn’t the only thing that can bring relief. It’s a mixture of ginger, dried raspberry leaves, and atouch of valerian. It tastes… well, distinctive. But I promised I would take care of you at every moment.”
He returned to the bed carrying a steaming cup. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he handed it to you and took your hands, checking whether they were too cold.
“Drink slowly. It’ll warm you from the inside,” he said, guiding the cup to your lips. “And then… we’ll deal with that pain properly.”
You winced at the first sip—the brew was strong and sharp—but almost immediately a pleasant warmth spread down your throat and into your stomach.
“Baelor…” you began, looking at him gratefully. “You really don’t have to sit here with me. The lords will whisper that the heir to the throne is brewing tea instead of discussing politics.”
Baelor chuckled softly, the sound deep and soothing. He set the empty cup on the bedside table and, to your surprise, removed his boots and slid beneath the heavy furs beside you.
“Let them whisper,” he murmured, pulling you against his chest. “If I cannot ensure the comfort of my own wife in my own home, what kind of king would I be for the Seven Kingdoms?”
You felt his body—he was like a living furnace. Targaryens were said to have “hot blood,” but Baelor seemed to radiate heat. His large hand slipped beneath the shirt, resting on your lower abdomen.
“Close your eyes,” he said gently. “Focus on my voice, and on the pain drifting away.”
He began slow, circular motions with his hand. His fingers were rough from sword training, yet his touch was incredibly light. The warmth of his palm seeped through your skin, gradually loosening the tight muscles.
“Better?” he asked, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
“Much,” you sighed, nestling your face into his shoulder. “You’re the best remedy in all of Westeros.”
“I’m glad,” he murmured, continuing the massage. “Because I intend to hold you like this until the sun comes out from behind those clouds. And considering that storm, we have a very long, peaceful day ahead of us.”
The chamber lay in half-darkness, lit only by the flickering glow of the fire. Baelor continued the massage, his low voice weaving a story meant to draw your mind away from the pain.
“You should have seen my brother Maekar when we were children,” he began with amusement in his voice. “Maekar never knew how to play like other children. While I ran around with a wooden sword, he could spend hours standing on the battlements of Dragonstone, speaking with the gravest expression in the world to those great stone gargoyles.”
You laughed softly, though a cramp soon made you hiss again. Baelor soothed you with a gentle stroke.
“Truly. Once I caught him solemnly explaining to a stone dragon that it ought to take better care of the cleanliness of its wings. Maekar was always a little lord, even in swaddling clothes. I think he was born with that stern look he now uses to frighten half the court.”
You smiled—but suddenly something changed. The taste of the herbal brew left an odd emptiness in your mouth, one that needed to be filled immediately.
“Baelor…” you interrupted, your voice almost desperate.
“Yes, my heart? What is it?” He straightened at once, alert as if on a battlefield.
“Lemon cakes,” you blurted. “The ones with icing. And maybe… maybe with a bit of candied peel on top. I have to eat them. Now. Otherwise I might start talking to gargoyles myself.”
Baelor blinked several times, looking at you in disbelief that quickly turned into fond amusement.
“Well, if it’s a matter of your mental health—and preventing Maekar’s fate—then I have no choice,” he said, rising from the bed with a smile. “Don’t move. I’ll return with spoils from the kitchens.”
The chamber door creaked softly as it opened, letting in a breath of cooler air from the corridor before the warmth of the hearth swallowed it again. Baelor stepped inside carrying a silver tray with the solemnity of a man bearing the crown of the Seven Kingdoms.
“Mission accomplished,” he announced, setting the tray on the bed beside your legs. “The cook insisted the lemons were gone after the last shipment from Dorne—but one look at his pantry and suddenly he ‘found’ a basket of the freshest fruit.”
The smell was heavenly. The cakes were still warm, their icing gleaming in the candlelight as it slowly dripped over their golden edges. You took one, feeling the delicate pastry melt in your mouth while the tart lemon balanced perfectly with the sweetness.
“Gods, Baelor…” you groaned in delight, closing your eyes. “This is better than anything I’ve ever eaten.”
Baelor sat beside you, leaning against the headboard and pulling you gently to his side. He watched you with that calm smile that always made you feel like the most important person in Westeros.
“Try one,” you said, offering him a bitten cake.
“You know I’m not fond of sweets,” he began, but seeing your pleading expression, he relented and took a bite. “Hm. I must admit, after climbing Dragonstone’s stairs they do taste rather good.”
When you finished, Baelor set the tray aside and carefully wiped a bit of white icing from the corner of your mouth with his thumb before placing a brief, tender kiss there.
By evening the storm outside had begun to weaken. The crash of the waves became rhythmic and calming, and the wind softened into a quiet murmur. The fire burned low, casting long, dancing shadows across the walls.
Baelor slipped beneath the heavy furs again, this time leaving no space between you. You felt him everywhere—his strong arm beneath your head, his chest against your back, and that blessed warm hand once again resting on your lower abdomen.
“Better now?” he whispered into your ear, his breath brushing your skin.
“Much better. Herbs, cakes, and you… that must be the most powerful magic this island has ever seen,” you murmured sleepily.
“That’s not magic. It’s simply what you deserve,” he replied quietly. “Tomorrow when you wake, the pain will only be a memory. And if it isn’t, the lords will have to manage without me again. Because my place is here.”
You pressed closer into him, feeling utterly safe. Baelor Breakspear—the man feared by enemies and loved by the common folk—was now your private fortress.
“I love you, Baelor,” you whispered, already drifting toward sleep.
“And I love you, my heart. Sleep. I’m here.”
The last thing you felt was his arms tightening slightly around you, shielding you from the world as the final glow of the fire faded, leaving you both in the warm embrace of night.