Chapter Text
Pale sunlight broke through the windows. A shiver ran down her spin as Rhaenyra blinked away the last vestiges of sleep clouding her mind. She was in her living room, still tucked into the worn cushions of the couch; her cheek pressed against a throw pillow.
She’d never made it upstairs.
After Baelor had retired, she’d polished off the last of the wine left in the bottle. Her mind had been consumed with ghosts of the past. She had reflected on Baelor’s words at dinner, what his presence unsettled in her. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but imagine a world where she was in his shoes. What would her life be if she was still in consideration as still in contention to be heir?
The wine had dulled the noise in her brain to the point where she had finally finally drifted off to sleep.
She looked down. Someone had placed another blanket on top of her. It was one of the wool throws she kept in the hall cabinet. There was a fresh log burning in the fireplace.
Glancing around, she was met with silence. Syrax slept in the crook of her stomach.
Her head ached and she squinted against the bright light of morning. She stretched and felt her shoulders pop in tandem. Syrax remained bundled on the couch as Rhaenyra padded into her kitchen.
The smell of coffee was the first thing that greeted her senses. She made a beeline for her old Mr. Coffee. She startled when a low voice greeted her.
“Good morning,” Baelor said with an amused gleam in his eye.
The prince sat in her breakfast nook. A laptop was open before him and a cup of coffee sat steaming beside it. He was dressed in a burgundy cable knit and black trousers. He looked wide awake and alert, which she found annoying so early in the morning.
Rhaenyra pouted, “Morning.”
She poured herself a cup of coffee in her favorite mug; one Jace had made for her many Mother’s Days ago. She added an ample amount of sugar and creamer from the refrigerator before taking a sip. It was good coffee, stronger than what she normally made, but she could use the extra caffeine. She ran a hand over her face as she glanced toward the window. The snow had ceased to fall. The sky was pale, and the sun glinted off untouched drifts of snow that swallowed the surrounding countryside.
The world looked deceptively peaceful at this very moment.
“I’m afraid I must continue on as a guest for a bit longer, if you will have me,” Baelor said, diverting her attention. “Lord Stark has been granted permission to declare a state of emergency. The King’s Road is shut down for the foreseeable future. I’ve already alerted my office and have postponed my meetings for the next few days.”
Rhaenyra sighed and leaned her hip against the counter.
“Marvelous.”
A pause settled between them.
“You covered me with a blanket,” she said at last, not looking at him but the pale liquid in her cup.
“Syrax looked cold.”
She smiled into her coffee.
“And the fire?”
“I have always been an early riser. Thought I could be of use even if my presence is an imposition.”
He said it lightly, but something in his voice did not quite follow the joke. She hadn’t been warm last night, but she hadn’t meant to make him feel unwelcome. A little company over the next couple of days wouldn’t kill her.
As she drank her coffee, Rhaenyra studied him .
Baelor had the seat by the window that offered the best few of her garden. His hair was still damp from a shower. The burgundy of his sweater complimented his swarthier skin tone. He had rolled the sleeves back once already; forearm bare. His watch glinted when he lifted her second favorite mug.
“You make yourself at home quickly,” she observed.
His lips turned downward briefly, “Occupational hazard, I’m used to constant travel, so I’ve grown accustomed to adapting.”
Rhaenyra snorted softly before taking a seat, “How tragic for you.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment.
She snuck a peak at the screen of his laptop. Rows of emails. Red-marked alerts. News notifications flashing in the top corner.
“How bad is it?” she asked, her voice shifting into something more practical.
“Additional road closures across three northern counties. Power outages in the western hills. Lord Stark’s office is requesting emergency funds for preemptive infrastructure repairs before the thaw.”
Baelor added dryly, “And, a lumber consortium is already threatening to sue for what they are calling ‘punitive overreach.’”
She leaned back in her chair considering the information.
“They won’t sue,” she said.
His fingers paused over the keyboard, “You sound confident.”
“The Boltons, the Manderlys, even the Mormonts–they rely too heavily on the Crown’s contracts. If they escalate publicly, they risk drawing attention to their pricing structures which are needlessly inflated.”
