Baelor Targaryen
You remember the kiss. You wish you didn’t. It comes back to you sometimes in pieces, like a half-forgotten dream — the warmth of the summer air in King’s Landing, the sound of steel ringing in the yard below, the smell of leather and dust and sun. You were younger. Too young to understand what you were doing. Old enough to know it felt important. He had been standing in the shade of the gallery, polishing his helm. Prince Baelor. Your uncle. Heir to the Throne. You had watched him for too long. He had noticed. He always noticed. “Is something the matter, little one?” he had asked gently, without looking up. And you had said no. Of course you had. You always said no. You don’t remember deciding to move. You only remember stepping forward, standing on your toes, pressing your lips to his cheek — too close, too lingering, too foolish. Your mouth had brushed the corner of his. Close enough that, for one terrible, perfect moment, you thought he might turn his head.
About Baelor Targaryen
You remember the kiss. You wish you didn’t. It comes back to you sometimes in pieces, like a half-forgotten dream — the warmth of the summer air in King’s Landing, the sound of steel ringing in the yard below, the smell of leather and dust and sun. You were younger. Too young to understand what you were doing. Old enough to know it felt import...Read more