She took another sip of coffee, “They’re posturing. Let them posture, but I’d suggest releasing a statement acknowledging the emergency relief funds first. If you lead with compassion, people will remember your behavior during a crisis more than they remember some policy. Bank the goodwill when you need it to get that tax reform through.”
Baelor regarded her carefully now.
“And, Lord Stark?” he prompted.
“Send someone Northerner to stand beside him when he speaks to the press. Not you,” Rhaenyra added quickly. “You’ll look opportunistic. Let the North deal with its own problems like they prefer.”
He stared at her with a subtle look of admiration before he began typing. She noted his posture had changed; straighter, more deliberate. His focus on solving the ever evolving problems of the Seven Kingdoms.
Maybe he’d take her advice, maybe not. She was confident in her strategy and wouldn’t shy away from saying so, but ultimately the prince would do whatever he felt was best.
Rhaenyra rose without ceremony, feeling the need to be productive in her own way. The orange cardamom rolls sat on the counter where she’d left them the night before. She slid the tray into the oven to warm, the scent of citrus and spice blooming almost instantly in the small space. She took powder sugar and some milk and whisked it together with some orange peel.
When the rolls were reheated, she poured the icing over them in generous globs.
“I hope there are enough to share,” he said, not looking up from his laptop.
“I’m not sure there are,” she replied evenly.
He smirked at the screen, but his fingers continued typing away.
Rhaenyra placed a plate between them, the rolls soft and glistening with melted icing. He broke one open, steam rising between his hands. He took a bite. His eyes closed briefly.
“This is…heavenly,” he offered.
She laughed at how a simple pastry could earn such praise.
She took a roll for herself and tore into it, fingers sticky with icing. It was pretty good, she had to admit. She took another large bite. A glob of icing landed on her wrist. Without thinking, she licked the sugar off her skin. That’s when she met Baelor’s eyes. Baelor stared, expression unreadable, but no doubt he was horrified by her table manners. He cleared his throat before returning back to his laptop.
It was too damn early.
With one hand occupied by the pastry, she used her free hand to flip through a magazine she’d begun to read yesterday.
They fell into a companionable silence.
The soft clack of his keyboard. The faint rustle as she flipped the glossy magazine pages. The hiss of the radiator and the groans of the cottage roof as it settled on its eves.
She had built a life around quiet. Around being unobserved. Around not having to account for the shape of her own thoughts.
Now there was someone else in the room.
It should have felt intrusive.
And yet—
Male company had never been absent from Rhaenyra’s life entirely. There had been distracting and brief interludes when Jace had been growing up. By no means had she lived as a Septa for the past eighteen years. No man had breached the sanctity of her home. It was the one line she refused to cross. Inviting a man into her innermost sanctum was too dangerous. She remembered all too vividly what could happen when she was not careful.
Baelor’s presence in her home was different.
He was not reckless. He was not opportunistic. He was not dazzled by her name or intrigued by her scandal. He was a prince. A man of discipline. A man who looked entirely too comfortable at her breakfast table in burgundy cable-knit.
Her eyes drifted up over him before she could stop herself.
The muscles in his forearms flexed subtly as he typed. The morning light caught the faint silver threaded through his dark hair.
Infuriatingly handsome, her mind offered.
He had always been attractive, even as a young man, but something about him now made Rhaenyra warm and fuzzy inside.
She pressed her lips together and turned another page she did not read. She was lonely, that was it. The moment the snow was cleared and Baelor was gone, she and Elinda were going to a pub and getting hammered. She would distract herself with the sloppy charm of a local Northman. She would not think of Prince Baelor and his mismatched eyes, his disarming composure, or his compliments on her cooking.
She looked back down at her magazine, face warming, but the words blurred.
This was foolish.
She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor.
“I should shower,” she announced.
His fingers stilled over the keyboard.
“Okay,” he said. His voice was marred by confusion. He looked befuddled by her sudden declaration.
She flushed.
“Before the pipes freeze.”
His brow arched.
She closed her eyes and took a breath before elaborating, “I should shower before the pipes freeze, and I’m forced to take a cold plunge. If they haven’t frozen already.”
“My shower was hot this morning,” he added.
An image of him in her guest bath came to mind. She willed it away before her cheeks became even redder.
Gathering her mug, she set it in the sink with more force than necessary.
For a brief second, she hesitated—aware of him watching her, of the quiet between them, of something subtle shifting beneath the surface.
She fled.
The staircase creaked under her hurried steps.
When Rhaenyra was in the sanctuary of her bedroom, she threw herself onto her bed. Taking a pillow into her hands, she muffled a loud groan into the fabric. She flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
The plaster above her bed bore a thin crack running toward the corner. She had meant to fix it for years. She never had.
Her cellphone lay atop her night stand. No calls from Jace, but she had just spoken to him yesterday morning. They spoke almost everyday, but with his finals she suspected she would hear less from him. There was a missed call from Alicent. She played the voicemail and her stepmother had called to enquire about how she was doing in the blizzard. Despite a rocky start when her father had initially remarried, she and Alicent had grown quite close. She made a note to call her stepmother back.
How would she explain Baelor staying in her home? She knew Alicent would be able to pick up on anything, no matter how well Rhaenyra curbed her tone.
“This is absurd,” she muttered to the empty room.
She was in her mid-thirties, a mother to a son in university, and here she was acting like a hormonal teenager caught sneaking out at night to meet a boy. She was not some blushing girl undone by proximity and broad shoulders. It was all temporary. Nothing but a brief chapter in their lives. The snow would cease falling. The roads would reopen. Baelor would return to King’s Landing and his meetings and his council chambers. The house would settle back into its quiet rhythm.
Rhaenyra would be left alone again, and she would be fine.
She always was.
With a steadying breath, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. If she was to survive a few more days snowed in with Prince Baelor Targaryen, she would need to regain control of herself.
A shower would clear her head.
By the time she returned downstairs, she would be composed and unbothered.
She would get through the storm; entirely indifferent to the prince currently working away in her breakfast nook. The storm would pass and with it these feelings. What she had not accounted for was how much she might resent its passing.
Baelor had been awake long before dawn.
He had not awoken in the usual sharp way he surfaced from sleep in unfamiliar rooms.
The morning had been slow.
The house had worked on him in some subtle way. Maybe it was the fire, the soft down bedding, or the thick stone walls. There was something about the cottage that muted the constant hum beneath his skin. For the first time in years, he had slept more than six uninterrupted hours. It was better than any medication he had been prescribed. It was disorienting how well-rested he felt.
When he had finally gotten out of bed, he had dressed out of habit. There was comfort in ritual. Structure steadied him, so he showered and dressed in a sweater and trousers. He hadn’t packed real winter clothes save for his coat. There had been no need as his trip North wasn’t supposed to last longer than 48 hours. In and out of hotels and boardrooms that was it.
When he had come downstairs prepared to work for the day, he had not expected to find the princess asleep.
Rhaenyra lay curled on the living room couch where he had left her contemplating the night before; silver hair spilled loose over the pillow. One hand rested against Syrax’s back. The wine bottle stood empty on the side table.
Baelor had stood there longer than he should have watching the rise and fall of her breath.
The room had been cold. The fire was little more than embers. He had fetched a wool throw from the hall cabinet and draped it over her carefully, mindful not to wake her. She had stirred only slightly, nestling deeper into the cushions.
He had relit the fire, disposed of the wine bottle, and washed the wine glass leaving it drying on the dish rack.
Now, in the breakfast parlor armed with his laptop, he attempted to salvage order from chaos.
His phone vibrated constantly in his palm; calendar adjustments, cancellations, and rescheduling requests. His assistant, Raymun, was doing his best to field most of the phone calls, but there were things that only Baelor could deal with. Three separate Lords needing clarification on funding reallocations. Lord Stark’s office called twice about emergency infrastructure relief before he even had a chance to pour coffee grounds into Rhaenyra’s shoddy coffee pot. The internet connection faltered every few minutes. Emails stalled mid-send. His signal dropped whenever the wind shifted. He was accustomed to fiber connection and a platoon of staff within an arm’s reach.
Here, Baelor was held hostage by rural broadband.
He supposed there were some advantages to his situation.
When Rhaenyra woke up, she entered the kitchen, hair mussed and eyes heavy with sleep. Something in him had awakened.
There was an unnamed intimacy to witnessing someone in that in-between state; the moment when the world had not yet fully claimed them. No guarded expression, no worries, just warmth and wool socks and a scowl over coffee as he had surprised her with his presence in her kitchen. There was a softness to her in the early morning and Baelor had noted how bewitching the princess was in that moment.
Said fact had never been in dispute, but her beauty at eighteen had been bright and defiant.
This was different.
She was assured now and steady even beneath the witty sarcasm. A woman who had built a life from exile and made it livable. Even in exile, she had a handle on Westerosi politics on par with his most senior advisors. She had offered her advice with a flippancy as if she had not brilliantly solved several of his problems.
Then, she had licked the icing from her wrist.
It had been thoughtless action; casual behavior brought on by the fact it was early in the morning and Rhaenyra was in the comfort of her home.
Still, it had undone him.
Heat had risen up beneath the collar of his sweater. He had cleared his throat like a green boy catching a naked woman unaware.
It’d been some time since he felt such an urge.
After Jena died, he had not considered remarriage. There had been no space for it. He’d been allowed the customary mourning period, but then there was an expectation to set aside his grief and turn his energy into something practical. He was left with two sons to raise. Then, as he emerged as the likely heir, a realm to modernize, and a duty that required more than he had ever imagined giving.
The King and the Small Council had presented suitable matches over the years; daughters of influential houses and widows of respectable standing. These were not the days of the Conqueror or his ancestors. Baelor was allowed a choice. Nevertheless, any marriage would have to be prudent. So, he had attended dinners. He had listened politely to the small talk and flirtations. He had walked women through charity galas beneath the watchful gaze of the press.
None of them had stirred in him a desire to foster a deeper relationship.
He preferred his solitude.
Also, he had a certain belief.
It was a quietly held belief, which solely lived in the privacy of his own mind, that perhaps the Seven granted one great love in a lifetime. He had been given Jena—no matter how brief their union. He had loved and he had lost.
Why should he expect anything further?
And yet, here he was, unsettled by a princess in a purple sweater who mocked the very institution he represented in one breath and advised him on northern lumber politics with the skill of a seasoned politico in another.
He closed his laptop when the signal dropped again. He needed some air.
Rhaenyra was still upstairs. He made a deliberate effort not to picture her in the shower. Not to imagine silvery white hair darkened by water or skin warmed pink beneath steam. Not to read into the blush on her cheeks or the way she studied him out of the corner of her eyes.
He rose from the kitchen table and wandered.
In the daylight, it was obvious how the house bore a mark of its owner in every corner. Not in extravagance, but in eclectic curation. Colorful throw pillows littered over chairs, dried flowers hanging from decorative vases, framed paintings of seascapes and ancestors intermixed with modern photographs of Rhaenyra and her kin along the hallway.
He paused at a small room tucked near the back of the first floor. The door was ajar, so he stuck his head in.
It was a library, modest in size, but the shelves were densely packed with leather bound books and paperbacks with worn seams along the spine. There was a desk by the window with an outdated PC plugged into a wallsocket. Papers were strewn along the desk, some highlighted or marked by brightly-colored sticky notes. An organized chaos of sorts. He noted how a gold fountain pen rested atop an open notebook. The pen held the crest of House Targaryen, a gift each young member of the House received upon admittance to university.
He stepped inside and ran a finger along a random book spine.
He could not remember the last time he had read for pleasure.
Reading had become briefing memos, legislative drafts, and intelligence summaries. These shelves were lined with novels, histories, and poetry.
He made a mental note to return for a book. It would look as if he would have some free time over the next few days.
Toward the back of the house, he discovered a mudroom.
Boots lined the perimeter. Coats hung from iron hooks along with snow shoes and a sled. Several shovels leaned against a corner. A pair of snow boots, near enough to his size, sat by the bench. He picked one up and began to undo the laces of his dress shoes. The driveway was buried and the path to the gate likely worse. Baelor had told Rhaenyra he planned to be of use. He could clear the walkways to the drive and to the garden at least. Carve some order into the white expanse swallowing the property. Maybe chop down some more firewood if he could find an axe.
A prince of the realm with a snow shovel.
He almost smiled.
Perhaps, physical labor would also quiet the far more inconvenient thoughts currently tugging at his mind.
He pulled on the other boot and shrugged into a borrowed coat. Likely her son Jace’s coat, but he had not ventured to inquire about the princess’ private life. He had not seen any rumors of a love interest, but then again she did well to stay out of the tabloids. He frowned at the idea of Rhaenyra with another man. Not that it was any of his business. Still, the idea he could be wearing another’s man jacket unsettled him.
If he gripped the shovel handle a little too tightly, it was between him and the Seven.
Outside, the air bit hard at his lungs. The drifts were deep. He drove the shovel into the snow and began working.
One clean line at a time.
The shower did little to truly settle the restlessness in her bones.
Rhaenyra did a few stretches, water dripping onto the bathroom tiles, and breathed in and out in measure. Brushing her hair, she dug out her blowdryer and began to dry it. She normally didn’t bother when she was alone, but since she had a guest in her home she decided to do herself up with a little more consideration. After her hair was dry, she put on a little concealer, some mascara, a touch of blush, and a swipe of lipstick before looking at herself in the mirror.
There were faint lines near her hairline and permanent shadows beneath her violet eyes: trophies of motherhood, she supposed. She still maintained a youthful countenance even though she felt dreadfully old sometimes. Baelor would be in his early 40s, she supposed. Elinda had once said that was the prime age for a man. Observing Baelor, she couldn’t help but agree.
Donning some thermals and her favorite pair of jeans, she threw on an undershirt and a fair isle wool sweater in blues and greys. She retrieved from her jewelry box her mother’s sapphire and diamond studs. From her dresser, she pulled out a silver scarf and matching knitted wool cap in grey. The full length vanity in the corner offered a visual of a woman somewhat at peace. She poked and pulled at her figure, at the softness of her stomach, the roundness of her thighs, until she gave up and trotted downstairs.
She assumed Prince Baelor was still in the kitchen, solving the problems of Westeros on his laptop. She wanted another cup of coffee, but it could wait until after she was done shoveling the snow in her driveway. Gerardys normally offered to do it, but he was no doubt too busy digging his way out of the lodge. Besides, she liked the work. It would make for a good distraction.
Moreover, Rhaenyra did not want to embarrass herself any further in front of her guest.
The mudroom housed the jackets and boots she kept for outdoor work. She donned her favorite puffer and a pair of worn duck boots. That’s when she noticed one of the shovels was missing. As was a pair of Jace’s boots and the coat her father had forgotten when he had visited the cottage last winter.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Without thinking, she swung open the door and looked around. She noted a clean path carved into the snow beginning from her back doorstep and veering right.
Rhaenyra followed the path which got sloppier as she continued until she was nearly around the north wing of the cottage. There she saw Baelor bent over scooping a large mound of snow and tossing it onto a pile.
“What are you doing?”
Her tone came out sharper than she intended.
The prince straightened slowly, shovel in hand. He was slightly out of breath, white plumes escaping his mouth in steady bursts. A sheen of sweat dampened his brow despite the cold, dark hair curling faintly at his temples. Snow clung to the shoulders of the borrowed coat.
“I’m shoveling your walkways,” he replied as if the answer was obvious.
“I can see that,” she said, stepping closer. “The question is why.”
He blinked at her, “Because they are buried?”
Rhaenyra crossed her arms, boots crunching in the fresh powder.
“You are not wearing gloves.”
He glanced down at his hands as if noticing this for the first time. His fingers were already pink from the cold.
“I’ll survive.”
“That is not the point,” She gestured toward the shovel. “And you’re lifting too high. You’re wasting energy.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, “I was not aware there was a technique for shoveling snow.”
She scowled at him.
“If you tear a muscle in my driveway, I refuse to explain to the White Cloaks that you injured yourself performing manual labor.”
He huffed a quiet laugh; low, warm, unguarded. It startled her more than the snowshoveling had.
“I appreciate your concern, Princess.”
“Rhaenyra,” she snapped automatically.
He adjusted his grip on the shovel, “Rhaenyra.”
She stepped closer and took the handle from him without asking, demonstrating.
“You angle it lower. Push first, then lift, and keep the load manageable unless you’re trying to test the strength of your cardiac system.”
He watched her with something like admiration, or maybe amusement.
“I used to do worse than this in the army,” he said.
“Well, that was not shoveling snow,” she shot back. “And, you are not twenty something anymore.”
His brows rose with a flash of mirth in his eyes, “Cruel.”
“You’ll blister,” she added, eyeing his bare hands again.
He shrugged.
“It’s nice to be doing work like this again.”
There was something in his tone that softened her irritation. Not pride, not bravado. Just honesty.
She sighed sharply, “Stay there.”
Rhaenyra turned and marched back toward the cottage, muttering under her breath about stubborn princes and southern bravado. She returned moments later with a pair of thick gloves and another shovel. She held the gloves out to him.
He accepted them without argument this time, “Thank you.”
His thumb brushed the ridge of her knuckles before she withdrew.
“Don’t make me regret this,” she said briskly, handing him the second shovel while she took the one he was holding. It was a taller shovel with a wider incline; a shovel less likely to cause serious injury to a man too stubborn to learn proper shoveling safety.
They worked in relative silence after that.
The rhythm came easier than she expected. Push. Lift. Toss. The snow parted in clean arcs, piling along the edge of the drive. The air bit at her cheeks and nose, but her body warmed quickly with movement. Baelor adapted to her technique without complaint. He lowered his angle, shortened his lift and matched her pace.
And gradually, something shifted.
He laughed once when he misjudged a drift and nearly lost his footing, the sound carrying bright against the white expanse.
It was the first time she had seen him less contained. Out here, he seemed looser; a ghost of the Baelor from her childhood.
When they finally reached the front of the drive, the outline of his black Mercedes emerged from beneath the snow like an artifact excavated from ruin. The prince stepped toward it, brushing snow from the hood with deliberate sweeps of his gloved hand.
Rhaenyra watched him and the way his shoulders moved beneath the coat. How his breath came deeper now. The flush in his cheeks from exertion.
She felt the restless energy return.
Before she could reconsider, she bent, scooped a handful of snow, packed it together, and hurled it at him.
The snowball struck his shoulder with a soft thud.
He froze.
Slowly, he turned.
For a moment, Baelor simply stared at her with an unknowable look in his eyes.
Rhaenyra’s stomach dropped. Perhaps, she had miscalculated. She thought he’d find it funny. He would’ve when he was younger. Then again, they weren’t children and he was nearly a complete stranger despite the familial connection.
What in the Gods possessed her to hit a man–who would likely sit the Iron Throne–in the back with a snowball?
Without saying anything, he turned his back to her and continued wiping snow from her car.
She stared down at her shoes. Her mind raced for an apology.
Then, a fat snowball hit her squarely in the face.
The icy sting made her eyes water.
She gasped, “You ass—”
Another one flew past her ear. Baelor was grinning like an idiot.
“Oh, you are finished,” she declared.
They broke into motion at once.
He ducked behind the Mercedes like it offered strategic advantage. She circled wide, boots crunching as she gathered ammunition. He attempted pursuit and nearly slipped, catching himself on the side mirror with a curse that made her laugh outright. She tossed a few more snowballs, hitting her target squarely.
“You suck at this!” she called.
“Apologies, I’m out of practice!” he shot back, forming another snowball.
Rhaenyra lobbed one that struck his thigh. He retaliated. Snow exploded around them, white and harmless and utterly undignified, as they chased one another across her front lawn.
Baelor lunged.
She darted away, laughing, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with cold air. He reached for her scarf and missed, nearly colliding with her as his boot slid on packed snow. She grabbed his arm to steady him. He was a man unaccustomed to activity in the snow. Also, she was pretty sure his boots were a size too small.
It was a mistake.
His balance shifted. His weight followed hers. For a breathless second they teetered—
Down they went together.
The snow cushioned the fall, soft and forgiving. Baelor landed partially over her, bracing one arm in the drift beside her shoulder to keep from crushing her entirely. Their laughter crescendoed until they were breathless. Her stomach and ribs hurt. It had been so long since she had laughed so hard.
Then, silence descended over them as well as visible clouds of breath.
Her cap had half-slipped from her head. Snow tangled in her hair. His face hovered inches above hers, cheeks flushed, mismatched eyes brighter than she had ever seen them. She met his gaze. A flash of something caused her chest to ache.
His hand was still wrapped loosely around her wrist.
Neither of them moved.
The world beyond them was white and quiet.
Rhaenyra became acutely aware of his body heat, even through the layers of wool and denim. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The way his breath mingled with hers in the cold air.
She swallowed.
“We’re going to catch a cold,” she said lightly, though her voice came out softer than intended.
The amusement faded from his expression, something quieter settling in its place.
“Then, I suppose we should get back inside.”
He shifted carefully, pushing himself upright first before offering her his hand.
She hesitated only a second before taking it.
He pulled her to her feet.
They stood facing one another, snow clinging to their persons, breath uneven, the cleared drive stretching behind them in a clean line.
For the first time since the blizzard began, Rhaenyra did not feel restless.
She felt awake.
By midday, Baelor had reassembled himself. The snowball fight had been neatly folded away in his mind to be reexamined at a safer point in time. He had showered again, changed sweaters, and resumed his post at the dining table. He ceded the kitchen back to Rhaenyra without comment. It was too dangerous to watch her putter around while he worked. False fantasies stirred in his mind that this was all somehow real.
His cellphone vibrated steadily with phone calls into the mid-afternoon.
Lord Stark’s office confirmed emergency funds had been released. Baelor had spoken with the King and advised him to release the Northern Army Reserve, or Night’s Watch as they were colloquially referred to, so they could be deployed to aid with recovery. The lumber consortium had softened its tone in a public statement (exactly as Rhaenyra predicted). Raymun relayed three separate press inquiries about the storm’s impact on Northern infrastructure. Baelor approved language and edited phrasing as needed.
The White Cloaks checked in twice.
His protection officers were, as anticipated, disgruntled.
The gamekeeper’s hunting lodge apparently lacked adequate cell service and was heated primarily by a wood-burning stove that required “active participation.”
Baelor listened patiently to Ser Roland Crakehall.
“You will manage,” he said calmly. “Consider it field training.”
A pause.
“Yes, I am aware it is not standard protocol.”
Another pause.
“With the Night’s Watch being deployed, I spoke with the Kingsguard office and they can mobilize snow vehicles by this evening,” Ser Roland offered. “They can retrieve us and the Watch can escort you South where you can make a statement with the assembled Small Council.”
He mulled over Ser Roland’s words. His eyes drifted to a nearly empty bowl of reheated stew laying next to him on the table. Sometime around midday, Rhaenyra had set a bowl beside him without ceremony, fresh herbs floating on the surface, and toasted sourdough had been nearly cut and buttered.
“You should eat,” she had said simply.
Baelor rubbed his brow.
“No,” he finally answered. He made sure his tone was even tempered.
Silence crackled over the line.
“No, Your Highness?”
“I will remain until conditions improve. No need to take up efforts that could be better used elsewhere.”
There were objections from Ser Roland. Baelor listened and overruled them with quiet authority.
When he ended the call, he did not immediately reopen his email inbox. That had been the first decision in months that was not measured against polling data, fiscal projections, or the consensus of the Small Council. It had been a decision out of greed. Pure desire for a few more days removed from the burdens of duty. A few more days in the presence of a certain princess. He was not certain what that said about him.
By the early evening, the sun had already set below the horizon. Shadows lengthened across the dining table where he worked. The house had grown quiet in a way that felt different from morning.
He checked his watch.
Half past six.
It was a good time to stop.
Baelor closed his laptop and rose, stretching subtly to ease the stiffness from his shoulders. A daily run on the treadmill did little to prepare him for such exertion and he was sure his muscles would be sore in the morning from shoveling snow. He wondered where Rhaenyra had wandered off to after lunch. He walked the hallway with quiet steps, not wishing to intrude on her privacy and yet unable to resist seeking her out.
The library door stood slightly ajar.
He slowed as her voice carried from softly within.
“…no, I’m not hosting him,” she was saying, a faint exasperation laced through her tone. “He is stranded. There is a big difference.”
Silence. She was listening to whoever was on the phone with her.
“Yes, I am aware of who he is.”
Another pause, longer this time.
Her voice softened.
“No, I’m not… I’m not entertaining anything. Don’t be absurd, Alicent.”
Baelor stiffened. He had not meant to eavesdrop on a private conversation, but something in the cadence of her voice, defensive, perhaps embarrassed, rooted him in place.
A faint laugh drifted through the doorway.
“Well, I threw a snowball at him.”
Then, quieter still:
“It was harmless.”
Her voice dropped further, nearly reflective.
“It was fun.”
The word lingered.
Baelor stepped back from the door before she could sense him there. He gave her a moment. Then, after a deliberate beat when she had said her goodbyes and the room had gone quiet, he knocked lightly against the wood.
“Rhaenyra?”
He entered only after she bade him to enter.
She sat at her desk, the gold fountain pen resting in her long tapered fingers. The gold crest of their house glinted in the lamplight. Her hair had been retied loosely at the nape of her neck, a few silver strands escaping again. He pictured silver hair strewn wildly in the snow.
“Is everything alright?” she asked.
“It is,” he replied. “I only realized the time. It is nearly seven.”
She glanced toward the clock on the wall in surprise.
“Oh.” A small, almost sheepish expression crossed her face. “I lost track of time.”
He allowed himself the faintest smile, “I did as well.”
A quiet stretched between them; not strained, simply aware.
“Shall we attempt dinner again?” he offered.
Her mouth curved slightly, “I suppose we must eat.”
They moved toward the kitchen together.
Dinner was a simple fare of sandwiches. Baelor updated Rhaenyra on the Northern responses to his statement. She beamed a little with pride at the news. Then, after dinner, she suggested they watch some television. They brought a TV down from Jace’s bedroom and placed it on an end table. He asked to watch the news, but she insisted on something frivolous. They settled on a reality show involving nine adults from across Westeros living in a house together for the summer. Antics ensued. He would not have admitted aloud that he enjoyed watching her commentary on the cast more than the program itself. When something funny happened, she laughed with the same unguarded expression over her face that she had during the snowball fight.
Syrax joined them and chose his lap without hesitation.
The cat circled twice and settled with the proprietary air of one claiming territory. His hand instinctively found the cat’s spine, fingers moving in slow strokes.
“You’ve been chosen,” she observed dryly.
“I am honored,” he replied.
The fire burned low. The room flickered gold. Her violet eyes watched the feline then glanced upward at him. He kept her gaze until some disaster struck on the television and their collective attention turned to the show.
Several episodes in, he felt a sort of heaviness behind his eyes. He leaned back against the sofa cushion and listened to an argument happening on screen until his mind went fuzzy.
“You’re falling asleep,” a soft voice accused.
“I am not,” he grumbled.
He blinked his eyes open. His lids felt like sandpaper
Rhaenyra was smirking, gentler this time.
“Come,” she said. “Before you spend the night asleep on the couch.”
In a mirror of what had happened earlier in the snow, she offered him her hand and he took it.
They climbed the stairs in unison.
When they came to the landing, they lingered before going their separate ways. Baelor paused outside the guest room. His hand hovered over the brass doorknob.
Rhaenyra stopped outside her bedroom door.
For a suspended moment neither spoke.
“Goodnight, Baelor,” she called out.
His throat felt unexpectedly tight.
“Goodnight, Rhaenyra.”
He lingered a moment longer than necessary before stepping into his room.